This book was everywhere in the London shops when I was there in January of this year. I suspect the publishers cannily released it in the lead-up to Christmas; understandable, since it is set in London during that particular part of the year. I was drawn to it at the time because of the cover design (I am easy as hell for explicitly London-y fiction) but I was too busy devouring Faulks's earlier novel Birdsong to actually bother with buying it.
A Week in December uses the simple conceit of following a group of varied people with loosely interconnected lives, switching rapidly between them and showing us what their preoccupations and distractions are in this single week. It's simple, yes, but Faulks pulls it off very well by not over-stuffing the novel with people (although the cast is large, it's never hard to keep track of people once you're a few chapters in) and by also introducing a few key events that are scheduled for the end of the week, thereby creating both a structure and an impetus for the story, without which it would likely have been entertaining but lacking in a sense of solid narrative.
By and large the variety of characters is satisfying; although it's not at all a cross-section of class (the predominance of very rich people is at least lampshaded) there's a huge mixture of personalities and likeabilities and opinions. As a result, the book leaps around somewhat in tone. It runs all the way down the spectrum from direct satire of popular culture reminiscent of Ben Elton's sharp black humour (covering reality TV, online second lives, and modern art), via the near-caricature of RT, the failed novelist and spiteful book reviewer, all the way to the measured portrayal of Islamic fundamentalism. I'm not sure where the plotline of John Veals the hedge fund manager and his deal of a lifetime belongs on this spectrum, because I don't know enough about the area to understand the twists and layers of what happens beyond the pointed commentary about who ends up bearing the cost of fiscal irresponsibility in banks. However, I have a strong suspicion that this failure to distinguish between serious depiction and absurdism is exactly the point that Faulks is trying to make about the world of finance.
Like so many of the things I love, it's also a book about books! Most explicitly there's RT, who has seemingly lost the inability to find anything worthwhile in literature, so focused is he on exposing the failings of the authors behind the words; indeed, the act of me writing a review of A Week in December feels almost like a meta endeavour. There's also the OBE recipient nervously learning and reciting potted criticism of books in case the Queen wants to discuss them with him; and finally there are the ways in which books enrich the lives of people who otherwise don't feel that they have much in the way of colour or happiness:
Indeed. And books like this are why I tend to leap at things that fall under the banner of Literary Fiction even though that genre (if indeed it can be called one) includes authors like Banville and McEwan whose books I find tiresome. This one is about families, and religion, and mental health, and relationships, and city life -- all those good things that never get stale as long as the characters themselves are fresh -- delivered in a prose that feels effortless and incisive without ever tipping into purpleism or choppiness. It's probably not for everyone, but I loved it.
By and large the variety of characters is satisfying; although it's not at all a cross-section of class (the predominance of very rich people is at least lampshaded) there's a huge mixture of personalities and likeabilities and opinions. As a result, the book leaps around somewhat in tone. It runs all the way down the spectrum from direct satire of popular culture reminiscent of Ben Elton's sharp black humour (covering reality TV, online second lives, and modern art), via the near-caricature of RT, the failed novelist and spiteful book reviewer, all the way to the measured portrayal of Islamic fundamentalism. I'm not sure where the plotline of John Veals the hedge fund manager and his deal of a lifetime belongs on this spectrum, because I don't know enough about the area to understand the twists and layers of what happens beyond the pointed commentary about who ends up bearing the cost of fiscal irresponsibility in banks. However, I have a strong suspicion that this failure to distinguish between serious depiction and absurdism is exactly the point that Faulks is trying to make about the world of finance.
Like so many of the things I love, it's also a book about books! Most explicitly there's RT, who has seemingly lost the inability to find anything worthwhile in literature, so focused is he on exposing the failings of the authors behind the words; indeed, the act of me writing a review of A Week in December feels almost like a meta endeavour. There's also the OBE recipient nervously learning and reciting potted criticism of books in case the Queen wants to discuss them with him; and finally there are the ways in which books enrich the lives of people who otherwise don't feel that they have much in the way of colour or happiness:
'People never explain to you exactly what they think and feel and how their thoughts and feelings work, do they? They don't have time. Or the right words. But that's what books do. It's as though your daily life is a film in the cinema. It can be fun, looking at those pictures. But if you want to know what lies behind the flat screen you have to read a book. That explains it all.'
Indeed. And books like this are why I tend to leap at things that fall under the banner of Literary Fiction even though that genre (if indeed it can be called one) includes authors like Banville and McEwan whose books I find tiresome. This one is about families, and religion, and mental health, and relationships, and city life -- all those good things that never get stale as long as the characters themselves are fresh -- delivered in a prose that feels effortless and incisive without ever tipping into purpleism or choppiness. It's probably not for everyone, but I loved it.
