If You’re There, Where the Hell Are the Rest of Us?

‘You Are Here’ by David Nicholls

Marnie is stuck.
Stuck working alone in her London flat, stuck battling the long afternoons and a life that often feels like it’s passing her by.

Michael is coming undone.
Reeling from his wife’s departure, increasingly reclusive, taking himself on long, solitary walks across the moors and fells.

When a persistent mutual friend and some very English weather conspire to bring them together, Marnie and Michael suddenly find themselves alone on the most epic of walks and on the precipice of a new friendship.

But can they survive the journey? (Synopsis courtesy of Hachette)

I am told that there is a concept in Silicon Valley known as Fail Fast. I’m not 100% sure what this means in practice – something to do with not paying enough in taxes one presumes – but I think the core idea is that you should be comfortable and confident to move on as quickly as possible when you realise that things are not going to work out as best they can. A similar idea is epoused by Steve Levitt, of Freakonomics-fame, who is a huge advocate of quitting, and quitting early.

David Nicholls is, I think, becoming the Wordsworth of characters who do not quit early enough, and probably when they should.

‘You Are Here’, is Nicholls’ sixth novel and the one which feels like his most middle aged – and I do not intend this as a criticism. The characters of Marnie and Michael feel real and like they have forgotten to give up. There’s little doubt that this feels like a novel born of that pandemic hangover period.

The role of loneliness – its long-term health implications, it’s role in mental health seemed to pop up around the pandemic – and then disappear along with stockpiles of toilet paper, face masks and hand sanitizer. The popularity of novels like Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine by Gail Honeyman and Meredith, Alone by Claire Alexander join, in my mind, Hotel Milano by Tim Parks as novels who deal with characters disorientated and sent spinning by a lack of connection to other people and the difficulty of re-establishing contact with the ocean floor after being set adrift from others. (Caveat: Tim Parks was pretty clear that he did not view Hotel Milano as a pandemic novel.)

If that makes this novel sound dull, or worthy or sombre, this is the fault of your reviewer, not the novelist. Good lord it is funny. Anyone who has ever resentfully trudged up a hill will delight in Marnie’s dismay, rendered in rhythmical joy by the author as he incredulity builds.

 “What was it like inside a cloud? The answer, it transpired, was fucking shit and, no, a cloud wouldn’t catch you because clouds were treacherous bastards and so were rocks and so was rain, and the mountain streams weren’t babbling: they were taking the piss and so was everything outside, the whole of nature.”

Some people will buy this novel because ‘One Day’ is having a renaissance on Netflix. Some people will buy this novel because they like ‘Starter for 10’, some, because a new novel by Nicholls does not come along every day.

This book propels Nicholls, for me, into that club of writers who I can no longer read with moderation. I’m afraid I drank ‘You Are Here’ down greedily. As with Mick Herron it is just too moreish. The review copy arrived Friday, I finished it Monday. Because, be in no doubt: Nicholls’ is an assassin with language.  

Characters are drawn with delicate flicks of language which conjure them as though in the room and, as with all of Nicholls’ work, are funny, delicate, heart breaking and charming in measures realistic enough for them to stick with them.

I did have one caveat: Nicholls keeps writing characters the exact same age as me. I often get irritated by school pupils who refuse to engage with characters in texts because “they can’t see themselves in them.” Well, that’s the point of fiction to experience other people’s opinions and points of view. As a 42-year-old teacher who just undertook the first stage of a long walk, it feel like one’s conceit will know no bounds if writers keep writing him into fiction (I think this may be coincidence. Even I’m not that self-important.)

What I do know for certain is that while these characters would certainly have been forgiven for giving up, I’m extremely grateful that David Nicholls continues to ply his trade – and that neither Michael nor Marnie feel the need to channel their inner tech bros and quit early.

Purchase Links

You can order ‘You Are Here’ through Bookshop.org and support this blog at this link

Other purchase options are available here: Hachette

Author Bio

David Nicholls trained as an actor before making the switch to writing. His TV credits include the third series of Cold FeetRescue Me, and I Saw You, as well as a much-praised modern version of Much Ado About Nothing and an adaptation of Tess of the d’Urbervilles, both for BBC TV. David has continued to write for film and TV as well as writing novels, and he has twice been nominated for BAFTA awards.

David’s bestselling first novel, Starter for Ten, was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club in 2004, and David has written the screenplays for film versions of both Starter for Ten (released in 2006, starring James McAvoy) and The Understudy (not yet released).

David Nicholls’ third novel, One Day, was published in hardback in 2009 to extraordinary critical acclaim, and stayed in the Sunday Times top ten bestseller list for ten weeks on publication. It has since gone on to sell over five million copies and has been translated into forty languages. One Day won the 2010 Galaxy Book of the Year Award. David wrote the screenplay for Lone Scherfig’s film adaptation starring Jim Sturgess and Anne Hathaway, which was released in 2010. (Bio from https://www.curtisbrown.co.uk/client/david-nicholls)

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Strength Through Fragility

A Body Made of Glass by Caroline Crampton

How often does one read something which, within the first page, makes you wholly reconsider your stance on something?

I don’t mind admitting, hypochondria is not something to which I had really given a lot of thought. Or, any thought really. Now, I understand that this itself is a form of privilege – a freedom to not have worried about my health in any meaningful way, should not be taken for granted.

But if I had been given cause to pause and define hypochondria, I suspect I would have considered it… “a fear of illness entirely psychosomatic,” (a concept, and word, I know solely thanks to The Prodigy. Who says music teaches nothing?)

And yet, on page one of Caroline Crampton’s latest book, A Body Made of Glass, we are told of the teen cancer which, in essence, derailed her later teen years and triggers a long-term struggle with the condition of hypochondria.

Which seems… reasonable? It had never occurred to me that hypochondria might be based upon a rational foundation. To have been diagnosed, and then survived, what can only be described as a trauma, and to then imagine that every twinge may be the beginning of another setback on the road to full, sustained health, begins to look like a logical belief structure.

Crampton herself examines this in her own inimitable style. “The body has what has been described as ‘a limited vocabulary of subjective sensations’. I may think that I can feel things growing inside me that shouldn’t be there, like roots creeping unseen through the soil, but there is no evidence to suggest that this is actually the case.”

Creepily effective pastoral metaphor aside, the reader can’t help but think, “Yeah! How could you not!?”

Once you get up to speed with this concept, the slippery and transitional nature of the condition comes into view. What follows is fascinating as Crampton embarks on a multi-millennium tour of the way that medicine has approached the unknown – and unknowable – nature of medicine.

Spoiler alert – women seem to get the fuzzy end of the lollipop. Repeatedly.

I know Crampton best from her work on Golden Age of Crime podcast, Sheddunnit. She is an engaging and accessible doyen of that particular manor and her erudite, spectacularly widely read knowledge of the genre pervades that particular domain.

But it is nothing compared to the interdisciplinary tour de force which A Body Made of Glass presents to the reader. From ancient Egypt, via Plato, Peter Griffin and South Park, this is a whip smart journey through cultural reference points of high brow, pop and low brow culture.

Frankly I am exhausted by the thought of her reading list, let alone the writing of the text which followed.

Interspersed through these cultural touchstones are anecdotes, personal, observational – what I have come to regard as the “jar of pee” episode is one I see attracting attention in other reviews – but I was rather fond of the family she encounters at a hotel breakfast room who express their familial affection by recounting in lavish detail their bowel movements as they break their fast. Personally, I’d have recounted my own food at projectile velocity over them as a reward for this particular start to my morning but CC is a lot nicer than I am.

Crampton includes an excellent section of Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, a text a favourite author of mine, Anthony Powell, leans heavily on in the later volumes of A Dance to the Music of Time. In the same way as Nick, the narrator of the series, says, “became rather hard not to see Burton in everything,” one feels Crampton has been living her life seeing hypochondria and its “’infinite varieties,’ Burton said,” in every book she has read, television show she has watched, every play she has seen.

She quotes Burton further when she recounts him writing, “the tower of Babel never yielded such confusion of tongues, as the chaos of melancholy doth variety of symptoms.’” Her corollary to this, that, “reading Burton, one comes away with the dizzying feeling that melancholy is everything and everything is melancholy,” is rather how the reader leaves the text feeling. Is hypochondria everything and everything hypochondria?

Does Crampton manage to move on and improve her trauma informed response to her childhood illness and the fruits of this poisoned tree it left her?

Well, that would be as bad as giving away the killer on page two of a Golden Age detective novel. Suffice to say, in a writer as warmly welcoming in her accomplished prose, as well as being as erudite and engaging as Caroline Crampton, you will just be happy to be along for the tour.

Author Bio

Caroline Crampton is a writer and podcaster. She writes non-fiction books about the world and how we live in it — The Way to the Sea (2019) and A Body Made of Glass. She makes a podcast about detective fiction called Shedunnit, she curates articles for The Browser, and reviews and essays for publications like Grantathe New Humanist, the Guardian and the Spectator. (Biography and photograph adapted from https://carolinecrampton.com/)

Purchase Links:

https://geni.us/aK99kec