| Product: |
Notes from a Small Island - Bill Bryson |
| Date: |
13/09/02 (221 review reads) |
| Rating: |
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Advantages: Very amusing in places, An outsider's insider view, Great if he's visited your home town
Disadvantages: Can be a bit repetitive, Some of his remarks may offend!
For the most part, Notes From a Small Island is a subtle piece of observation. Bryson’s themes are understated, except when building to an exaggerated denouement to one of his manufactured skits. His criticism is often a work of subterfuge, and you find yourself reading between lines of what purport to be praise or fondness to discover a disquiet heart to a theme. I felt it important to remind myself whilst working through the text that it remains a book of travels, not a travel guide. A personal odyssey of a latter-day Gulliver - although where Swift used fantasy and satire to smite the population, Bryson’s monologues are born through anecdotes and gentle ribbing as much as empirical wit.
Bryson’s own style of humour is hard to pin down. There are times when the book feels erratic, the author’s themes schizophrenic. While his dislikes remain a constant (the abolition of the historic and aesthetically old world) he deals with his complaints in several ways. One word that Bryson has alighted on several times - and which, I feel fits him perfectly - is fractious. He is something of a curmudgeon. Even when doling out an anecdote, it is for the purpose of illustration. These are a few of my least favourite things...
It has to be said, Bryson is capable of the occasionally great line. My favourite of his, and it is via the underrated technique of sarcasm with which he delivers it is: “Bournemouth is a very fine place in a lot of ways. For one thing it has the sea, which will be handy if global warming ever reaches its full potential.” Similarly with Liverpool: “They were having a festival of litter when I arrived.” These are throwaway moments, yet they colourise the book and give it that colloquial flavour that lightens the text and makes it more of a fun read. They also capture that wonderfully self-depreciating wry humour that levels the social playing-field in this country. We mock ourselves as much
as that which we see and experience. The man on the horrifically delayed train who confessed to being clean shaven when he started the journey, and boasted a flourish of heavy whiskers upon sharing a baggage car with the author is one example of this style. As Bryson says: “I love that.”
There are times when Bryson constructs set-pieces for the purpose of amusement. These are often not anecdotes per se, but seem more like comedy-sketches from old radio-plays. There is something of the raconteur about the author in these moments. They serve no purpose within the text other than to make us laugh. The narrative is not driven forwards one bit by their inclusion, and their exclusion would pass entirely unnoticed. These “skits”, you feel, could be presented entirely separately. It is easy to imagine Morecambe and Wise presenting Bryson’s piece on the horrors of the multi-storey car-park as a two-minute mini-play. Or the Monty Python team affording his travel directions in a small country pub.
Although they serve to amuse, they are also a valid demonstration of the affection Bryson has for the British - and highlight some of the reasons why he likes us. Like a good story-teller, the author prefers to show us these moments rather than merely state what it is about the people and places that endear them to him. The directions in the country pub serve to demonstrate the willingness of strangers to leap in and assist (even if it is not always too helpful of them). This is one of the more obvious comedic moments in the book, but it is also a tool for Bryson to criticise us for how frustratingly ridiculous we can be. While not directly involved within this segue, he chooses to play the part of the outsider here. Poking fun at the familiarity we expect strangers to have with our surroundings. To keep the theme of ridiculousness running, we are given obscure, yet very precise, details. The road by the dead sycamore - which
could be anywhere but is in fact in a very specific place. He continues the exercise with ridiculous place names: Little Puking, Great Shagging. Yet there is an air of truth to these names. It is a funny piece, yet it is also completely true. You can imagine Bryson reeling back from his typewriter after penning these observations and shouting out: “You see?”
A lot of Bryson’s incidental humour stems from word-play. There are few puns in the book, but he has a knack of dispossessing the meaning of a sentence and proffering his own completely skewed vision. He often deals in literalisms. Taking the meaning of words at their basest level, and refusing to afford them the interpretations that we Brits would automatically give - although I would dare to suggest this is merely for comic effect. His initial few words of British conversation (something entirely different to a conversation in English, it seems!) result in confusion. The “silhouette with hair curlers” on page twelve and the old man walking his dog on page fourteen literally seem to be speaking another language.
Many of Bryson’s characters can be summed up with a single word. Often, he delivers our first impressions with the name. The most memorable among the main characters must surely be Mrs Smegma. It is surely intended as a swipe at a woman he feels resentment for, but deeper than that it saves him an awful lot of work as a writer, conjuring an image of some unpleasant old harridan with almost no effort. It is not for the purpose of a joke, or even revenge, but is a tool to lead us into a piece of affection or lamentation. A signpost to alert us to forthcoming criticism or praise. He is capable of great economy in these moments. The reader’s innuendo effectively saves him an awful lot of work. Rather than cataloguing every wicked thought and deed the landlady can be held up to, Bryson discards this exposition and tells us all we need to know wi
th a word. We are in no doubt that Mrs Smegma is someone to be repelled and repulsed by. Having never met this woman, thanks to the author, we automatically do not like her.
There is a certain unkindness in the way Bryson criticises some of the incidental characters in the book. At one point a waitress’s dialogue is delivered in the same bastardised text as Vince’s lines are written. Spelled phonetically, and mispronounced, this seems less a comment on British accents and more a slight on the waitress’s intelligence. It is one of the more vulgar allusions Bryson lowers himself to, and says as much about himself as the person he represents as beneath him. Even when the author is sketching a description of someone he meets briefly, there is a tendency to criticise both the individual and their accoutrements - although this is usually done without spite. Their mannerisms are diagnosed and presented to us via hypothetical reasoning. They are, for the purposes of the amusement of the author or reader, presented as caricatures. Its not an obvious stereotyping, but Bryson gives us just enough detail in his meetings with minor characters for them to wear a face in our minds.
Bryson’s take on places is a little easier to read. You know - because it is repeatedly drummed into you - that he dislikes the modern and prefers the just-so-ness of yesteryear. The cities are often dealt with via a blanket description, as if he is running off a checklist. It feels as if Bryson believes them at heart to be the same. To break this dreary pattern up, he often makes people and places synonymous in his descriptions. The population of a town or city - more importantly, their personalities - are as much a part of its structure as its cafeterias and cathedrals. This is an excellent way to capture the mood of a place. There are many intangible sensations that are transferred from the people he meets to the places he meets them in. A good example
of this is the juxtaposing of The Colonel (who likes everything “just-so”, down to his TV schedule) and the accommodation of Mrs Smegma’s guesthouse (with its bathroom and dining room rules and regulations). There is a personality afforded to everything he sees and touches with neat descriptive turns of phrase - be it his food, the God-awful accommodation of Mrs Smegma, or even the monoliths of Stonehenge.
His piece on London presents us with the absolute parentheses of his moods. Here is an absolute catalogue, Britain under a microscope to dissect the good, the bad and the ugly. Bryson sees London through an outsider’s eyes - despite having lived and worked there for eight years - but then anyone who lives outside the country‘s capital will share that view. It is unique, even among all the cities throughout Britain. Probably one of the harshest yet cosmopolitan places Europe has to offer. Bryson is never less than charmed by the culture and the foibles of the people - even their irritating habits are typically projected as an endearment.
Most of his work here is comprised of lists. Bryson has great affection for London and produces voluminous paragraphs telling us why: “cheery red pillar-boxes, drivers who actually stop for you on pedestrian crossings, lovely forgotten churches...” In these moments he uses humour, a throwaway tag-line, or a simple pun, to colourise his text, and, I believe, to remove the pomposity from his actions. Without the humour, his criticisms would merely be an unlikeable, scathing assault.
His complaints in reference to London attack all the supposed “improvements” modern resources have provided. It seems a very broad catalogue in parts: for instance, the Natural History Museum must be put back the way it was, but he delves into such specifics (the display case showing insects infesting household products) to demonstrate that the place has been corrupte
d to the core. “Bring back Lyons Corner Houses but this time with food you would like to eat“, shows affection for the old, yet also offers a criticism of the original model.
When Bryson returns to these places with his old eyes, it is typically not with a voice that says “My! How times have changed!” The catalogue of alterations are almost invariably presented as a grumbling “Christ! Look what they’ve done to that!” It is a technique of man’s as old and as natural as breathing. As a species, we are inherently afraid of change - although British people are oftentimes portrayed as an accelerated example of this.
Notes From a Small Island was never intended as a textbook. It is what it was meant to be from the outset: a good read. It is intended to flow, to be natural and colloquial. It is a reflection of speech inflections in places, relaxed and relaxing; performing for us as a friend might recount a holiday tale in our front room. There is a fairytale element to the text. There is enough romanticism and embellishment within the narrative to suggest the author’s own mannerisms and responses are being developed to help propel the reader through what is often a story. He remains, for his own purposes, the stranger, the outsider, the unwelcome critic in our home. He mocks us with criticism and affection, yet loves us with wicked duplicity; and it is this nature that makes his observations - and this book, in particular - so successful.
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