Thinks [Englisch] [Taschenbuch]

David Lodge by his own admission has been writing novels since he was 17. He's in his sixties, now, and is a master of the craft. He has produced coming-of-age novels, comic romps, academic novels, comical and bittersweet stories of yearning and loss - along with a variety of other conventional and experimental works. He has a big heart. In addition he is a prolific critic and essayist. He is great at parody, and has firm and interesting opinions regarding Catholicism, academia, modernity, the writing life, sex, death, relationships between friends, spouses, and lovers - among many other things.

"Thinks" is both an academic novel and a comedy of manners - containing elements of all of the above. Within a plot both complicated and much too simple the fictitious University of Gloucester provides the setting for the events. A bright, sexually and intellectually restless - and highly verbal - married but chronically adulterous scientist, Ralph Messenger (a dead ringer for Lodge himself, down to each facial feature) meets a younger female writer-in-residence at the school. She is a grieving widow, feeling out of place, away from her home in London, and out of sorts. They close in on one another and pull away - throughout the novel. It's a troubling (and troubled) dance.

The story unfolds by means of the transcripts of Messenger's stream-of-consciousness on-the- fly musings into a tape recorder. (In perfect Lodgeian fashion, Messenger self-consciously edits the transcripts.) Messenger fancies himself a modern, but is confounded by some of modernity's trappings. In alternate chapters, the diary entries of Helen Reed, a novelist of some acclaim and considerable self-awareness, are used to let us in on her thoughts and feelings.

So what's the problem? Messenger is a familiar man: we've watched him in action in other novels of Lodge's. Unfortunately in this one he possesses much less of the the tenderness, the heartrending confusion, and (sometimes comical) sexual frustration and/or energy - and vulnerability - that made so many of Lodge's previous protagonists so irresistibly appealing. In addition, Messenger/Lodge's self-referencing begins to seem precious. Characters from past novels (including Robyn Penrose from "Nice Work") make cameo appearances that seem almost token.

Helen Reed's diary entries are not sufficiently believable- for they are often wooden, much too full of tedious description of the obvious - and usually lacking in any trace of the register of a diary. She doesn't seem to be writing for herself, but for Lodge's presumed audience. This is a real problem in this novel.

The story entertains by means of plotting and timing. As usual from David Lodge there is wit and parody, self-consciousness without narcissism, humor and foolishness, desire and the reasonable wish to connect - occasionally running amok. In addition there is Lodge's basic decency toward all. I had hoped for more, though, from such a capable mind - and wonderful writer.

This captivating comedy of academic manners has a satisfying weightiness lacking in most other books of its genre because it is also intellectually challenging. Here Lodge indulges his interest in the esoteric subject of cognitive science--the study of consciousness and the processes of thought--by giving us two intriguing characters at opposite extremes of the cognitive spectrum and then letting the sparks fly, at first intellectually, then "socially."

Ralph Messenger is the clever and manipulative Director of the Holt Belling Center for Cognitive Science at the imaginary University of Gloucester, a nuts-and-bolts scientist investigating the physical, quantifiable aspects of thought and consciousness. Helen Reed, a visiting lecturer and grieving widow, on the other hand, is an artist, a novelist who celebrates feeling, imagination, and creation. When Ralph, an unapologetic woman-chaser, finds Helen irresistibly attractive, their totally different worlds collide, exposing the reader to various theories of cognitive science but also illuminating the limitations in explaining the soul, love, relationships, imagination, and the creative life.

Clandestine rendezvous, academic gamesmanship, office politics, secret lives kept hidden from spouses, and even involvement in pornography all contribute to the ensuing complications and suspense. The sometimes farce-like action is kept in check, however, by the very real presence of death, which hovers over the action and grounds the comedy, adding to the realism and providing a setting for arguments about whether the soul and Heaven can exist in a strictly scientific world.

The many delights of this novel are highlighted by Lodge's choice of appropriate points of view for his characters. Ralph's self-involved maunderings are in stream of consciousness, constantly flitting from his serious research to daydreams about sex. Helen's reminiscences appear in introspective journal entries. Third person narratives, which advance the story line, are interspersed with a variety of clever diversions-including parodies of Martin Amis, Irvine Welsh, Samuel Beckett, Fay Weldon, Henry James, and Gertrude Stein by Helen's students. Thinks is a literary treasure trove which will keep you fascinated and involved, even if you, like me, have no huge interest in cognitive studies. Mary Whipple

Here Lodge uses so many standard tricks that you could almost say he was parodying himself: university setting (Small World, Nice Work, Changing Places); a writer as persona (Therapy); parodying other writers (The British Museum Is Falling Down); an incorporated lecture (everything) - this time on consciousness, particularly as it relates to cognitive science and AI; altering perspectives (Therapy); altering styles (Changing Places, How Far Can You Go), particularly diarising (Paradise News, Therapy), lapsed Catholics (several), explaining/defending his writing technique to the reader as part of the text (most overtly in How Far Can You Go), oh, and, of course, fornication and/or adultery (everything). Maybe it's a conscious thing and trainspotters like myself are supposed to pick the deliberate references to all his other novels along the way: Robyn Penrose drops in; Keirkegaard is mentioned; Catholic birth control gets a cameo (although that's pretty endemic) etc.
 
As ever he's researched his topic thoroughly and made it palatable. There are passages of his bravely incisive honesty - as when he really gets down to the bones of what Helen (his lapsed catholic novelist/academic lead character) wanted out of her children's catholic education: a mild and conveniently temporary faith, and enough bible knowledge to appreciate such a rich store of literary allusion - something she probably couldn't admit to herself at the time. His settings generally feel authentic - he has the sense to depict the sort of places he's actually been, or to get good advice. Moreover his novels are tailor made to be discussed: glancing at the opening paragraph in this review, give me 2500 words on similarities and differences in this and any other of his books; here he gives Helen some perfect lines to lift to explain why a novelist (himself) would construct a book in a certain way. There are many pleasures in reading him.
 
That being said, however, the novel as a whole felt a bit hollow. I suspect its greatest weakness is the great morass of sex and talk about sex that you have to trawl through along the way. Extra-marital sex isn't quite the utter redemption/salvation it is of Out of the Shelter, Therapy and Paradise News - for a change bonking is not the climax and unequivocally happy resolution - and while Helen's affair does initially appear to do her a power of good, there's no future in it, and she actually begins to look quite foolish. However there are just too many pages devoted to the bedroom for Lodge to be merely offering mature analysis of an interesting topic without being overly coy. At some point it becomes gratuitous, just as Tom Clancy will gratuitously throw in car chases and flying bullets to distract us from his lack of insight. It's not quite erotic literature, but it's definitely voyeuristic - sort of a gossip novel, not getting carried away with detailing pulsating members and the like, but relishing just who's doing what to whom for just a bit too long and a bit too frequently.
 
And I really thought Lodge would be over this by now - I'm reminded of the fool chiding King Lear, something about how he couldn't be old because he's clearly not yet wise. When is he going to get this sex thing into perspective? It's not nothing, but it's not everything either. A while ago Lodge did pick that his local bishop may not have had all the answers, but doesn't appear to have lost faith in the philosophy of something as juvenile (and stupid) as Pretty Woman. The writer of Ecclesiastes gave it a fair burl, but did eventually work out that among other things sex wasn't the ultimate place to find meaning.

Lodge does at least seem to be self-aware enough to realise that sex does seem to dominate the book to an obsessive degree so, through mouthpiece Helen, he offers a defence. When she is questioned about the sex in *her* novels she explains that of course the frequency and deviancy is exaggerated, but more standard monogamous relationships just aren't interesting enough for the reader. This lame defence really isn't worthy of a writer who:
a)       has the skills to write about a range of issues, characters and experience without needing to fall back on titillation - as if it's the only possible subject that can sustain interest (he might as well endorse Clancy as writing the only readable fiction - readers can't cope unless there's a bomb about to go off somewhere and some macho posturing and biffo every few pages);
b)       has literally read thousands of good novels where titillation isn't used at all;
c)       has read myriad others that don't shy away for a moment from dealing powerfully with issues of fidelity and sexuality, without crossing the line into prurience (Lodge, in contrast, rushes over the line and can only manage to drift back again now and then). 
 
The irony for me (and I suspect many others) is that what is inadequately explained as a concession to entertain readers actually makes the novel more tedious. I don't read Lodge for seedy revelations, and I suppose if that was what I was after I could find better elsewhere anyway. He can write with passion, humour, insight and wit - but you have to endure a lot of other stuff to get there in this book.
 
So, a bit of a blast for one of my favourite writers - I'm more aggrieved I suppose because I hope for more - definitely more than just playing with styles almost as a student exercise and thinking lashings of sex can cover paucity of substance.