too many Daves

Having finished Anna Karenina recently, I’m vaccinated against throwing around hyperbole about books. So anything I write about Nick Hornby’s Juliet, Naked is going to be muted.

Maybe you should judge the novel by my actions. There are the actions you can see here on this blog: I’ve interrupted my life twice — today and Tuesday — to post quotes from the novel. There are other actions you can’t see without me telling you about them: I’ve listened to the audiobook of Juliet, Naked while jogging; I’ve listened while lying down, eyes shut, easing into sleep; I’ve listened while switching clothes from the washer to the dryer; I listened to the end of the story just now while picking up more books and audiobooks from the library.

The novel is engrossing, basically. Not at first. I got hooked — and stayed hooked — when Hornby put readers inside the head of a character named Tucker Crowe.

I seem to be solidly in the Hornby demographic, whatever that is. Hornby sees people — or, at least, certain types of men — for what they are. He’s honest. I’m even tempted to say brutally honest, except that there’s nothing brutal about it. Hornby’s honesty makes the world more hospitable. He depicts idiosyncrasies — even idiotic idiosyncrasies — without dismissing their owners as irredeemable idiots.

Juliet, Naked is not Anna Karenina. Hornby is not Tolstoy. Hornby’s writing in the novel is, in fact, so unassuming that I’m tempted to say that it’s not even good writing. But that’s nonsense. A book is just words. The words are written. If what is written manages to engross, to ring true, to coax laughter, to provoke introspection, to yield blog posts from a guy who loves Anna Karenina, then the writer might be doing something — perhaps even many things — very well.

(Side note: Hornby blogs; Tolstoy doesn’t.)