American novelist Arthur Less is about to turn 50 and his ex, Freddy Pelu, is about to marry another man. To distract himself, and give him a legit excuse not to go to the wedding, Arthur accepts all the offers flung his way as a writer of middling renown to construct a globe-trotting literary voyage away from heartache.
Andrew Sean Greer’s Less won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2018 and, like most prize-winning novels, I have no idea why! Less isn’t a bad novel but it’s very unexceptional. It’s kinda vaguely about love but Greer hasn’t got anything profound, or even compelling, to say about it. Ditto the writer’s life. It’s just a pleasant, James Thurber-esque adventure with pretty word-pictures that never bores completely but also never gripped me with its meandering story either.
The opening episode in New York where Arthur has to interview a vastly more successful writer before a crowd is slightly amusing, as was the literary party in France. Greer’s glimpses into the interior of the literary lifestyle are interesting for those who’re curious about that sort of thing.
Occasional moments are unexpectedly touching like when, in Morocco, Arthur sees two boys sat on a sand dune holding hands watching the sun set - nothing sexual about it, purely innocent. Or when Arthur skypes his other ex Robert (Freddy is his younger ex, Robert is his older ex) who’s a famous poet and has just had a stroke, and you can tell there’s still love between them.
The attempts at jokes though aren’t funny like Arthur’s bad German and his Mr Bean-esque foibles in India with a dog. I guessed who the unnamed narrator was long before the reveal and, coupled with that ending, they gave the book this rather corny aftertaste. I think that’s because there is no point to the story so, in an attempt to give the book a satisfying finale, Greer tacked on a crowd-pleasing, if uninspired, ending. It clearly worked given the plaudits the novel received!
The writing is never poor but nor is it that great either. It’s easy to put down because there’s no drive to the story - its appeal is like that of an ambling stroll through a park on a quiet Sunday morning; not exciting but not unpleasant either. But it was never so bad that I thought about putting it down for good without finishing it either.
A decidedly average, unmemorable novel that’s sort of about love and writing and stuff, Andrew Sean Greer’s Less is a puzzling choice for such a prestigious award.
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