Book Review: 'List of the Lost' by Morrissey
[Spoilers lie ahead]
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| image generated by Craiyon |
Among these commentators, you will find a coterie of middle-aged journalists and bloggers whose callow teenage years are immutably anchored in the mid-late 1980s and the early 90s; men and women who are now putting down roots in middle age, whose personalities, social conscience, sense of aesthetics, and even their vegetarianism were informed by the charismatic Smiths frontman. When speaking of Morrissey, these writers will often convey a wounded sense of betrayal that is either tacitly admitted, or that simmers just below the surface – a resentment that someone who exerted such a profound influence over their formative years now no longer feels as they do, if indeed he ever did.
Morrissey's devotees are fewer in number and probably no longer dispatch angry letters, penned in green ink, quoting Oscar Wilde and Baudelaire, to a diminished music press. Those who remain are tenacious; as prone to overlooking the flaws in their idol's work as his most savage critics are of holding it under an unflattering magnifying glass, while they attempt to burn what remains of his career.
It is inevitable that, when a stage presence is developed into a work of art, the character of that individual and their creative output will be judged together, often in the same sentence. The problem for fence-sitters like myself is filtering-out those rose-tinted and jaded perspectives, in an attempt to gain a sense of whether what is on offer is actually any good.
My relationship with Morrissey and his music is one of casual familiarity and indifference.
The singles and albums released by The Smiths, alongside his early solo records, were, to me, an occasional world-weary, back-of-the-hand-to-the-brow, presence in the charts. I neither liked nor disliked them. I duly noted the presence of my home town of Southend-on-Sea in the video for Everyday is Like Sunday. Yet the enduring popularity of Morrissey remained as baffling and mysterious as the allure of an obscure Catholic saint, who inspires a steady stream of pilgrims to converge upon some otherwise unremarkable French town. I was astonished when, at an indie disco, many years after the demise of The Smiths, the opening chords of This Charming Man flooded the dance floor with young men, whirling their jackets around their heads in imitation of the lead singer's iconic, gladioli-swinging performance on Top of the Tops.
The point of this long preamble is to present myself as the closest thing to a neutral party. I am here neither to topple statues, nor to French-kiss their marbled arses.
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Upon release, the book was widely ridiculed for its sex scenes, quoted out of context as if they stuck out in the text like a sore thumb, or some other tumescent swelling, affecting a jarring entry into the mind of the critical reader. In fact, the entirety of List of the Lost is penned in the same ornate, pseudo-Victorian prose, while touching upon subjects that would have seen its author and his work shunned in that era, had he been so openly brazen. The love that once dared not speak its name is the subject of a pair of prolonged soliloquies in the book, both delivered by the unconnected individuals who function as the novel's antagonists, as they ruminate on the events that have brought them to where they are now.
Despite sex being present and close to the surface throughout the novel, Morrissey is no Jackie Collins and shies away from going full frontal. What unfolds is either seen from the corner of one's eye, or is close-up to a point where visual eroticism dissolves into incoherence.
The story has the attributes of a lucid dream – a dislocated narrative that is strongly impressionistic in tone, and that frequently tails-off as the narrator (Morrissey, naturally) wanders off track to expound upon some social or political issue that had touched the life of one his characters. The result is a semi-wakeful, state of the world address, from the vantage point of 1975 (when the novel is set), partially merging into a drifting chain of loosely-connected events. The four protagonists – Ezra, Nails, Harri, and Justy are an elite college relay team, based in Boston, Massachusetts, gearing up for a televised championship that will cement their, at present, word-of-mouth legendary status.
Despite this intriguing, out of the left field, premise, track athletics plays a tenuous role in List of the Lost, limited to training sessions which unfold under the withering commentary of the team coach, Rims. Any sense of rival teams and past athletic achievements is so wilfully vague and removed from context, that the quartet who are the focus of the novel, move through its pages and through their lives under a veil of group solipsism. With only minor edits, this book could very easily have followed the fortunes of a team of young rocket engineers, or a band of trainee greengrocers gearing up for an allotment competition. From a certain perspective, List of the Lost can be seen as an illustration of the lengths that Morrissey is prepared to go to avoid participating in P.E (Physical Education), or even writing about it.
Characterisation is either largely abstract, or limited to that starched archetype that one sees in films from the 1940s and 50s. Ezra, Nails, Harri and Justy are faceless men who are defined more by what happens to them, than by any distinct personality. The dialogue of the four team members is so interchangeable that, if Ezra were to be benched, and one of his three teammates inserted as a substitute to handle his before-and-after-coitus pillow talk with his girlfriend, Eliza, we probably wouldn't notice; that is unless Rims happened to pop-up and commence unfavourably critiquing shortcomings in stamina or technique.
Ironically, it is coach Rims – a secondary character and one-man deputy Greek Chorus (subservient to Morrissey's own running commentary) who is the novel's most fleshed out personality. Eliza, as the most prominent on-the-page female character, is, at a glance, a lively-minded sketch of a Jane Austen heroine, shored-up by the more recent victories of the women's liberation movement. Closer scrutiny reveals her to be a cipher for by-rote feminist talking points. Her literary function, as a conscientious voice in Ezra's ear, and as somebody of equal or greater intelligence that he can bounce ideas off, is undermined by her willingness to ease herself into the role of his co-conspirator.
Morrissey's strong tendency towards sermonising will occasionally leak into the mouths of his characters in a way that stretches credibility. A scene that most readily springs to mind finds Ezra and Eliza bemoaning the rise of Margaret Thatcher, who at the time wasn't even Prime Minister of the UK, and must have surely been a nonentity or, at best, a curiosity from a collegial American perspective.
Given that the novel's content and pacing is so dependent upon the internal monologue of its author, it should come as no great surprise that it leans naturally towards a 'tell, don't show' aesthetic. On paper this leads to an abundance of moments where characters belatedly describe the impact that past events had on them, though seldom does any of this manifest in the text as visible reactions. A notable exception is the death of the parent to one of the four boys. Here the reader is afforded an insight into the overwhelming and unrelenting grief of the young adult, in the grip of an emotional state that cannot be ignored, or turned towards any useful purpose, but must be endured, if it is possible to do so.
The peculiar unwinding structure of the novel leaves it lacking shape and definition, and therefore unable to resolve itself satisfactorily. What initially appears to be a coming of age story, when forced through the prism of Morrissey's creative muse, separates into a wide spectrum of plot threads, sandwiched between the book's bright orange covers - events that are connected at the edges, yet barely exert any influence upon each other. Implausible soap opera storylines that ambush the reader from the margins, and that seem like they might exert a permanent guiding force upon the narrative, struggle to gain traction, and are then set to one side until they are needed again, when they should be simmering in the background, slowly building a head of steam.
List of the Lost begins as a voyeuristic exploration of a tight-knit group of young men, who are zeroing-in on their physical peak, while indulging in the typical interests of adults their age.
For a while it looks like the dominant theme of the book might be how a group friends, who have been forged into a seemingly unbreakable fraternal union, collectively shoulder the burden for the actions of one of their number and, in doing so, all become complicit. I regard the indifference of the novel towards developing coherently from what should have been its inciting incident as its greatest failure.
Later the novel momentarily becomes a study of the impact of grief.
Later still it metamorphoses, somewhat improbably, into a set of nesting supernatural encounters.
There is even a bizarre point where the story becomes a dark, adult-oriented spin on Enid Blytons' Famous Five and Secret Seven novels (a pair of long-running, early-20th century series in which gangs of meddling children, on holiday in the countryside, solved mysteries and foiled criminal activities).
As the balance of pages shifts from the right side of the book to the left, Deus ex Machina runs wild, as God plays dice with the fervour of a raving gambling addict.
Everything seems to occur too late. Long after an early encounter with one of the book's antagonists fails to develop into anything meaningful, a secondary villain finally turns up. His final on-page act of wickedness is both poignant and comical. One imagines that, if this book was ever adapted for screen, this particular scene would probably inspire much unintended mirth.
The novel's conclusion, which I think is good, rests upon undeveloped foundations, and sadly I do not believe that it is earned.
Frustratingly, the text possesses all the component parts for a better novel than the one that was published. What is there is improperly formed and haphazardly pieced together. If there is a lesson to be learned, it is that one shouldn't ask Morrissey to assist in assembling flatpack furnishings.
List of the Lost is a poorly-conceived novel with plywood characterisation. Had it been submitted to Penguin by an unknown author, it may well have yielded a cease and desist letter from the editors. There were infuriating moments during reading when every rational instinct was screaming at me to hurl the book in the direction of the nearest wall.
With all that being said, I enjoyed the novel more than I disliked it, and will certainly read it again before the year is out.
“I'm a perfectionist, and perfect is a skinned knee,” sang Mike Patton. I have always taken this to mean that there is more of interest to be found in what is flawed, over and above what is flawless, though given the song's (Midlife Crisis by Faith No More) fixation on male masturbation, I may well have elevated an allusion to wanking into something more profound.
Modern literature, while superficially diverse, both in style and subject matter, routinely undergoes an editing process that dulls that diamond sparkle of creativity, that is the humanity of the writer winking at the reader through the text in off-kilter Morse code.
Despite my exasperation, I couldn't helped but be charmed by the wilful stubbornness of List of the Lost; its desire to be its own thing – in this case the literary equivalent of a barely-functioning car, cobbled together from parts of various household appliances. Not great for getting you from A to B but fascinating, none-the-less.
Days after finishing the book, I still can't stop thinking about it.
Despite sex being present and close to the surface throughout the novel, Morrissey is no Jackie Collins and shies away from going full frontal. What unfolds is either seen from the corner of one's eye, or is close-up to a point where visual eroticism dissolves into incoherence.
The story has the attributes of a lucid dream – a dislocated narrative that is strongly impressionistic in tone, and that frequently tails-off as the narrator (Morrissey, naturally) wanders off track to expound upon some social or political issue that had touched the life of one his characters. The result is a semi-wakeful, state of the world address, from the vantage point of 1975 (when the novel is set), partially merging into a drifting chain of loosely-connected events. The four protagonists – Ezra, Nails, Harri, and Justy are an elite college relay team, based in Boston, Massachusetts, gearing up for a televised championship that will cement their, at present, word-of-mouth legendary status.
Despite this intriguing, out of the left field, premise, track athletics plays a tenuous role in List of the Lost, limited to training sessions which unfold under the withering commentary of the team coach, Rims. Any sense of rival teams and past athletic achievements is so wilfully vague and removed from context, that the quartet who are the focus of the novel, move through its pages and through their lives under a veil of group solipsism. With only minor edits, this book could very easily have followed the fortunes of a team of young rocket engineers, or a band of trainee greengrocers gearing up for an allotment competition. From a certain perspective, List of the Lost can be seen as an illustration of the lengths that Morrissey is prepared to go to avoid participating in P.E (Physical Education), or even writing about it.
~
 |
| Image generated by Craiyon |
Ironically, it is coach Rims – a secondary character and one-man deputy Greek Chorus (subservient to Morrissey's own running commentary) who is the novel's most fleshed out personality. Eliza, as the most prominent on-the-page female character, is, at a glance, a lively-minded sketch of a Jane Austen heroine, shored-up by the more recent victories of the women's liberation movement. Closer scrutiny reveals her to be a cipher for by-rote feminist talking points. Her literary function, as a conscientious voice in Ezra's ear, and as somebody of equal or greater intelligence that he can bounce ideas off, is undermined by her willingness to ease herself into the role of his co-conspirator.
Morrissey's strong tendency towards sermonising will occasionally leak into the mouths of his characters in a way that stretches credibility. A scene that most readily springs to mind finds Ezra and Eliza bemoaning the rise of Margaret Thatcher, who at the time wasn't even Prime Minister of the UK, and must have surely been a nonentity or, at best, a curiosity from a collegial American perspective.
Given that the novel's content and pacing is so dependent upon the internal monologue of its author, it should come as no great surprise that it leans naturally towards a 'tell, don't show' aesthetic. On paper this leads to an abundance of moments where characters belatedly describe the impact that past events had on them, though seldom does any of this manifest in the text as visible reactions. A notable exception is the death of the parent to one of the four boys. Here the reader is afforded an insight into the overwhelming and unrelenting grief of the young adult, in the grip of an emotional state that cannot be ignored, or turned towards any useful purpose, but must be endured, if it is possible to do so.
~
 |
| image generated by Craiyon |
List of the Lost begins as a voyeuristic exploration of a tight-knit group of young men, who are zeroing-in on their physical peak, while indulging in the typical interests of adults their age.
For a while it looks like the dominant theme of the book might be how a group friends, who have been forged into a seemingly unbreakable fraternal union, collectively shoulder the burden for the actions of one of their number and, in doing so, all become complicit. I regard the indifference of the novel towards developing coherently from what should have been its inciting incident as its greatest failure.
Later the novel momentarily becomes a study of the impact of grief.
Later still it metamorphoses, somewhat improbably, into a set of nesting supernatural encounters.
There is even a bizarre point where the story becomes a dark, adult-oriented spin on Enid Blytons' Famous Five and Secret Seven novels (a pair of long-running, early-20th century series in which gangs of meddling children, on holiday in the countryside, solved mysteries and foiled criminal activities).
As the balance of pages shifts from the right side of the book to the left, Deus ex Machina runs wild, as God plays dice with the fervour of a raving gambling addict.
Everything seems to occur too late. Long after an early encounter with one of the book's antagonists fails to develop into anything meaningful, a secondary villain finally turns up. His final on-page act of wickedness is both poignant and comical. One imagines that, if this book was ever adapted for screen, this particular scene would probably inspire much unintended mirth.
The novel's conclusion, which I think is good, rests upon undeveloped foundations, and sadly I do not believe that it is earned.
Frustratingly, the text possesses all the component parts for a better novel than the one that was published. What is there is improperly formed and haphazardly pieced together. If there is a lesson to be learned, it is that one shouldn't ask Morrissey to assist in assembling flatpack furnishings.
~
 |
| image generated by Craiyon |
With all that being said, I enjoyed the novel more than I disliked it, and will certainly read it again before the year is out.
“I'm a perfectionist, and perfect is a skinned knee,” sang Mike Patton. I have always taken this to mean that there is more of interest to be found in what is flawed, over and above what is flawless, though given the song's (Midlife Crisis by Faith No More) fixation on male masturbation, I may well have elevated an allusion to wanking into something more profound.
Modern literature, while superficially diverse, both in style and subject matter, routinely undergoes an editing process that dulls that diamond sparkle of creativity, that is the humanity of the writer winking at the reader through the text in off-kilter Morse code.
Despite my exasperation, I couldn't helped but be charmed by the wilful stubbornness of List of the Lost; its desire to be its own thing – in this case the literary equivalent of a barely-functioning car, cobbled together from parts of various household appliances. Not great for getting you from A to B but fascinating, none-the-less.
Days after finishing the book, I still can't stop thinking about it.
 |
| image generated by Craiyon |
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