When reading books which have received much acclaim from professional reviewers, I often wonder “Am I missing something?” Such is the feeling provoked by Claire-Louise Bennett’s Checkout 19. Although concerned that I might be in a minority of one, looking at the other comments from this group I am at least reassured that others have found this similarly difficult to follow.
To begin with I find it difficult to summarise this book because of the absence of any significant story or plot. The book opens with, what I guess to be a teenage girl attending an inner-city comprehensive school, perhaps one with more than its fair share of special educational needs. At the beginning, the narrator doesn’t seem much of a reader, borrowing books from the library more because they could, rather than with any expectation of reading them. Over time she starts to write stories in the back of one of her exercise books and to read more voraciously. This book is an account of her encounters and how they feed her own writing; of how the people she meets shape the characters she develops.
While this promises to be an interesting idea, and a theme which might well appeal to a reading group, I found the style of the writing is a major impediment to being able to follow the book. I have often struggled with ‘stream of consciousness’ writing, and this was no exception. I could easily have been missing something, but when the writing is so difficult to follow it is difficult to find out.
Beyond this, there are many other unusual features of the writing, many of which combine to make for a difficult read. The most obvious must be the incredible degree of repetition, you can't read past the first page and fail to notice it; yet again I can’t help but wonder if here is some significance to it? Possibly for emphasis, or simply to test the boundaries of what can be done in English? Alongside this is an unusual level of detail, the brands of cigarrettes seem to be a particular favourite (p. 167), or, perhaps, the covers of the books lying on the grass in the opening pages; shades of E.M. Forster’s A room with a view, perhaps?
The writing also features frequent changes in the narration from the first person singular, to the plural, and the third person. This is another confusing feature and leads me to wonder whether the narrator is the same in each case, or indeed if the author in some way relates to, or perhaps is, the narrator? The extremely long third chapter, concerned with the creation of the Tarquin Superbus character, lists a great many books which the narrator had read. Does this show how well read the author is, or constitute a list of book recommendations? Regrettably, my experience with this book means I am unlikely to attempt any such suggestions. Incidentally, such exhaustive reading lists seem out of character for a narrator who claimed hardly to read anything. For that matter the narrator’s vocabulary including words such as ‘undulant’ and ‘unctuous’ seemed equally out of character, although I accept that the early chapters could have left me with a misleading impression.
Despite my unfavourable impressions of Checkout 19, the author should nevertheless be congratulated for her treatment of some more feminist topics: periods, boyfriends and the not entirely consensual sex. I can see that a fresh approach to these topics could appeal to some readers, but I remain unsure what the narrator’s description of her periods really added to the story. Similarly there are occasional scenes which most readers will surely be able to relate to, and a few rare insights, such as the motivations for studying literature (p. 200). Despite this, however, it surely speaks volumes that the most memorable sentence in this book was the quote from Heinrich Heine: “Dort, wo man Bucher verbrennt, verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen” (p. 134). This is surely a sentiment that any book lover could agree with, and one which easily surpasses the best that the present book has to offer.
My interest was also briefly piqued when the visit to Lake Achensee was mentioned (p. 97). For a few years I visited the village of Pertisau on the South-Western shore of that lake for Winter holidays. While swimming in Achensee was unappealing with the edges of the lake frozen, there was evidence that swimming is now more popular during the Summer. Interestingly, there is still a disused, boarded-up, hotel in the village, but I don’t think it was the Hotel Achenseehof referred to in this book.
In conclusion, I regret that I was unable to enjoy this book. The stream of consciousness writing simply left me wondering if I was missing something important. While the writing is certainly distinctive, it is difficult to follow and the extremely long third chapter adds very little. Coupled with the lack of any real storyline or plot, this was a book which I simply couldn’t enjoy.