Book review: So Much For That, Lionel Shriver

Published on Saturday 6 March 2010 12:51

SO MUCH FOR THAT Lionel Shriver HarperCollins, £15

THERE was a moment about three quarters of the way through So Much For That, Lionel Shriver's ninth novel, when I wondered if I could go on. Padding to the kitchen to put the kettle on once more, my mind was heavy with Shriver's relentless portrayal of the harshness of life, the futility of striving to fulfil dreams, the bleak unfairness of illness. Could I really make it to the end?

I did, of course. And it was worth it too, although I felt (feel, perhaps) a little bruised and bemused, despite the novel's uplifting denouement.

Shriver's trademark is unflinching unsentimentality, and it's here on every page and in every character and concern of this novel.

Illness, death, shattered dreams, emotional cruelty; each is presented in Shriver's unyielding, unblinking style. Whether in the end it balances out, the despair evened out by the portrayal of individual resilience and ultimate transformation, probably depends on your personal tolerances. For me, it was a close call.

Shep Knacker is a handyman dreaming of escape. He's scraped and saved, working in a job he hates for a boss he despises, all in the service of achieving his life's ambition: "The Afterlife". No ordinary retirement, this is Shep's dream of life on a tropical island in the Third World where his First World savings will last forever. But Shep's wife Glynis, who has long resisted his plan, now has a cast-iron get-out clause: cancer.

The novel traces the changes in the Knackers' marriage as they cope with the strains – physical, emotional and financial – of life-threatening illness and the loss of a dream. Their efforts are mirrored by the relationship of their best friends, Jackson and Carol, who struggle to cope with their daughter's genetic disorder, familial dysautonomia, a life-shortening illness with debilitating physical symptoms.

Shriver's portrayal of relationships under enormous pressures is affecting, but the conspicuous absence of kindness takes a toll.

Shriver's characters crave not love but rage. They unite in misery and glean happiness only at the expense of others. It may be true for some, it certainly allows for an uncompromising portrayal of the human condition, but it feels one-dimensional as a description of the impact of illness as a way of forcing us to confront our mortality.

An issue too with this, and other Shriver novels, is voice. Whether it's the hopes and dreams of a middle-aged man looking at the failings and limitations of his life, or a young woman struggling to cope with a debilitating illness that will stop her from reaching anywhere near that age, it's hard to shake the sound of Shriver's voice. That idiosyncratic, harsh, what reviewers most often call "acerbic" tone inflects her world view and can, at times, create a barrier to identifying with her characters.

Perhaps what she achieves most completely in this novel is a timely and excoriating assessment of the US healthcare and insurance system.

It might be achingly topical but the novel largely steers clear of didacticism, pulling together the personal and political in a way that leaves you at once shocked and deeply, heart-rendingly grateful for a health system that's free at the point of need.

&#149 This article was first published in Scotland on Sunday, March 7, 2010