Joe Dunthorne’s The Adulterants is a sort of anti-coming-of-age-story; a comedy of errors about a thirty-something Londoner on the cusp of full-blown adulthood, but whose adolescent-minded cluster of ill-decisions sends his life on a desperately downward spiral.
A slim novel just shy of 200 pages, The Adulterants introduces us to Ray, presented as the typical everyman — he loves and loathes his friends in equal measure, bemoans the price of houses just like the rest of us, and is a little tired of his career as a tech journalist — who we meet just as he’s in the midst of almost cheating on his heavily pregnant wife; just the first in a long, loooong line of terrible decisions, which Ray is adamant he is not at fault for; rather, he’s the victim of societal pressures, circumstance, and the people in his life. From Ray’s point of view, all mistakes can be traced back to everything and anything but himself.
There are several laugh moments, including Ray’s encounter with a policewoman, when every word he utters exacerbates his quandary. But this isn’t a slapstick comedy; it’s top-notch satire, moments of comedic gold coupled with insight and poignancy. This is the story of a man plagued with insecurities about every facet of his life, who lacks the maturity and inclination to reorient his priorities. His uncanny knack for self-sabotage is both hilarious and heartbreaking; Ray is equally empathetic and deplorable. The line between the two is a constant blur.
The Adulterants is an infectious read. I galloped through its pages, marvelled at its insights, guffawed at Ray’s shallow, infantile, narcissist tendencies.
An eighteenth round of trouble for Wyoming game warden Joe Pickett brings with it the gripping story of suspense—laced with heavy emotion and family drama—that readers have come to expect.
An addictively readable masterwork about inter-generational feminism and three bright, earnest young people trying to make their way in the world. This is a rich, engrossing feast of a novel you will lose yourself in.
A suspenseful, professional-grade geopolitical thriller, which features all the action and intrigue readers of Daniel Silva and Charles Cumming demand.
A wild fever-dream of a novel, Andrew Hutchinson’s One is a symphony of memory, love, grief and obsession; a riveting, pulsating read, supercharged with feeling, fuelled by a mystery that unspools at an electrifying pace.
Prepare to be played like a violin as Laura Lippman wrings suspense out of every possible aspect of her revitalisation of the classic noir tale of the sexy stranger passing through town.
Tim Winton is my own personal enigma. It’s not that I don’t value, understand, or respect his stature among Australian literary superstars — or indeed his place as one of the world’s finest contemporary writers — it’s just that I’ve yet to read one of his books that’s resonated with me as strongly as, say, Cloudstreet or Breath did for so many of my peers. I have read both of these and enjoyed them, absolutely admired them for their craft, but whereas so many others felt compelled to wax lyrically about them and offer voracious applause, I was a step back, clapping politely. I guess everyone has those authors, and those books, that are so highly regarded by seemingly everybody else on the entire planet, but left you feeling that little bit cold. You wish you could feel its embrace, all you want to do is curl up with everybody else, feel the love; but something’s holding you back, something you can’t quite explain. Nevertheless, a new book by Tim Winton was hardly something I could leave unread on the shelf. I dove into The Shepherd’s Hut, ready to be wowed, hoping this would be the one connected, that struck all the right chords and would have me singing from the same hymn sheet as everybody else.