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Downriver Hb
  

Downriver Hb (Hardcover)

by Iain Sinclair (Author) "'And what,' Sabella insisted, 'is the opposite of a dog?' Her husband, Henry Milditch, continued to ignore her ..." (more)
2.0 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (1 customer review)

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From Publishers Weekly

In his U.S. debut Sinclair, a British poet, filmmaker, rare book dealer and jack-of-all-trades, puts his varied background to work in a dextrous, multifaceted novel of the London docklands. The narrator, among other sordid locals, has been hired by a movie production company to ferret out the "real" old-time docklands. Told as 12 stories set in the near future but riddled with spectres of the past, this novel attempts to do for this down-and-out area what Joyce did for Dublin: eulogize it with language so abstract and imagery so densely allusive as to simulate the layering of historical detail upon a specific locale. The result is nearly incomprehensible, but that's part of the fun; and Sinclair goes out of his way to entertain. His separate narratives introduce a bizarre assortment of sexual encounters and violent deaths, each as vivid and incoherent as any nightmare. Filled with the ghosts and wrecks of London history, inhabited by grubby barflies and Cockney wharf-rats, this teeming novel seems as rich, fecund and ultimately mesmerizing as the muddy Thames. Downriver won Britain's Encore Award for best second novel; Sinclair's first book, White Chapel , Scarlet Tracings , has not as yet been published here.
Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal

Sinclair won Britain's Encore Award for best second novel for this mixture of fiction, history, travel memoir, and autobiography. It is ostensibly the story of a crew of writers and filmmakers who try to document the passing of a way of life in the gentrified Thames basin, the history they uncover, their attempts to develop a way to record it, and the problems Sinclair (who is both author and character) encounters in writing the script and the novel itself. Denizens of the basin, including a prostitute and a scavenger, appear throughout, and dogs and Masonry play important roles. The style is rich but often difficult, especially for a non-British reader (e.g., "The effete whiggery of the neo-Palladian concourse was coming in for some foot-first roundhead aggro"), though Sinclair includes more accessible wit ("They were encrusted with enough badges to subdue a college of semiologists"). Recommended for literary collections.
- Harold Augenbraum, Mercantile Lib., New York
Copyright 1993 Reed Business Information, Inc.

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2.0 out of 5 stars All Over the Map, Jan 21 2003
By A. Ross (Washington, DC) - See all my reviews
(TOP 1000 REVIEWER)    (REAL NAME)   
I picked up this book for a number of reasons: primarily, I was intrigued by the concept of a novel comprised of twelve stories which would reveal a gritty, dark side of London's docklands. (I'm not a Londoner, nor have I spent a great deal of time there, but I am drawn to fiction about it for some reason.) I have to admit I was also impressed with the plethora of effusive praise from the British press on the jacket. Having read the first three stories, I have now set it aside, unlikely to return to it. Why? Well, it all starts and ends with Sinclair's style. Had I known beforehand that he is a poet, I probably would have avoided the book. My experience with poets is that their prose style tends to be overly ornate. Some find this wholly delightful, but it generally leaves me deeply unmoved.

I liked the notion of what Sinclair was trying to do in tying the Thames to Conrad's Heart of Darkness, and mixing it all up with a critique of Thatcherite policies and the the capitalist assault on the underclass. He's clearly a writer with a political viewpoint who absorbs his cultural surroundings and infuse them back into his writing. Unfortunately, the connections aren't always visible, and worse, the stories aren't particularly interesting. There are flashes here and there of something, and clearly Sinclair has masses of knowledge and skill, but it's hard to find any cohesion to it all. The reviewer at The New York Times put it rather well in saying, "The book is a tremendous pillar of words, not all of them making direct sense and not trying to." It's writing one can appreciate, but not really enjoy, and since I have stacks of other unread books waiting for me, I'll put this one aside-perhaps forever.

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