Below I've questioned whether William Boyd might be prostituting his art with his last two novels, which use the thriller format. So I went back to a book from 2002, which I hadn't read before. And the answer is Yes - those more recent books aren't in the same league as this one, which is fabulous. His thrillers are gripping and beautifully crafted, but they don't have the imagination or psychological insight of this or a previous favourite, "The New Confessions".I think the reason I'd put off reading it before is the format. It purports to be someone's diaries, complete with footnotes from the editor, which I thought might be heavy-going. But it isn't at all. I scampered through it's nigh-on 500 pages.
It traces the life of one Logan Mountstuart, whose life pretty well spans the 20th century, from public schoolboy to old man dying in rural France. He's a writer and an art expert and he meets all sorts of famous characters, including Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf and Picasso. During the war he's recruited by Ian Fleming to spy on the Duke and Duchess of York. Given who he is, meeting these people isn't outrageous coincidence - he would have moved in these circles.
We meet him first as a bumptious, arrogant schoolboy and student, but as we travel with him we see him mellow and we come to respect him and recognise the mistakes he makes as the same sort of mistakes we make.
I found it a deeply satisfying book.
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Fascinating to see the TV adaptation. I had no idea it was coming. It's pretty good.
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