John Le Carré's "Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy" is mostly a slog, punctuated occasionally by insightful passages about a work-addicted man's quest for meaning in retirement.
I read the book because I enjoyed the 2011 movie adaptation and because I'm a huge fan of Le Carré's brilliant first novel, "The Spy Who Came In From the Cold."
But "Tinker Tailor" is, for the most part, a disappointment.
The story is hard to follow, largely told through conversations -- long stretches of dialog that reference characters and events with little context. I don't mind novels that require focus, but this one just doesn't have enough payoff to make it worth the trouble.
What I do like about the novel is that it sometimes ventures into the realm of parody, bringing an almost "Office Space" approach to Cold War spycraft. This is a world where men agonize over their positioning on organizational charts, where the most mundane social interactions can have enormous geo-political implications.
The best paragraph (p. 27):
I read the book because I enjoyed the 2011 movie adaptation and because I'm a huge fan of Le Carré's brilliant first novel, "The Spy Who Came In From the Cold."
But "Tinker Tailor" is, for the most part, a disappointment.
The story is hard to follow, largely told through conversations -- long stretches of dialog that reference characters and events with little context. I don't mind novels that require focus, but this one just doesn't have enough payoff to make it worth the trouble.
What I do like about the novel is that it sometimes ventures into the realm of parody, bringing an almost "Office Space" approach to Cold War spycraft. This is a world where men agonize over their positioning on organizational charts, where the most mundane social interactions can have enormous geo-political implications.
The best paragraph (p. 27):
He would sell his London house: He had decided. Back there under the awning, crouching beside the cigarette machine, waiting for the cloudburst to end, he had taken this grave decision. Property values in London had risen out of proportion; he had heard it from every side. Good. He would sell and with a part of the proceeds buy a cottage in the Cotswolds. Burford? Too much traffic. Steeple Aston -- that was a place. He would set up as a mild eccentric, discursive, withdrawn, but possessing one or two lovable habits such as muttering to himself as he bumbled along pavements. Out of date, perhaps, but who wasn't these days? Out of date, but loyal to his own time. At a certain moment, after all, every man chooses: will he go forward, will he go back? There was nothing dishonourable in not being blown about by every little modern wind. Better to have worth, to entrench, to be an oak of one's own generation. And if Ann wanted to return -- well, he would show her the door.
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