“How To Stop Time” by Matt Haig (2017)

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“I am old.”

It was years ago when I first picked up a Matt Haig book, The Humans, thinking it sounded like a funny concept. I wasn’t prepared for what a profoundly wise and beautiful book it was, nor that he would become such an important part of my life, and the lives of countless other readers. I’ve plowed through his stuff since, and we finally now arrive at his latest offering, How to Stop Time. Everyone else seems to have read this a couple of months ago, so I’m a bit behind, but nonetheless, here it is. And it was worth waiting for.

Tom Hazard was born in 1581 and is still alive in 2017, although only looks about forty years old. He is an alba, a person born with a condition that means they age very slowly. It is a difficult life and one that involves having to constantly move around and change identity so people don’t notice that you don’t age, a task made all the more difficult by the modern world.

Tom works, reluctantly, with the Albatross Society who find other albas and protect them from scientists who would long to learn the secret of advanced lifespans, but he’s had enough and asks to be retired. He takes up a position teaching history at a London school, where he finds himself smitten with the beautiful French teacher Camille. But Camille is sure she recognises Tom from somewhere – somewhen – else, and Tom is reminded of the fact that any “mayfly” (normally aging human) who finds out about the albas tends not to have their lives cut even shorter…

One of the risks of writing books about people who have spent a long time in our history is the temptation to have them stumble across every major historical figure and befriend them. Haig resists this, and it is far more a story of the ordinary people. However, that’s not to say there aren’t famous cameos, but they are kept to a respectable minimum. Tom works for Shakespeare briefly, and travels to Australia with Captain Cook, but otherwise his interactions with history’s great and good are downplayed. He meets the Fitzgeralds in a French bar in the 1920s, and the Dr Hutchinson he meets in 1891 was a real man, but most everyone else is thoroughly normal.

In the same manner as the non-fiction series of history books by Ian Mortimer, history is brought to life by these interactions with the “ordinary people”. We experience witch hunts, plague, the jazz age, voyages of discovery and Elizabethan entertainment from the ground level, with descriptions that conjure up all the sights, sounds and smells of a bygone era. Haig paints an immersive, exciting world, and it’s an honour to be able to join him in exploring it.

As with everything Matt Haig writes, it’s phenomenally profound and beautiful with a lot to say about the nature of humanity, particularly with how we don’t change, loss, love and aging. It’s bang up to date, with mentions of fake news and Donald Trump, and Tom’s worry that the 21st century is just turning into a cheap copy of the 20th. Via Tom, Haig argues that humanity has not advanced in a straight line from idiocy to enlightenment, but that it’s been more of a rollercoaster, although there’s a fear we’re heading into a new Dark Ages, with new susperstitions and witch hunts under different names with different targets happening once again. There is, however, in there somewhere a sense of hope, and an exploration of why we should keep on living and trying to better ourselves. One line I adored, as a bibliophile, was, “Whenever I see someone reading a book, especially if it is someone I don’t expect, I feel civilisation has become a little safer.”

And with people like Matt Haig still writing, I feel the world is a little safer still.

I’m currently crowdfunding to get my second novel, The Third Wheel, published. In it, we meet Dexter who is struggling with the fact that he’s the last single friend of his group. When aliens invade, however, it puts a lot of things into perspective. If you’d like to know more or pledge your support to the project, please click here.

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“After Dark” by Haruki Murakami (2004)

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“Eyes mark the shape of the city.”

It seems that eventually, if you read enough, you will brush up against Haruki Murakami. A few years ago I read Kafka on the Shore and was simultaneously smitten and bemused by it. He is probably Japan’s most famous literary export (Kazuo Ishiguro wrote his books in English) and his books are charmingly bizarre.

After Dark takes place over seven hours, from midnight to 7 am, in Tokyo. Mari Asai is sitting in a restaurant at midnight, reading a heavy book, when she is joined by a skinny trombonist who claims to know her sister. The sister, Eri, however, is asleep, and has been for two months. In another part of the city, a late-working businessman has attacked a Chinese prostitute and stolen everything she owns.

As the night draws on, these characters become linked and their stories wrap around one another in the black of the Japanese night. But not everything is as it seems. There’s a Man with No Face, staring at something unrevealed. An unplugged television is starting to show signs of life. And mirrors are are holding onto their reflections longer than they should. Is it all a trick of the night, or is something strange going on?

In parts, the book almost feels like it’s written in blank verse, having an almost lyrical quality to several parts. The narrator is “pure point of view”, able to watch, from any angle, but not interfere. It’s a short book, but the characters have enormous depth and are oddly likeable and, weirdly, relatable, despite the strangeness going on around them. The short time frame and the fact it all takes place at a time when most of the world is meant to be asleep gives it a haunting, magical quality. And, of course, as in everything Murakami does, there are cats.

There’s not much in the way of plot, and while things happen, little is resolved because daylight invades at the end of the novel and a new day starts. We are not allowed to know what will happen to any of the people here, but we can count ourselves lucky to have been able to spend a little time with them. Murakami’s style seems to cleverly mimic the way that time seems malleable in the early hours of the morning, and how the whole time is really one big liminal space. Everything feels a bit off, which means that you accept the more magical aspects of the story without hesitation. If a mirror is going to stop working properly, it would be at three in the morning.

Haunting and very beautiful, a shot of magic that will linger on like a half-forgotten dream long after you’ve woken up.