‘Insufferable, insensitive, inconceivably successful’. This is all Javé de Lasse had to say about the young German novelist, Alan B Wightche – other than to ponder whether or not the B stood for Beelzebub. He was, of course, way off the mark. The B stands for Benedict. As for the rest, well, he was pretty much on the ball. Although one does wonder why de Lasse came to the conclusion that Wightche’s success was unfathomable. Has not the work of certified idiots always done relatively well in the modern marketplace? Wightche’s philosophy may have foundations as solid as a sugar sandcastle, but so long as he continues to string sentences together with suitable style, it seems probable that he will attract a multitude of readers. Admittedly, his ideas are of the type that charm for a minute or so only before revealing themselves as sickeningly hollow. On the other hand, since the majority of readers aren’t looking to the novel for enduringly thought-provoking ideas, a well-written quick fix will, for now, remain, emminently sellable.
De Lasse, incidentally, could count himself fortunate never to have met the author. For if his novels could be said to be full of tactlessness and cruelty, Wightche himself is oozing with impertinent bratishness. Read the rest of this entry »
