Lo nuevo de Nick Hornby
Juliet, Naked (Viking) es la nueva novela de Nick Hornby, que ha sido puesta a la venta a principios de este mes. Al leer la contratapa, uno podría decir que Hornby ofrecerá más de los mismo (relaciones de pareja, música indie de fondo) pero, según John Keenan en el "Book Blogs" de The Guardian, la sorpresa es que no es úna vuelta de tuerca a Alta Fidelidad (y etc.). Dice que Hornby ha escrito su mejor novela ("lúdica postmoderna" la llama). Habrá que esperar para leerla a que Anagrama, el sello que ha recuperado a Hornby al castellano, la traduzca:
So far, so Hornby, you might say. But I enjoyed the novel for two reasons not usually connected with Hornby. The first was the sensitive and moving portrayal of Annie, as she tries to rescue her life after what she sees as 15 years wasted on a man who has never loved her. Her aching sense of loss and her fear in the face of an uncertain future are beautifully and memorably realised by an author more often lauded (or derided) for his scrutiny of laddish foibles. The second reason I enjoyed the novel more than any of Hornby's previous works, is the playful postmodern approach to the nature of fiction. Duncan's internet-based quest to uncover the truth about Crowe's retirement gives Hornby licence to have lots of fun with the fact that such endeavours produce a blizzard of egregious facts which take on a life and meaning of their own. Hornby produces faux-Wikipedia entries for Crowe and demonstrates how the insertion of one red herring can result in a fish farm of false information. Meanwhile Annie goes in search of her own truth about the relationship between life and art. Her hesitant probing produces profound conclusions about the artifice behind all artistic endeavours. I was reminded by this book of the antic portrayal of the art-obsessed loser Martin Clay in Michael Frayn's Headlong. It is Clay's obsession with the supposed existence of a long-lost masterpiece by Breughel that sparks the often farcical action and produces much cod art history along the way. Both novels wittily dissect the way a neurotic focus on an artist distorts and traduces the artist's work. A novel about an obsessed creep runs the risk of alienating the reader. In Juliet, Naked, Hornby keeps our attention with a fine display of human understanding.