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I was given a copy of A Meaningful Life by L.J. Davis by Frances (of Nonsuch Book) back in 2011 – I don’t even remember the context for that, but thank you Frances! We did eventually meet each other in 2015, which was lovely, but this book must have come across the Atlantic. When I was looking up which books I had waiting that would fit 1971, this one came up – and I knew it was about time that I finally read it. Though I had no idea what at all it was about.

Lowell Lake aspires to be a writer, but is actually in an uninspiring job and an uninspiring marriage. As the narrative later tells us, both he and his wife are married to the marriage more than each other – not only has love left their relatively-young relationship, but so has respect. In a masterpiece of writing a bit like the opening of Sense and Sensibility, Lowell’s wife gradually manipulates him into giving up a scholarship at Berkeley in favour of moving to New York – all while alleging that she doesn’t want to.

Their life in New York is no better. Davis’s writing is excellent, and we feel mired in this unhealthy, unhappy relationship – and stultified by Lowell’s mediocre life. Jonathan Lethem’s introduction to the NYRB Classics edition isn’t very good, but he does have one moment of brilliance where he describes Lowell as ‘chronically ill with self knowledge’. Lowell takes up writing full time, but does it largely at night – both he and his wife grimly determined that he will at least try to finish a novel. One of my favourite passages, because it rang so true, was Lowell’s response when he re-read his prose:

It read like mud. Totally by accident he had contrived to fashion a style that was both limp and dense at the same time, writing page upon page of flaccid, impenetrable description, pierced here and there by sudden, rather startling interludes of fustian and vainglory that neither adorned, advanced, nor illuminated the plot, although they did give the reader a keen insight on the kind of movies Lowell had seen as a child.

As you can see, hopefully, A Meaningful Life deals with unhappy people and a bleak situation, but it is very funny. I laughed quite a lot reading it – Davis has a turn of phrase that brings out the dark humour of a sad scene. He also judges just the right amount of surrealism to bring to the novel – and Lowell seems to have a small break down…

They spent the next couple of hours barricaded behind walls of newsprint, warily passing fresh sections back and forth as the need arose, and doing their best not to meet each other’s eyes. The last section to come before Lowell’s face was the ant ads. It was a moment before he realized what he was looking at. He wondered how it had come into his possession. Had he picked it up on purpose? Had his wife deliberatly placed it where he could reach it? Was he absolutely certain his shows were on the right feet?

This isn’t a turning point so much as one more milestone on a trek into misery. But a turning point does come, of sorts. And that’s when they decide they should buy property.

I have never come across a scene of house hunting that I didn’t enjoy – particularly in a comic novel. It provides such a rich seam of comedy. And in A Meaningful Life it is as strange as it is funny – particularly when they decide upon a rambling house that is currently occupied by seemingly dozens of people, each in their decrepit cells. It’s bizarre and dark and wonderful to read – and the rest of the novel looks at how the house affects Lowell and his marriage. It continues to be strange and funny and haunting right through to the final words – and Davis’s exceptional writing continues, perfectly judged. To pick one example, I loved the odd truth of something like this:

“My wife and I,” he began, striking an attitude, “bought our house six years ago.” He’d asked so many questions that this utterance of a simple declarative sentence sounded extremely strange, as though he’d begun to read aloud.”

I’d be intrigued to know what Davis’s other novels are like. This isn’t quite like anything else I’ve ever read. Good as it is, I don’t know how often I’d be in the mood for more of the same – but I can certainly see it happening at least once every few years. And to leave you with a word of warning: if you have the NYRB Classics edition, don’t read the blurb – at least, don’t read it to the end. It gives away something that happens in the final 15 pages. You’re better than this, NYRB!