I’ve recently finished a couple of novels from the UK, both constructed as reminiscences. While I’ve appreciated the reflective urbanity, I found both ultimately longer than I thought they needed to be. Graham Swift’s The Light of Day was especially painful — circuitous, repetitious, hard to follow, mimicking a little too closely the labyrinth of an obsessive and wandering mind.
For the most part I really liked John Banville’s Ancient Light (great title!), the caveat being that I found the story of the aging actor, the present day version of the protagonist, less than compelling, indeed random, and tacked on. The recollection of the schoolboy romance with his best friend’s mother was the heart of the story: gripping, humorous at times, and told with verve and immediacy. Reviewers have noted that Banville seems to reach for the arcane word when, in some cases, a simpler one would do, but I enjoyed his language, and found the writing far from flowery.