loo - loo - loo, submarine

For the past week I have been thoroughly engrossed in Joe Dunthorne's Submarine. Why haven't you read this book yet? Why hadn't I? I saw him give a reading at the London Word Festival last March, was utterly charmed by his boyish, sweet honest Welsh face and longish blonde hair, and made to feel wholly insufficient by the fact that we are the same age and he was up on stage reading from his first published novel, critically hailed (and not egregiously so) as our generation's Catcher in the Rye. I finally got my act together and forked over the money for the hardcover edition. And so should you.

I love this book, I loaf it, I loave it. I do not want it to end. A teenage Welsh boy with a hot, eczema-addled girlfriend and New Agey parents with a rocky marriage and a struggling sex life (his mother's meditation-teacher/reflexologist/holistic therapist ex-boyfriend Graham seems to keep getting in the way). A few choice excerpts:

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I have one other, major concern: sex words. Some words have the mark of an amateur: nob, todger, willy. Penis and vagina are fine nouns but when overused they tend to make me think of the coffee tide-marks on Mrs. Profit's teeth. We asked our Welsh teacher, Mr. Llewellyn -- who is almost young -- to tell us the Welsh sex words. The Welsh word for sex is Rhyw. It sounds like coughing. He said that, in general, Welsh speakers use English words. When pressed, he gave us a couple of examples to show us why this might be. Llawes goch means "red sleeve."  Coes fach means "small leg." The phrase would be "put your small leg in my red sleeve." 

Some euphemisms make you sound like Martin Clove, a boy who for psychological reasons doesn't have to use the communal showers after rugby. When we ask Martin what is wrong with his wang he gets defensive and refers to it as his little man. This implies a kind of distant, seemingly friendly relationship between him and his penis.

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Later in the book, Oliver sneaks into his mother's ex-boyfriend's house to fuck some shit up. He leaves a teaspoon in the microwave, drinks Graham's brandy, and writes in his calendar/diary (Note: Jill Tate=Oliver's mum):

"I find yesterday's date, Saturday the 30th, and then I turn forward one week to the following Saturday. I pencil in Come deep inside Jill Tate. I count forward 24 weeks and write, last chance saloon for aborting love-child. I count forward another 16 weeks: birth of illegitimate son/daughter. Not to self: Cop a feel of Jills lactating tits."

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Unrelated but also awesome, go here to see the loveliest panoramic night view of Paris by Arnaud Frich (sweet ass find by ms. kirsten).