G.

G.
by John Berger

Awards: Booker Winner 1972, James Tait Black Winner 1972

Date Read: May 16, 2019

Wow! 336 pages has never felt so long. Amidst the background of a failed revolution and loose comparisons to Garibaldi, Berger has forged the character of G. (perhaps to further signify the Garibaldi association or as a pained reference to a G-spot. Who knows?). Sometimes novel, sometimes philosophical and political manifesto, G. missed the mark with me.

"Why does writing about sexual experience reveal so strikingly what may be a general limitation of literature in relation to aspects of all experience?" so muses Beger in a narrator's voice. The remainder of the novel is an attempt to answer this question in one form or another.

I suppose one could argue this work is daring since Berger lays bare (pun intended) his deepest mediations and opinions on sex, making him vulnerable to critique. Yet, for all his musings and analysis of women, I can only conclude that he doesn't know women at all. Women are objects to be pursued, deconstructed, objectified and ultimately conquered, according to Berger. The further premise that women are surveyors of their own experience, rather than living with purpose and intention, and only whole through their association with men is rubbish. 

As for the novel itself as story, I found G.'s ability to get women into bed unconvincing. His arrogance, underestimation of women and, yes, missing teeth, would have most women running for the hills.