David Lodge's style is a delight - beautifully simple and natural, without straining after effect, ideally suited to humour, but also to more reflective passages. And this book has plenty of both.
I have to use a hearing aid myself, though I am not as severely afflicted by deafness as is Desmond Bates, and therefore I don't mishear as hilariously as he does; but I also have to laugh wryly at his spot-on descriptions of the rituals connected with hearing aids, and the trials and tribulations at parties, at the theatre, or in restaurants. And he is so right that having to ask people to repeat themselves is exasperating for all concerned.
Desmond's family relationships are beautifully conveyed: the love he had for his first wife and now has for his second (a pretty strong, healthy and no-nonsense character) and the exasperated affection he has for his even deafer old father, who lives a lonely life of self-neglect. Desmond himself, a retired Professor of Linguistics, is in his sixties, and is experiencing other signs of advancing years apart from deafness, for example a reduced potency, until ... Well, no: a subplot - rather more substantial, actually, than a subplot - about a flaky young American woman student at his university keeps you pleasantly on tenterhooks, but promises more, I think, than it delivers.
Linguistics is one of those typically modern subjects in which, through theoretical analysis of texts (is a particular suicide note a locutionary, illocutionary or perlocutionary utterance?), `we murder to dissect'. Lodge/Bates describes it in a deadpan way in all its dry absurdity. (Apologies to linguisticians and perhaps to Lodge himself.)
In the last part of the book, the humour, which has pervaded most it, fades away in moving episodes which seem to suggest that the afflictions of being hard of hearing need to be kept in proportion. What, after all, according to the life-affirming David Lodge, is a deaf sentence when compared with a death sentence?
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