Live a Little by Howard Jacobson, review: A novel about love in old age penned with his trademark verbose flourishes

Howard Jacobson’s Live a Little takes place during the final years of Beryl Dusinbery and Shimi Carmelli, both in their nineties, who meet outside a crematorium after Shimi’s brother’s funeral. Beryl, who spends her time embroidering morbid quotes from literature, is losing her memory; Shimi, on the other hand, is unable to forget anything that ever happened to him (and tormented by the fact). Shimi, a give-it-a-go cartomancer, predicts the future with a deck of cards in a Chinese restaurant every Friday; Beryl writes down her past on cards that she once used to report on her students. Shimi’s name was stolen by his older brother; Beryl has decided to abandon her own name in favour of the altogether more bizarre moniker Princess Schweppessodawasser.

Shimi is also known as the last man in north London who can do up his own flies, and pursued ferociously by the widows of Finchley Road because of this standalone quality. Beryl is dismissed by her self-absorbed politician sons as a bothersome, nasty old woman, left in the care of two recent immigrants, who she throws racist asides towards every few pages. Both are obsessed with death, which is staring them in the face. Both have made some terrible mistakes.

They make for a strange pair, and both are united by their disgust for humanity (Shimi’s visceral; Beryl’s personal.) Beryl has married too often and doesn’t believe in love; Shimi has never married. He is an introvert, easily embarrassed, obsessed with phrenology and the structure of the head, while she is a brash, extroverted linguist obsessed with categorizing words and correcting grammar.

Those familiar with Jacobson’s earlier work will see her as a vehicle through which he can explore his trademark verbose flourishes. They are enjoyable to read, if sometimes a little overdone. But if you don’t want to wade through a few paragraphs, which could have been summarised in a single sentence and about 100 fewer characters, Jacobson probably isn’t the author for you.

That’s not to say that Live a Little isn’t a thoroughly enjoyable read. For a literature snob and a language obsessive (guilty as charged), there is a lot to feast on; but for someone looking for an emotionally honest storyline, the book also delivers. Live a Little is about growing old, but it’s also about gender, race, love and politics, penned in a playful, genuine, sometimes borderline offensive way, that is at times reminiscent of Zadie Smith’s White Teeth or On Beauty. Many of its more tender examinations of old age also bring to mind the best parts of Emma Healey’s Elizabeth is Missing, a chronically underrated novel.

The characters think in slightly old-fashioned gendered terms and while they are lightly poked fun of when they take it too far, the novel never makes an attempt to prove them wrong. Beryl, for example, has a lot to say about women (when she isn’t calling them “sluts”, which is a shade too often): “The future is always brought to us by women… Men are moribund. They only listen to the past”, “There’s a joke – dying like a man. I would sooner teach the world to die like a woman… Being less grandiose – I don’t say grand – women are less disappointed”, and so it goes on. But the genius of Live a Little is that it manages to indulge in so much wordplay and biting political commentary.

I found myself caring deeply for the characters, and even shedding a tear on two separate occasions. The book also comes to a surprisingly tender conclusion and delivers some extremely astute home truths. That Jacobson manages all of this while populating his novel with ninety-plus-year-olds feels impressive, though his point seems to be that it shouldn’t be. I found myself convinced.

Live a Little by Howard Jacobson is published on 4 July by Jonathan Cape, £18.99