This keenly observed debut brilliantly captures the internal monologue of a misanthrope, in a portrait of intellectual melancholia

Henry, the middle-aged narrator of Mark Bowles’s debut novel, is ensconced in a Soho cafe, trying to write a memoir about his late father. To his considerable irritation, a digital entrepreneur at a nearby table is prattling loudly into his phone about his startup and his recent travels in the far east, while deploying inordinate amounts of business speak. (When he begins one sentence with “As per yourself,” we can place the type exactly.) Distracted from his task, Henry’s mind wanders, brooding on, among other things, mass tourism in the Instagram age (“The flattening of the world to wallpaper for the grinning head”), the marketisation of education and the perniciousness of corporate jargon. We remain inside his head for most of the next 200-odd pages, intermittently checking back in with the voluble tech bro, who embodies everything Henry hates about the 21st century; his animus builds to almost psychotic proportions as the novel progresses.

The sociological ruminations soon give way to a personal narrative. We learn that Henry hails from Bradford, attended Oxford University and, after a decade in a soul-crushing telesales job, completed a philosophy doctorate to become an academic. A self-styled autodidact, he once resolved to learn about the great composers by listening to them in alphabetical order. (“I did not get very far … today I listen almost exclusively to Bach, Bartók and Beethoven”.) Because of his working-class background, he suffered from impostor syndrome; his assimilation into academia was “a trajectory of imitation and rebuff, of overzealous imitation compensating for prior exclusion”. There is indeed a hint of affectation in the narrator’s slightly mannered prose style: he is fond of “whilst” and “wherein”, and prone to the occasional throwback sentence structure (“I … opened ever so gently the window”). Fully conscious of this, he quips: “I wore my learning, such as it was, like a trench coat on a summer’s day.”