Stop me if you've heard this one before: a young(ish) man, besotted by love, besots himself with drink.

Generally, novels about alcoholism dwell on the lonely, self-destructive boozer. This one addresses a sort of collective alcoholism: drinking as an occupation. The main character drinks when he is with his friends, drinks when he is waiting for them, drinks when he is thinking of them. He knows both the booze and the friends are bad for him, but he keeps at it regardless. Left to his own devices, he is resourceful, demonstrably likeable, and a formidable golfer - hardly the anisocial outcast that is his drinking self.

Drinking George versus Sober George. Then there's Simple George versus Scheming George. Or perhaps plotting is a better word. The switch between the two becomes more pronounced as the novel progresses, both in the differences in their thinking, and the physical sensation marking the switch - a psychosomatic click, why not?

Clearly more than the sum of its parts, this book, though a grim read. I'll probably revisit it in a few years. ( )

I’m not sure I’ve read a more vivid, total depiction of malignant infatuation. ( )

We have a collection of 100, old B&W films, mystery and thriller kinds of things mostly. Well, we had such a collection. My spouse has since thrown them out. But, she waited until I'd see one last one, Gas Light, based on a play by Patrick Hamilton. After seeing the movie, which I thought was quite good, I wanted to read the original play. I couldn't find a copy in a readable form that didn't require oodles more cash from my pockets than I felt willing to dole out.

So, the only thing by Patrick Hamilton, whom I was informed was once considered to be rather a shining light in literary circles, that I could find was Hangover Square, i.e. this book. I may finish the book one day, but I doubt it.

So, basically, we have the ravings of a schizophrenic alcoholic, George Bone, who is besotted by a small-time actress, Netta, who is little interested in him. In fact, her only interest in him is that he'll provide free drinks. Bone can't decide whether he wants to carry Netta off to a stone cottage in the countryside, or kill her.

Well, after dozens and dozens of pages of this crap, I cried uncle and read something else, an old western featuring Hopalong Cassidy. Then I tried some more of this book, and quickly found something else to read.

It's really quite deadly stuff. I'm sure it's well done, if you care to read about the ravings of a schizo/alky bent on murder, but I'm not sure I am.
( )

‘Hangover Square’ by Patrick Hamilton, first published in 1941, is deservedly being re-discovered as a perceptive portrayal of people getting-by, living in the low rent district of Earls Court, London, months before war is declared. It is the mournful tale of one man’s hopeless love for a woman who exploits him relentlessly, his inability to see her for what she is, and the battle of his psyche, half of which is telling him to commit murder.
George Harvey Bone loves Netta Longdon despite, or perhaps because of, her disdain for him. ‘When she had finished making up, she went into the sitting room to change her shoes, and he followed her. He was always following her, like her shadow, like a dog.’ This is a novel about love, about living on the edge, and schizophrenia, and about the underbelly of a city paused on the brink of war.
The story flicks back and forth in George’s head between his lucid moments planning a new life in Maidenhead when he will stop drinking, and what happens after the ‘click’ in his head - a blackout or loss of sense of time and place – when he realizes the only solution is to kill Netta. George is put-upon by Netta and her circle of friends, he buys drinks, brings food, and they tolerate his company only when he can contribute something. Netta goes to Brighton with George, not to be with him but because she hopes he can introduce her to someone useful. George, bless him, fails to see this. ‘She was wildly, wildly, lovely that night. He looked across the table at her, and she was violets and primroses again.’ Netta and her heartless group of friends exploit George mercilessly and he allows them to do it.
Hamilton’s Earls Court is a seedy place where people get-by on little money, living in rented rooms or boarding houses, scrounging off others, seemingly without jobs to go to. Netta goes to bed in the small hours, rises at eleven in the morning with a hangover – the Hangover Square of the title – then navigates her day via pubs, bars and restaurants or drinking from a bottle of gin provided by a friend. Brighton – London-by-the-Sea – brings a breath of fresh air but, as is always the way, George’s problems follow him there. There is a lovely section when he plays golf, a successful round which gives him the confidence to woo Netta. ‘He wasn’t going to get drunk. She could drink if she wanted to, but he wasn’t going to – at least only a little. He was going to keep his head.’ The irony, of course, is that George is schizophrenic and has another psychotic episode.
This novel is very funny in places, in others the action can seem slow to progress, but I found myself willing George to tell Netta where to go. He is the sort of character you want to take by the hand. Of course, he is unable to stand up to Netta’s rude and ungrateful behaviour and it is the uncertainty of what he will do, where he will go, and whether his schizophrenic murder plans will come to fruition, which made this such an absorbing read.
Read more of my book reviews at http://www.sandradanby.com/book-reviews-a-z/ ( )

George Harvey Bone has a lot of problems. He doesn’t have a job, and he is living on the remains of a small inheritance and a birthday gift from his Aunt. He lives in a hotel in Earl’s Court, London, and his only real friend is the hotel’s white cat, who likes to share his bed. The woman he is desperately in love with—Netta—and her friends treat him like dirt and sponge off him. War clouds are hanging in the air—it is 1939—and George has no faith in Neville Chamberlain’s “Peace in Our Time”. Oh—and one more thing—George frequently lapses into a “dumb” state, where his actions, once he has re-oriented himself to his surroundings, basically proceed on autopilot. In this state, he can remember what has happened to his more normal self, but his more normal self has no knowledge of what occurs during these “dumb” periods. He knows they exist, of course, because people remark on his strange behavior and because there are gaps of time he can’t account for. And the steady drinking to excess, mostly with George paying for Netta and her friends, isn’t helping.

On the other hand, he is an excellent golfer, although as you will see, this may be a mixed blessing.

“Normal” George knows how Netta is treating him, but he continually grasps at any straw, any little gesture or word, to keep hoping that somehow things will change. “Dumb” George, however, has decided to murder Netta. The book follows George as he flips from state to state, and the suspense stems from which personality will win out. Or maybe that isn’t too hard to figure out.

The book features some excellent writing and scene-setting as George and his friends move from Netta’s flat, through the pubs of London, and on to a “memorable” short trip to Brighton. The amount of drinking is something only a noir private eye could match. The indignities against George are maddening—and you may find yourself agreeing with his murderous side.

In the introduction to my Penguin edition, J.B. Priestley calls Hamilton one of the greatest minor novelists—minor because the subject matter of his work is not as broad as that of a “major” novelist. Sadly, I have to disagree with this assessment, at least based on Hangover Square. Despite its passages of great writing and a superior sense of place, the narrative grows repetitious and annoying. Most of the story is told in third person, but it lets us know exactly what both versions of George are thinking. After a while, his excessive self-pity and failure to learn from his mistakes gets wearying. Although this is essential to his “normal” character, it is still a bit excessive. Here, less could have been more. His transitions into his “dumb” state are also too repetitious, as each time he remembers he has to kill Netta, only to take a little while longer to realize that “Netta” by some stroke of luck happens to be the same “Netta” he is about to meet, and, wow, how convenient! The faults of these passages are offset by the strength of other episodes, such as when George is in the company of people who don’t try to take advantage of him every moment, or the scene in Brighton where he remembers that he used to be a good golfer, rents a set of clubs, and shoots a 68.

This mixed review shouldn’t put you off from reading what is one of the most downbeat and harrowing books you will ever encounter. The best comparison I can make is to the downbeat, fatalistic world of the American writer, David Goodis, although Hamilton’s writing is much more literary. Put this on your list of unforgettable, but flawed novels. You’ll be happy to escape from it—but you won’t feel your time was wasted. ( )