All My Precious Madness by Mark Bowles review – biting humour

In his captivating debut, Mark Bowles offers an intimate look into the mind of a misanthrope, delving deep into the realms of intellectual melancholy. The novel follows Henry, a middle-aged narrator who finds himself in a lively Soho café, struggling to write a memoir about his deceased father. His attempts are constantly interrupted by the boisterous chatter of a nearby tech entrepreneur, engrossed in a phone call about his startup and travels in the Far East, filled with business jargon. Frustrated, Henry’s mind wanders to reflections on mass tourism in the Instagram era, characterizing it as “the flattening of the world to wallpaper for the grinning head,” alongside critiques of the commercialization of education and the insidious nature of corporate language. Over the course of 200 pages, readers are drawn into Henry’s psyche, repeatedly confronting the oblivious tech bro who embodies everything he despises about modern society, as his irritation escalates to nearly psychotic levels.

As the narrative progresses, it transitions from societal commentary to a deeply personal story. We learn about Henry’s origins in Bradford, his studies at Oxford University, and a disheartening decade in telesales before he earns a doctorate in philosophy and becomes an academic. A self-taught learner, he recounts his attempt to study the great composers alphabetically, humorously admitting, “I did not get very far … today I listen almost exclusively to Bach, Bartók and Beethoven.” Coming from a working-class background, Henry grapples with feelings of inadequacy, describing his path into academia as “a trajectory of imitation and rebuff, of overzealous imitation compensating for prior exclusion.” He is acutely aware of his somewhat pretentious writing style, often punctuated with terms like “whilst” and “wherein.” He humorously remarks, “I wore my learning, such as it was, like a trench coat on a summer’s day.”

Henry’s furious discontent and leftist ideals mirror the sharp wit of American comedian Bill Hicks. His clever self-deprecation and sardonic commentary draw readers in, enhanced by his musings on language—reflecting on the posh preference for “copious,” the irony of “pulchritude,” and the melancholy sound of the Brummie accent. As the plot unfolds, we delve into Henry’s childhood, culminating in a poignant story of a school bully who forced a peer into a harrowing act. Despite a distant and authoritarian relationship with his father, a bond develops in their later years, transforming their shared solitude: “the two of us, sat side by side, each opened the door of our solitude to the other.”

All My Precious Madness expertly captures the landscape of intellectual sorrow. While nostalgia often ties to reactionary politics, Bowles demonstrates how it can manifest in diverse ways. Through Henry’s blend of frustration and idealism, the narrative critiques England’s conservative parochialism while idealizing cities like Paris and Rome. For Henry, a simple espresso symbolizes limitless possibilities: “There is,” he asserts, “every reason to live in Old Europe at the point of its demise and disappearance, rather than sniffing after the Zeitgeist, which is made of cables and clouds, brands and fragile exoskeletons amalgamated from images.”

However, it is difficult to untangle these sweeping emotions from Henry’s class-driven ennui. His obsession with “Old Europe” reveals a longing to break free from the cultural limitations of his 1980s English upbringing. In this context, his fixation on the tech bro—who epitomizes the bold aspirations of Thatcherite capitalism—seems more like a projection of his own discontent. Ultimately, whether it’s the uncharismatic entrepreneur recounting his global exploits or the intellectual yearning for deeper significance, both characters exhibit an innate restlessness—a drive to reinvent themselves and seek escape, by any means necessary.

All My Precious Madness by Mark Bowles is published by Galley Beggar (£10.99). To support the Guardian and Observer, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com, though delivery charges may apply.