INTIMACY

by Hanif Kureishi

Faber & Faber, #9.99

BLAKE Morrison has a lot to answer for, and little of it is as compelling as Kureishi's new novel. Morrison is now regularly acknowledged as the begetter of the current wave of confessional writing, although this is probably inaccurate. He was, however, arguably the first to journey down this path rewardingly (for the reader), which is an improvement on the usual way credit for new literary directions is allocated.

Kureishi would, I suspect, quibble at his inclusion in this modern sub-genre. Intimacy is a novel, except that in its form it relies less on the experiences of the author's early background as his previous work for the page and the screen has done, and more on his recent emotions and the views that have guided his personal life. It is 115 pages of self-justification from a man who is less at ease with himself than he has often appeared. It is the tale of a man who has made the decision to leave his partner and two young sons and is set entirely on the night before he walks out of the door - no farewell, no note - towards a new partner. It has been written by a man who left his partner and twin baby sons and now lives with a new partner who is expecting his third child. Names are changed, but identities remain. Kureishi's kids were two when left. The children in the book are three and five,

but both, curiously, sleep with dummies in their mouths.

The parents of our protagonist, Jay, are also recognisably drawn from Kureishi's parents, and the sort of work he does is Kureishi's kind of work.

Why would anyone want to read this then - the self-analysis of a chap who sees no future in his life and resolves, tortuously and with more than a smidgen of self-loathing, to move on? Because it is quite compelling, that's why. Jay/Hanif does not contemplate his navel but the entire personal cosmos each of us inhabits.

He takes his decision, uncertainly, but with the firmness of inevitability, not regardless of the consequences, but with true and considered regard for every possible effect. This is the bleak reality to balance the popular frivolity of the recognition factor that sells Nick Hornby.

There are not many laughs here, but there is plenty of

truth. If it is alien to you, then you are a fortunate and contented person. Just as likely, you will squirm.