Two of my favourite literary stars collided this week, and while it was not quite the spectacular supernova I'd long dreamed of, it was still immensely satisfying. While reading through Jesse Ball's newly-released collection of verse and prose, The Village On Horseback, it just so happened that the author was featured on my favourite literary podcast, KCRW Bookworm. Those who have heard this fantastic weekly show would be familiar with Michael Silverblat's frustratingly droll voice and overly pregnant pauses but, like me, choose to still listen thanks to his brilliant insights and obvious rapport with anyone even vaguely literary. He is an writer's reader, a beacon of considered opinion; everyone who is anyone seems to queue up to be interviewed by him and each episode makes for mesmerising listening even if you have no interest in the particular author or topic. Perhaps Silverblat's greatest strength, however, is his willingness to throw new and exciting writers into the mix - so for every Salman Rushdie, Margaret Atwood or Joyce Carol Oates we also get to discover the likes of David Vann, Tao Lin or indeed Jesse Ball. What's more, Silverblat gives the same time and depth of consideration to the rising stars as he does his heroes.
It was intriguing to hear Ball talk about his own work, all the more so to realise that he is as elusively elliptical in person as his is on the page. Half an hour wasn't nearly enough time to really break beyond the surface but if you are just discovering this promising heir to Calvino, Abe or Borges it's well worth a listen. Check it out at KCRW's website or subscribe on iTunes. Also worth picking up is The Village On Horseback, if only to witness the growth of someone who is sure to become one of the most important writers of our time. Comprised of aphorisms, prose poetry and two novellas, it is consistently surprising, prescient and full of imaginative explosions that will have you smiling while you scratch your head in sheer astonishment. I won't go into too much detail here - just trust me and buy the thing - but I will point out that, while he won the Plimpton Prize for the novella The Early Deaths of Lubeck, Brennan, Harp & Carr, it is the earlier one, Pieter Emily (also included in this collection), that truly shone for me; a highly discomforting tale that might have even unsettled Poe.
I'm excited to have hopped on the Jesse Ball bandwagon nice and early. I'm also glad that his rise is not meteoric but slow and steady. Flashes in the pan tend to burn out while reputations built over time and on solid foundations are here for good. Expect big things... eventually.
The Man Booker Prize Fallacious Form Guide Vol.2: Almost There
on Saturday, September 3, 2011
Ten down, three to go. Not sure I'll bother with the rest unless they make the shortlist; I want to read for pleasure again. But a promise is a promise, so here's the next lot of Booker longlisted novels for your betting edification:
The Testament of Jessie Lamb by Jane Rogers
It's been a while since Margaret Atwood last made an appearance on any Booker list, but she is well and truly here in spirit thanks to this middling sci-fi pastiche. Set in a near future that has been crippled by a worldwide bio-terrorism attack, it nods so furiously to canonical texts in the genre such as The Handmaid's Tale, Ballard's The Drought (and Running Wild for that matter) and even 12 Monkeys that I'm surprised it doesn't have whiplash. In this incarnation, the 'apocalyptic threat' is Maternal Death Syndrome (MDS), a man-made airborne disease that causes women to die during pregnancy, thereby making mince meat of our species' long term viability. Jessie Lamb, the 15 year old narrator, offers herself for martyrdom when a potential escape hatch for the human race opens up - the implanting of pre-MDA embryos into willing surrogates - much to the chagrin of her scientist Dad. Cue the metaphysical arm wrestle. Rogers throws up various moral conundrums about human and animal experimentation but dilutes it with some unremarkable parent/child drama and a vein of anti-patriarchal feminism so unsubtle it just seems clunky. Push aside the genetic soup and The Testament of Jessie Lamb never really rises above the level of homage to the greats.
Ladbrokes Odds: 16/1
Bookworm's Odds: 20/1
Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman
God knows quite how Kelman has been plonked at number two on the bookie's list with this frustratingly twee take on the British knife crime epidemic. Little Harry Opuku is a precocious little scamp. Recently arrived from Ghana, he is obsessed with everything pop-culture, from sneakers to CSI. Especially CSI. So when one of his classmates is stabbed to death, he takes it upon himself to solve the crime with the help of his best friend Dean and a pair of crappy thrift store binoculars. What follows is an increasingly ominous descent into a violent world of teen gangs that he cannot appreciate until it's too late. Kelman's previous life as a successful script writer shines through - the dialogue is snappy, the voices authentically ghetto - but the book never felt more than an excessively padded-out short story. And did I mention there's a talking pigeon? Yeah, it's probably best that I don't. If this wins, it will be almost as great a travesty as the whole Vernon God Little debacle. Seriously team Booker, stop trying to be down with the kids.
Ladbrokes Odds: 5/1
Bookworm's Odds: 10/1
On Canaan's Side by Sebastian Barry
I suspect when his life's work is done, Sebastian Barry will have written one great family saga, with each novel counting only as a single chapter. On Canaan's Side sees the focus shift to Lilly Bere, sister of Willie Dunne (you may recall him being the hero of A Long Long Way), who is raking over the embers of her life in the wake of her grandson's death. Through her mournful haze, she recalls her early days in Ireland, her youthful love and subsequent marriage to Tadg Bere, and then the collapse of her dream when the newlyweds are forced to flee to America after Tadg gets mixed up in an IRA double cross. But the promised land proves only a temporary shelter, with Tadg being tracked down and murdered in a Chicago street. Lilly stays on, and through her subsequent highs and lows, hardships and relationships, Barry finds the perfect vehicle to explore not only the immigrant experience but the racial dynamics of mid-to-late 20th Century America. The novel spans seven decades, and it is to Barry's credit that he touches on the important historical events with a subtlety that prevents the book ever feeling like a high school history lesson. There's no reason On Canaan's Side couldn't be the one that finally nets Barry a Booker. As always, it is warm, understated and possesses a generosity of spirit that is extremely rare in contemporary literature. But then again, I thought the same about The Secret Scripture and A Long Long Way.
Ladbrokes Odds: 7/1
Bookworm's Odds: 5/1
Far To Go by Alison Pick
Pick shines a light on a fairly well-known, but under-explored (in literary fiction at least) aspect of the Second World War - the evacuation of Jewish children from occupied Czechoslovakia in what became known as the Kindertransport. Far To Go imagines a Jewish family forced to flee the Sudetenland when Chamberlain gives it over to Hitler in the name of "peace in our time", and then helplessly watch as the walls close around them in Prague. Their escape is thwarted when they are sold out by their well-meaning maid, but seize upon the opportunity to at least get little Pepik the hell out of dodge. Melodrama rules, stereotypes abound and, if you happen to have any knowledge of the Kindertransport already, annoyingly patronising factoids keep bubbling to the surface, all of which significantly lessen the impact of what might have been a very powerful novel. Nostalgic and only mildly engaging, this belongs on Oprah's Book Club, not the Booker Longlist.
Ladbrokes Odds: 14/1
Bookworm's Odds: 20/1
Don't forget, the shortlist is announced this Tuesday, so keep your eyes on the Booker Prize website
The Testament of Jessie Lamb by Jane Rogers
It's been a while since Margaret Atwood last made an appearance on any Booker list, but she is well and truly here in spirit thanks to this middling sci-fi pastiche. Set in a near future that has been crippled by a worldwide bio-terrorism attack, it nods so furiously to canonical texts in the genre such as The Handmaid's Tale, Ballard's The Drought (and Running Wild for that matter) and even 12 Monkeys that I'm surprised it doesn't have whiplash. In this incarnation, the 'apocalyptic threat' is Maternal Death Syndrome (MDS), a man-made airborne disease that causes women to die during pregnancy, thereby making mince meat of our species' long term viability. Jessie Lamb, the 15 year old narrator, offers herself for martyrdom when a potential escape hatch for the human race opens up - the implanting of pre-MDA embryos into willing surrogates - much to the chagrin of her scientist Dad. Cue the metaphysical arm wrestle. Rogers throws up various moral conundrums about human and animal experimentation but dilutes it with some unremarkable parent/child drama and a vein of anti-patriarchal feminism so unsubtle it just seems clunky. Push aside the genetic soup and The Testament of Jessie Lamb never really rises above the level of homage to the greats.
Ladbrokes Odds: 16/1
Bookworm's Odds: 20/1
Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman
God knows quite how Kelman has been plonked at number two on the bookie's list with this frustratingly twee take on the British knife crime epidemic. Little Harry Opuku is a precocious little scamp. Recently arrived from Ghana, he is obsessed with everything pop-culture, from sneakers to CSI. Especially CSI. So when one of his classmates is stabbed to death, he takes it upon himself to solve the crime with the help of his best friend Dean and a pair of crappy thrift store binoculars. What follows is an increasingly ominous descent into a violent world of teen gangs that he cannot appreciate until it's too late. Kelman's previous life as a successful script writer shines through - the dialogue is snappy, the voices authentically ghetto - but the book never felt more than an excessively padded-out short story. And did I mention there's a talking pigeon? Yeah, it's probably best that I don't. If this wins, it will be almost as great a travesty as the whole Vernon God Little debacle. Seriously team Booker, stop trying to be down with the kids.
Ladbrokes Odds: 5/1
Bookworm's Odds: 10/1
On Canaan's Side by Sebastian Barry
I suspect when his life's work is done, Sebastian Barry will have written one great family saga, with each novel counting only as a single chapter. On Canaan's Side sees the focus shift to Lilly Bere, sister of Willie Dunne (you may recall him being the hero of A Long Long Way), who is raking over the embers of her life in the wake of her grandson's death. Through her mournful haze, she recalls her early days in Ireland, her youthful love and subsequent marriage to Tadg Bere, and then the collapse of her dream when the newlyweds are forced to flee to America after Tadg gets mixed up in an IRA double cross. But the promised land proves only a temporary shelter, with Tadg being tracked down and murdered in a Chicago street. Lilly stays on, and through her subsequent highs and lows, hardships and relationships, Barry finds the perfect vehicle to explore not only the immigrant experience but the racial dynamics of mid-to-late 20th Century America. The novel spans seven decades, and it is to Barry's credit that he touches on the important historical events with a subtlety that prevents the book ever feeling like a high school history lesson. There's no reason On Canaan's Side couldn't be the one that finally nets Barry a Booker. As always, it is warm, understated and possesses a generosity of spirit that is extremely rare in contemporary literature. But then again, I thought the same about The Secret Scripture and A Long Long Way.
Ladbrokes Odds: 7/1
Bookworm's Odds: 5/1
Far To Go by Alison Pick
Pick shines a light on a fairly well-known, but under-explored (in literary fiction at least) aspect of the Second World War - the evacuation of Jewish children from occupied Czechoslovakia in what became known as the Kindertransport. Far To Go imagines a Jewish family forced to flee the Sudetenland when Chamberlain gives it over to Hitler in the name of "peace in our time", and then helplessly watch as the walls close around them in Prague. Their escape is thwarted when they are sold out by their well-meaning maid, but seize upon the opportunity to at least get little Pepik the hell out of dodge. Melodrama rules, stereotypes abound and, if you happen to have any knowledge of the Kindertransport already, annoyingly patronising factoids keep bubbling to the surface, all of which significantly lessen the impact of what might have been a very powerful novel. Nostalgic and only mildly engaging, this belongs on Oprah's Book Club, not the Booker Longlist.
Ladbrokes Odds: 14/1
Bookworm's Odds: 20/1
Don't forget, the shortlist is announced this Tuesday, so keep your eyes on the Booker Prize website
The Man Booker Prize Fallacious Form Guide Vol.1: The Halfway Mark
on Friday, August 19, 2011
I've made no secret of my appalling record when it comes to betting on the Booker Prize. This year I have sworn not to fall down the same hole so, instead of placing any bets myself, I'm going to write a form guide to help you decide where best to lose your money. As always, I will read the entire long list (or as much as I can before the shortlist is announced) and use my spectacular oracular skills to gauge each book's likelihood of winning. In doing so I'll provide you with the briefest of reviews, as well as the current bookmaker's odds before throwing in my own (probably forged) two cents worth.
A Cupboard Full of Coats by Yvette Edwards
Every year the folks over at Bookerland herald the arrival of 'the new Zadie Smith' and this year it's debut novelist Yvette Edwards's turn. Don't let the comparison turn you off though because there is much more to this than a plucky immigrant family saga. In fact, the only thing Edwards's book has in common with (now) Ol' Zadie is that it is set in Brick Lane. A Cupboard Full of Coats is a heartbreaking meditation on the crippling effects of family violence, its horrible trajectory and the resulting guilt that lives on far into the future. Jinx has long blamed herself for her mother's murder. She played a disastrous gambit to get the latter to leave her abusive husband Berris but it backfired and, rather than letting her go, he stabbed her to death. Years later, it is all brought back by the unexpected arrival of Berris's best friend, Lemon, at Jinx's door. As a girl Jinx loved Lemon. Lemon, however, loved her mother and was also doing his part to convince her to escape. Over the space of a couple of days Lemon and Jinx dance a delicate tango of guilt and recrimination, which culminates in some surprising perspective for both. In each other's revelations the two might find redemption but, as Edwards so crushingly points out, there is little solace. This is an urgent, relevant novel that deserves great recognition. It won't win the Booker, but it kind of deserves to.
Ladrokes Odds: 10/1
Bookworm's Odds: 4/1
Half Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan
Edugyan's book swings with the Golden Age of jazz's signature patter but this ain't no New Orleans tale. Set at the dawn of World War 2 in Berlin and Paris, Half Blood Blues tells of an up-and-coming jazz band that catches the notice of Louis Armstrong thanks to its prodigious young trumpeter Hieronymus Falk. Timing, as they say, is everything, and the band, made up of American and Afro-German players is fated for disaster but it is not only circumstance that tears them apart. Edugyan uses a wonderfully obscure context to explore the limits of friendship in the face of naked ambition. We know from the outset that Falk is arrested and shipped off to Sachsenhausen, but it is not until well into the book that we realise the role our narrator, Sid, played in preventing his escape. The tone is suitable brooding and smokey, and the violent undercurrent is perfectly nuanced. The book ends a bit too neatly - it turns out Hiero survived and moved to Poland which conveniently provides Sid with a chance to ask for his forgiveness many years later - but it will certainly make you ponder just how far you would go for the perfect piece of art.
Ladbrokes Odds: 14/1
Bookworm's Odds: 20/1
The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes
I'm still peeved that Barnes didn't win for England, England or A History of The World in 10 1/2 Chapters, but this sombre novella about youthful adulation and regret might just snare it for him. For those still whinging about its length, build a bridge made of old copies of Amsterdam and On Chesil Beach and get over it! Brevity is but a facade in this story of a middle-aged man reflecting on his most significant adolescent friendship. Tony Webster admired Adrian Finn when the latter first fell into his clique. Adrian was smart, serious... pretty much everything to which Tony aspired. But the friendship fell apart when Adrian shacked up with Tony's first love Veronica; needless to say Tony reacted with typical teenage spite, cut his losses and walked away. However, things didn't go all that well for the couple - Adrian committed suicide only a few years later. Now an ageing divorcee, Tony is forced to revisit the friendship when he receives a legal letter advising that he was left Adrian's diary in Veronica's mum's will. Huh? The mum? And what's worse, Veronica won't hand it over. Secrets beg to be divulged (and they are) and Tony risks crumbling under the weight of false nostalgia. The big revelation at the end (why do all the books on this list need bloody revelations???) is a little on the twee side, but viewed simply as a meditation on what it meant to be young in the 60's, and what it means to live your life in the past, The Sense Of An Ending is a winner.
Ladbrokes Odds: 6/1
Bookworm's Odds: 5/1
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick DeWitt
As promised, this is a riotous picaresque dotted with characters you'll love to hate, most of whom would not be out of place on Cormac McCarthy's rolling plains. The Sisters brothers are a pair of bounty hunters on a mission to reclaim a formula from some dumb schmuck that double crossed the local rich bad guy. Unfortunately for all involved, they grow something resembling a heart along the way and fall in with their marks in the hope of even greater riches. We all know what becomes of bounty hunters with heart... Folks get shot, doubles get crossed and it all becomes a bit predictable before ending in a most warm-hearted, familial manner. Thankfully there are plenty of laughs to balance out the wanton violence, usually at the expense of the poor horse Tub (both the laughs and the violence come to think of it). It's an odd addition to the long list for the Commonwealth's most prestigious literary prize but at least it provides a bit of fun for those of us used to trawling through snooty Hollinghurst yawnfests.
Ladbrokes Odds: 14/1
Bookworm's Odds: 7/1
Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch
You can read my full review by clicking on the Microviews tab to your right. Suffice to say it's another story with a shipwreck and a tiger, and it's getting far more attention that it deserves.
Ladbrokes Odds:8/1
Bookworm's Odds: 10/1
Snowdrops by A.D. Miller
Again read my full review under Microviews. Here I need only point out that the wrong Andrew Miller got long listed. A travesty!
Ladbrokes Odds: 16/1
Bookworm's Odds: /1
A Cupboard Full of Coats by Yvette Edwards
Every year the folks over at Bookerland herald the arrival of 'the new Zadie Smith' and this year it's debut novelist Yvette Edwards's turn. Don't let the comparison turn you off though because there is much more to this than a plucky immigrant family saga. In fact, the only thing Edwards's book has in common with (now) Ol' Zadie is that it is set in Brick Lane. A Cupboard Full of Coats is a heartbreaking meditation on the crippling effects of family violence, its horrible trajectory and the resulting guilt that lives on far into the future. Jinx has long blamed herself for her mother's murder. She played a disastrous gambit to get the latter to leave her abusive husband Berris but it backfired and, rather than letting her go, he stabbed her to death. Years later, it is all brought back by the unexpected arrival of Berris's best friend, Lemon, at Jinx's door. As a girl Jinx loved Lemon. Lemon, however, loved her mother and was also doing his part to convince her to escape. Over the space of a couple of days Lemon and Jinx dance a delicate tango of guilt and recrimination, which culminates in some surprising perspective for both. In each other's revelations the two might find redemption but, as Edwards so crushingly points out, there is little solace. This is an urgent, relevant novel that deserves great recognition. It won't win the Booker, but it kind of deserves to.
Ladrokes Odds: 10/1
Bookworm's Odds: 4/1
Half Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan
Edugyan's book swings with the Golden Age of jazz's signature patter but this ain't no New Orleans tale. Set at the dawn of World War 2 in Berlin and Paris, Half Blood Blues tells of an up-and-coming jazz band that catches the notice of Louis Armstrong thanks to its prodigious young trumpeter Hieronymus Falk. Timing, as they say, is everything, and the band, made up of American and Afro-German players is fated for disaster but it is not only circumstance that tears them apart. Edugyan uses a wonderfully obscure context to explore the limits of friendship in the face of naked ambition. We know from the outset that Falk is arrested and shipped off to Sachsenhausen, but it is not until well into the book that we realise the role our narrator, Sid, played in preventing his escape. The tone is suitable brooding and smokey, and the violent undercurrent is perfectly nuanced. The book ends a bit too neatly - it turns out Hiero survived and moved to Poland which conveniently provides Sid with a chance to ask for his forgiveness many years later - but it will certainly make you ponder just how far you would go for the perfect piece of art.
Ladbrokes Odds: 14/1
Bookworm's Odds: 20/1
The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes
I'm still peeved that Barnes didn't win for England, England or A History of The World in 10 1/2 Chapters, but this sombre novella about youthful adulation and regret might just snare it for him. For those still whinging about its length, build a bridge made of old copies of Amsterdam and On Chesil Beach and get over it! Brevity is but a facade in this story of a middle-aged man reflecting on his most significant adolescent friendship. Tony Webster admired Adrian Finn when the latter first fell into his clique. Adrian was smart, serious... pretty much everything to which Tony aspired. But the friendship fell apart when Adrian shacked up with Tony's first love Veronica; needless to say Tony reacted with typical teenage spite, cut his losses and walked away. However, things didn't go all that well for the couple - Adrian committed suicide only a few years later. Now an ageing divorcee, Tony is forced to revisit the friendship when he receives a legal letter advising that he was left Adrian's diary in Veronica's mum's will. Huh? The mum? And what's worse, Veronica won't hand it over. Secrets beg to be divulged (and they are) and Tony risks crumbling under the weight of false nostalgia. The big revelation at the end (why do all the books on this list need bloody revelations???) is a little on the twee side, but viewed simply as a meditation on what it meant to be young in the 60's, and what it means to live your life in the past, The Sense Of An Ending is a winner.
Ladbrokes Odds: 6/1
Bookworm's Odds: 5/1
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick DeWitt
As promised, this is a riotous picaresque dotted with characters you'll love to hate, most of whom would not be out of place on Cormac McCarthy's rolling plains. The Sisters brothers are a pair of bounty hunters on a mission to reclaim a formula from some dumb schmuck that double crossed the local rich bad guy. Unfortunately for all involved, they grow something resembling a heart along the way and fall in with their marks in the hope of even greater riches. We all know what becomes of bounty hunters with heart... Folks get shot, doubles get crossed and it all becomes a bit predictable before ending in a most warm-hearted, familial manner. Thankfully there are plenty of laughs to balance out the wanton violence, usually at the expense of the poor horse Tub (both the laughs and the violence come to think of it). It's an odd addition to the long list for the Commonwealth's most prestigious literary prize but at least it provides a bit of fun for those of us used to trawling through snooty Hollinghurst yawnfests.
Ladbrokes Odds: 14/1
Bookworm's Odds: 7/1
Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch
You can read my full review by clicking on the Microviews tab to your right. Suffice to say it's another story with a shipwreck and a tiger, and it's getting far more attention that it deserves.
Ladbrokes Odds:8/1
Bookworm's Odds: 10/1
Snowdrops by A.D. Miller
Again read my full review under Microviews. Here I need only point out that the wrong Andrew Miller got long listed. A travesty!
Ladbrokes Odds: 16/1
Bookworm's Odds: /1
The Library Diaries Vol. 2: Paperback Writers
on Thursday, August 18, 2011
A day off well spent...
I'm still toying with different configurations but for now I've lumped all the paperbacks together. I separated a few by publisher, just because they look nice as a set (check 'em out on the far right) and, contrary to my original intention to keep the library genre-free, I made one shelf of crime and fantasy. And, of course, there's a stack of books that simply didn't make the cut so they've been consigned to decorating my parents' shelves.
Anyway, enough reading the articles... Time for the book porn!
I'm still toying with different configurations but for now I've lumped all the paperbacks together. I separated a few by publisher, just because they look nice as a set (check 'em out on the far right) and, contrary to my original intention to keep the library genre-free, I made one shelf of crime and fantasy. And, of course, there's a stack of books that simply didn't make the cut so they've been consigned to decorating my parents' shelves.
Anyway, enough reading the articles... Time for the book porn!
Begin The Booker Beguine
on Saturday, July 30, 2011
Is it just me or does Booker season begin earlier every year? Pretty soon they will be announcing the longlist before they've even awarded the previous year's prize. (Cue the sound of me stepping off my soapbox...)
Anyway, the nominees (for nomination) for the 2011 prize have just come out and it's a rather intriguing affair. Some safe choices are there, as are a handful of debuts. And, of course, there are a couple of glaring omissions. For the most part, however, mediocrity reigns.
In case you have yet to see it, this year's Booker Dozen is:
The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
On Canaan's Side by Sebastian Barry
Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt
Half Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan
A Cupboard Full of Coats by Yvette Edwards
The Stranger's Child by Alan Hollinghurst
Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman
The Last Hundred Days by Patrick McGuinness
Snowdrops by A.D. Miller
Far to Go by Alison Pick
The Testament of Jessie Lamb by Jane Rogers
Derby Day by D.J. Taylor
Having only read three of them (Birch, Miller, Edwards), and given that I intend on following my usual tradition of reading them all before the prize is awarded in October, I'll only make a few cursory comments for now. Firstly, Snowdrops is awful. Perhaps when they were bandying about potential nominees they meant to include Andrew Miller (whose wonderful new book Pure seems to have missed out) but got confused and put the wrong Andrew Miller on the list (an easy mistake to make, as I learnt when I read Andrew D. Miller's Earl Of Petticoat Lane believing it was by the author of Ingenious Pain). Secondly, Jamrach's Menagerie is pretty good, but it is hardly worthy of the most prestigious prize in Commonwealth literature. And anyway, as I've noted in an earlier post, they've already given it to a story about a boy who plays with a tiger and ends up in a shipwreck. Lazy!
Speaking of lazy, while I don't doubt that both Hollinghurst and Barnes have produced fine novels, they were very safe picks in a list that seems to be reaching for something a little more interesting. Hollinghurst has already won, and Barnes should have won for England, England. Perhaps there's another Consolation Booker in the offing. The Sense of An Ending is a slim affair, only 160 pages, which worked wonders for Ian McEwan when he won his after missing out for Enduring Love.
Bitching aside, it is nice to see Sebastian Barry back on the list. He is consistently great, although rather understated and so unlikely to throw down a serious gauntlet. For what it's worth, I'd like to see him win; I have On Canaan's Side sitting on my bedside table and have my fingers crossed that it's good enough to get him over the line.
As always I like to put up my pick for Booker Underdog and this year it goes to Patrick deWitt's The Sisters Brothers. It's also sitting on my bedside table (above the Barry actually), and looks like a joyous romp of a noir, if there is such a thing. No Country For Old Men meets True Grit meets some sort of absurdist Marx Brothers creation. I'll report back soon.
For those who care about the details, the Booker Shortlist will be announced on Tuesday 6 September but you'll have to wait until Tuesday 18 October to find out who wins.
Anyway, the nominees (for nomination) for the 2011 prize have just come out and it's a rather intriguing affair. Some safe choices are there, as are a handful of debuts. And, of course, there are a couple of glaring omissions. For the most part, however, mediocrity reigns.
In case you have yet to see it, this year's Booker Dozen is:
The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
On Canaan's Side by Sebastian Barry
Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch
The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt
Half Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan
A Cupboard Full of Coats by Yvette Edwards
The Stranger's Child by Alan Hollinghurst
Pigeon English by Stephen Kelman
The Last Hundred Days by Patrick McGuinness
Snowdrops by A.D. Miller
Far to Go by Alison Pick
The Testament of Jessie Lamb by Jane Rogers
Derby Day by D.J. Taylor
Having only read three of them (Birch, Miller, Edwards), and given that I intend on following my usual tradition of reading them all before the prize is awarded in October, I'll only make a few cursory comments for now. Firstly, Snowdrops is awful. Perhaps when they were bandying about potential nominees they meant to include Andrew Miller (whose wonderful new book Pure seems to have missed out) but got confused and put the wrong Andrew Miller on the list (an easy mistake to make, as I learnt when I read Andrew D. Miller's Earl Of Petticoat Lane believing it was by the author of Ingenious Pain). Secondly, Jamrach's Menagerie is pretty good, but it is hardly worthy of the most prestigious prize in Commonwealth literature. And anyway, as I've noted in an earlier post, they've already given it to a story about a boy who plays with a tiger and ends up in a shipwreck. Lazy!
Speaking of lazy, while I don't doubt that both Hollinghurst and Barnes have produced fine novels, they were very safe picks in a list that seems to be reaching for something a little more interesting. Hollinghurst has already won, and Barnes should have won for England, England. Perhaps there's another Consolation Booker in the offing. The Sense of An Ending is a slim affair, only 160 pages, which worked wonders for Ian McEwan when he won his after missing out for Enduring Love.
Bitching aside, it is nice to see Sebastian Barry back on the list. He is consistently great, although rather understated and so unlikely to throw down a serious gauntlet. For what it's worth, I'd like to see him win; I have On Canaan's Side sitting on my bedside table and have my fingers crossed that it's good enough to get him over the line.
As always I like to put up my pick for Booker Underdog and this year it goes to Patrick deWitt's The Sisters Brothers. It's also sitting on my bedside table (above the Barry actually), and looks like a joyous romp of a noir, if there is such a thing. No Country For Old Men meets True Grit meets some sort of absurdist Marx Brothers creation. I'll report back soon.
For those who care about the details, the Booker Shortlist will be announced on Tuesday 6 September but you'll have to wait until Tuesday 18 October to find out who wins.
The Library Diaries Vol. 1: Random Stacks
Of the various dilemmas I have faced throughout my life, this has got to be the most bourgeoise: How will I organise my amazing new library? In my last place - a small apartment in Port Melbourne - I took a rather lassaiz faire approach to book storage, just stuffing them wherever there was space. In cupboards, drawers, on shelves, tables, the floor. See that doorstop? That's Tolstoy! Or David Foster Wallace. This propensity for obsessive, chaotic book hoarding was a hangover from my childhood home, where Mum used to joke that she lived with a husband, two sons, cats, snakes, ferrets and a veritable menagerie of books that, she maintained, reproduced faster than rabbits. When my parents finally moved out (they gave up on waiting for me to) and left me as caretaker, it only got worse. There wasn't a room that I didn't turn into a literary wasteland.
Last week, standing at the front door of the new house, I watched with glee as the removalists lugged box after box after box of books inside. Knowing that I don't have the room to store them all, I now need to work out a way to choose the books I most want on my library shelves and then decide how best to organise them. Do I group my favourites and keep them nearest to where I will be sitting? Do I just order my entire collection alphabetically? Or perhaps subdivide them geographically? Or by genre? Do I mix hardcover and paperback?
But I'm getting ahead of myself. For now I have to simply sort through them all and decide which are the keepers and which are to be sent into exile at Mum and Dad's, to line their bare shelves. And so it begins. Several thousand books. God knows how many days. Don't expect to see me round the traps for a while.
Day 1: The Sorting Begins
Last week, standing at the front door of the new house, I watched with glee as the removalists lugged box after box after box of books inside. Knowing that I don't have the room to store them all, I now need to work out a way to choose the books I most want on my library shelves and then decide how best to organise them. Do I group my favourites and keep them nearest to where I will be sitting? Do I just order my entire collection alphabetically? Or perhaps subdivide them geographically? Or by genre? Do I mix hardcover and paperback?
But I'm getting ahead of myself. For now I have to simply sort through them all and decide which are the keepers and which are to be sent into exile at Mum and Dad's, to line their bare shelves. And so it begins. Several thousand books. God knows how many days. Don't expect to see me round the traps for a while.
Day 1: The Sorting Begins
The Final Word on E-Reading
on Thursday, July 28, 2011
The most exciting thing about moving into my new digs is the library I had custom built in the middle of the place. Sixty-four shelves of dark oak, complete with rails and ladder will completely surround me from here on in and I couldn't be more chuffed. Naturally I'm struggling to work out how best to organise all my books, but I thought in the meantime I might take the chance to imagine a world without physical books. Turns out I now have a final, definitive argument against the KindlePad... Need I say more?
Microviews Vol. 12: Saramago, Birch, Antunes
on Saturday, July 23, 2011
Cain by Jose Saramago
So remember how, a couple of years before he died, Saramago managed to right royally piss everyone off one last time while being interviewed about his most recent book? The epithets flew thick and fast: heretic, anti-semite, nasty pastie (ok, so I sort of made that last one up, but it was one of my favourites from my schoolyard days). Anyway, two years on and Cain is finally available in English so we who partook of the mudslinging can get a better feel for what all the fuss was about. And damnit if I don't find myself kind of regretting having said the things I did.
There is a beautifully poetic symmetry in the fact that the last book Portugal's great curmudgeon (and Nobel Laureate) wrote was a 'revised' take on the first book ever written - The Old Testament. And in true Saramago form, he didn't exactly use the exercise to make peace with his maker so much as pick a fight in advance of meeting him. Cain is a peculiar little book; playful, excoriating and chekily blasphemous. We all know the story of Cain and Abel, but Saramago uses the first murderer's subsequent immortality as a device to explore the nature of God's working throughout the remainder of the bible. Destined to wander from place to place, Cain becomes a minor character in all the important biblical episodes. Whether stopping Abraham from sacrificing Isaac (Cain has to step in because the angel God had sent had a mechanical wing malfunction), shacking up with and impregnating Lilith, ploughing Job's fields as his boss is subjected to ever more horrible tortures, standing beneath Mount Sinai when God unleashes his fury against the Golden Calf idolators or just helping Lot and his family out of Sodom and Gemorah, Cain bears witness to a Lord who is anything but benevolent and forgiving. Saramago makes no apologies for forcing his message down your throat - God is brutal, has no conscience and quite willingly destroys lives (even of those who show him absolute devotion). Perhaps the most interesting thing about this book, however, is not the argument but what lies beneath. Saramago seems not to question God's existence. He exists, the author suggests, but he is unworthy of your devotion.
To my mind, Saramago was one of the few laureates not to suffer a post-Nobel slump. Stylistically, this is him at his very best, playing with time and space such that the flashes between episodes seem natural (they occur in what amounts to parallel universes), allowing the book to come full circle and end with one of Genesis's earliest stories, that of Noah and the ark. As the water subsides, Saramago has Cain, the immortal wandering Jew, finally get his showdown with God. It is an incredible scene, one that justifies the Quantum Leap stylings, and containing a punchline so perfectly ingenious that you can't help but feel that, in the lifelong battle Saramago waged with God, when all was said and done, it was the writer who had the last laugh.
Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch
Last time a boy mucked around with a tiger and got caught up in a shipwreck, it landed Yann Martel a Booker, so it is little surprise that the punters are buzzing about Carol Birch's latest offering. Dig a little deeper and the similarities don't exactly fade into the background. The shipwreck itself (which involves a bunch of sailors and a couple of pigs, but no unlikely furry friends) is supposedly based on the sinking of the Essex but bears a much more striking resemblance to the facts in the classic British case of Dudley and Stephens, itself the inspiration for the naming of the tiger in Life of Pi. Richard Parker, the lawyers amongst you may recall, was the boy who was eaten by his mates, and for whose murder the defendants pleaded necessity. A hundred and fifty years on and the precedent still stands (though, in the actual case, they failed and were hanged).
But don't get too sucked in by the spin. Birch's book isn't a philosophical slice of dreamy magical realism but, rather, a harsh adventure-cum-survival tale on the high seas. It takes a while to get moving, as little Jaffy Brown falls under the sway of Jamrach, a Faginesque trader of exotic animals, and is sent on a ship in search of some mythical dragon (which I gather is a komodo). He and his expedition mates do manage to snare one in the jungles of who-knows-where, but the token crazy guy releases it mid-way through the voyage home, the thing goes beserk and, voila, the ship sinks. Up to there it is a pretty stock standard seafaring adventure. However, once the ship is down and the survivors are left to float aimlessly for months on two lifeboats, the novel takes a deeper, darker turn.
Birch's depiction of starvation, elemental batterings, interpersonal conflict and just sheer desperation are brilliantly evocative and spectacularly painful to behold. It is sad and hopeless, increasingly debased and ultimately apocalyptic. Fantastic! Unfortunately, however, it is not enough to lift Jamrach's Menagerie above the first one hundred pages' narrative slump. But at least it redeemed my obsessive compulsive need to finish the thing. A decent book, but don't go slapping down your hard earned bucks at the local betting agency just yet.
The Land At The End Of The World by Antonio Lobo Antunes
Call me a cynic, but I find it difficult to view the republication of this Portuguese master's second novel as anything but cheap opportunism by a publisher keen to cash in on the rekindled fear of colonialism stirred up by the the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. At the very least it is a small act of political publishing protest aimed squarely in America's direction. Thankfully, The Land At The End Of The World is a staggering work of documentary fiction which well deserves to be introduced to a whole new generation of readers.
Based on the author's own experience as an army medic in Angola it is one of the bleakest anti-colonialism novels you are ever likely to encounter. Think Celine minus the virulent anti-Semitism, add an extra dollop of De Sade and you get the picture. Presented as an ongoing confession to a lover (or, quite possibly, a prostitute), it slides seamlessly between near pornographic fantasy and brutal descriptions of what the narrator has seen while on duty in "the arsehole of the world". Antunes stays on point throughout, keen to ram home his disdain for those anonymous politicians and generals who send young men off to die in the name of imperial expansion. The visceral descriptions of rotting corpses, war crimes and other indignities are unrelenting, as is the portrayal a man suffering the trauma of having witnessed (and perhaps perpetrated) these atrocities. The rationale behind publishing this of all Antunes's novels might be suspect, but its ongoing prescience and unadulterated power are most certainly not. Deeply disturbing, but a must read.
So remember how, a couple of years before he died, Saramago managed to right royally piss everyone off one last time while being interviewed about his most recent book? The epithets flew thick and fast: heretic, anti-semite, nasty pastie (ok, so I sort of made that last one up, but it was one of my favourites from my schoolyard days). Anyway, two years on and Cain is finally available in English so we who partook of the mudslinging can get a better feel for what all the fuss was about. And damnit if I don't find myself kind of regretting having said the things I did.
There is a beautifully poetic symmetry in the fact that the last book Portugal's great curmudgeon (and Nobel Laureate) wrote was a 'revised' take on the first book ever written - The Old Testament. And in true Saramago form, he didn't exactly use the exercise to make peace with his maker so much as pick a fight in advance of meeting him. Cain is a peculiar little book; playful, excoriating and chekily blasphemous. We all know the story of Cain and Abel, but Saramago uses the first murderer's subsequent immortality as a device to explore the nature of God's working throughout the remainder of the bible. Destined to wander from place to place, Cain becomes a minor character in all the important biblical episodes. Whether stopping Abraham from sacrificing Isaac (Cain has to step in because the angel God had sent had a mechanical wing malfunction), shacking up with and impregnating Lilith, ploughing Job's fields as his boss is subjected to ever more horrible tortures, standing beneath Mount Sinai when God unleashes his fury against the Golden Calf idolators or just helping Lot and his family out of Sodom and Gemorah, Cain bears witness to a Lord who is anything but benevolent and forgiving. Saramago makes no apologies for forcing his message down your throat - God is brutal, has no conscience and quite willingly destroys lives (even of those who show him absolute devotion). Perhaps the most interesting thing about this book, however, is not the argument but what lies beneath. Saramago seems not to question God's existence. He exists, the author suggests, but he is unworthy of your devotion.
To my mind, Saramago was one of the few laureates not to suffer a post-Nobel slump. Stylistically, this is him at his very best, playing with time and space such that the flashes between episodes seem natural (they occur in what amounts to parallel universes), allowing the book to come full circle and end with one of Genesis's earliest stories, that of Noah and the ark. As the water subsides, Saramago has Cain, the immortal wandering Jew, finally get his showdown with God. It is an incredible scene, one that justifies the Quantum Leap stylings, and containing a punchline so perfectly ingenious that you can't help but feel that, in the lifelong battle Saramago waged with God, when all was said and done, it was the writer who had the last laugh.
Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch
Last time a boy mucked around with a tiger and got caught up in a shipwreck, it landed Yann Martel a Booker, so it is little surprise that the punters are buzzing about Carol Birch's latest offering. Dig a little deeper and the similarities don't exactly fade into the background. The shipwreck itself (which involves a bunch of sailors and a couple of pigs, but no unlikely furry friends) is supposedly based on the sinking of the Essex but bears a much more striking resemblance to the facts in the classic British case of Dudley and Stephens, itself the inspiration for the naming of the tiger in Life of Pi. Richard Parker, the lawyers amongst you may recall, was the boy who was eaten by his mates, and for whose murder the defendants pleaded necessity. A hundred and fifty years on and the precedent still stands (though, in the actual case, they failed and were hanged).
But don't get too sucked in by the spin. Birch's book isn't a philosophical slice of dreamy magical realism but, rather, a harsh adventure-cum-survival tale on the high seas. It takes a while to get moving, as little Jaffy Brown falls under the sway of Jamrach, a Faginesque trader of exotic animals, and is sent on a ship in search of some mythical dragon (which I gather is a komodo). He and his expedition mates do manage to snare one in the jungles of who-knows-where, but the token crazy guy releases it mid-way through the voyage home, the thing goes beserk and, voila, the ship sinks. Up to there it is a pretty stock standard seafaring adventure. However, once the ship is down and the survivors are left to float aimlessly for months on two lifeboats, the novel takes a deeper, darker turn.
Birch's depiction of starvation, elemental batterings, interpersonal conflict and just sheer desperation are brilliantly evocative and spectacularly painful to behold. It is sad and hopeless, increasingly debased and ultimately apocalyptic. Fantastic! Unfortunately, however, it is not enough to lift Jamrach's Menagerie above the first one hundred pages' narrative slump. But at least it redeemed my obsessive compulsive need to finish the thing. A decent book, but don't go slapping down your hard earned bucks at the local betting agency just yet.
The Land At The End Of The World by Antonio Lobo Antunes
Call me a cynic, but I find it difficult to view the republication of this Portuguese master's second novel as anything but cheap opportunism by a publisher keen to cash in on the rekindled fear of colonialism stirred up by the the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. At the very least it is a small act of political publishing protest aimed squarely in America's direction. Thankfully, The Land At The End Of The World is a staggering work of documentary fiction which well deserves to be introduced to a whole new generation of readers.
Based on the author's own experience as an army medic in Angola it is one of the bleakest anti-colonialism novels you are ever likely to encounter. Think Celine minus the virulent anti-Semitism, add an extra dollop of De Sade and you get the picture. Presented as an ongoing confession to a lover (or, quite possibly, a prostitute), it slides seamlessly between near pornographic fantasy and brutal descriptions of what the narrator has seen while on duty in "the arsehole of the world". Antunes stays on point throughout, keen to ram home his disdain for those anonymous politicians and generals who send young men off to die in the name of imperial expansion. The visceral descriptions of rotting corpses, war crimes and other indignities are unrelenting, as is the portrayal a man suffering the trauma of having witnessed (and perhaps perpetrated) these atrocities. The rationale behind publishing this of all Antunes's novels might be suspect, but its ongoing prescience and unadulterated power are most certainly not. Deeply disturbing, but a must read.
The Great Bard-stardisation: The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips
on Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Hold back ye swords and spill not my blood for I speak only truth: I don't really care for Shakespeare (and can't simulate his style for shit). Having been forced to read every English teacher's favourite instrument of torture in high school, I never warmed to his purported mastery, despite the florid brilliance inherent in his wordplay. To be fair I've only read about four or five of the plays but I figure, as with any author, if I haven't liked him up to now, I ain't ever going to like him. Personal biases aside, however, I can appreciate the excitement that the discovery of any new play by the Bard might whip up. It has happened a few times in recent history, always leading to massive debate as to whether he actually wrote the darn thing. Now Arthur Phillips throws his hat in the ring, claiming to have discovered a hitherto unknown play, probably written in 1597, called The Tragedy of Arthur. Or at least that is the central conceit of his latest novel and superb act of literary ventriloquism of the same name.
The book is a hoax par excellence, structured in three equally beguiling parts. The first is simply a note from the publisher, a brilliant concoction that I suspect might actually fool some readers. It is but one of several small masterstrokes, such as the inclusion of both Phillips's and Shakespeare's previous works on the authorial bibliography page at the start of the book and a short biography of both writers at the end, that give the entire project an air of authenticity. Indeed, the whole thing is structured and presented in much the same way as any other Shakespeare play you might buy these days and, in that sense, is perfectly pitched to suck in the unsuspecting reader.
The second part of the book is Phillips's introduction, which the publisher has supposedly asked (well, forced) him to write. It is long, tortured and mostly compelling; the tale of how Phillips's father, a master forger, gave him this new play just before he died, swearing to the son that just this one time he was not pulling a swifty. It was, the father says, his way of making up for his absenteeism during Phillips's sad childhood. The introduction is the longest part of the novel, a two hundred and fifty page family memoir of disappointment and doubt, building to a crescendo of denial. As a stand-alone book, this would have been a touching read. In particular, the relationship between Phillips and his twin sister is beautifully told, making it all the more heartbreaking when they fall out over a mutual love (Phillips essentially steals and impregnates his sister's girlfriend). But it is the use to which Phillips puts this section that really makes it hit the mark. In a twist of pure genius, Phillips says that he does not believe the play is real, despite what all the Shakespeare scholars have said. Phillips claims he didn't want the thing published, and threatened to expose the hoax. But the folk at Random House shot back with threats to sue for loss of potential profit (and never publish any of his work again). They nut out a compromise - the publisher allows Phillips to mount his case against it but the play is going to be published as if it were genuine. It is a sly device on the part of Phillips. Spruiking its bona fides might have been funny, but it would also have made the joke more obvious. Here he gets to write a moving (albeit fictional) family memoir that invests the reader in the lie. It is far more convincing knowing that this highly-intelligent, well-regarded novelist does not believe in the product he is being forced to sell.
After almost three hundred pages comes Part Three, the piece de resistance: A complete five act play called The Tragedy of Arthur. Now I certainly do not lay claim to any sort of Shakespearean scholarship, but I bought it. The Tragedy of Arthur, stripped of the romanticism usually associated with the most-likely mythical king, is vintage Shakespearean tragedy. There is no round table. No Lancelot. And no Knights Who Say Ni. It is a bloody, treacherous tale of kings battling for the throne of a united England. Arthur (king of Britain) versus Mordred (king of the Picts), duking it out for a title, some land and the hand of Guenhera (who popular culture knows as Guinevere). Given my inability to grasp many of the allusions, or draw parallels between what was going on in the play and what had happened in Phillips's childhood, I was a little bored while reading the thing (sorry, Shakespeare does my head in), and believed myself not to have in any sense been captivated by the story. But then Act V came around with its litany of awful occurrences and I found myself shocked and emotionally drained. I'm not sure when it happened, but I was completely in its thrall. Heck, it may be homage and pastiche, but The Tragedy of Arthur is a damn good play. I'm hardly alone in thinking this. True Shakespeare aficionados have given this play the thumbs up and, apparently, there are moves to stage it. I, for one, would probably buy a ticket.
In keeping with the 'authentic style' of the book, Part Three comes complete with copious footnotes in which Phillips and a 'Shakespearean scholar' argue over various lines, the former to bolster his claim of its fraudulent character and the latter to dismiss Phillips and add his own typically earnest explanations. Recalling such notes in the plays I studied at school, I found it all quite hilarious yet tremendously effective.
Everything about this book, and the play contained within, is executed with style, flair and tongue firmly planted in cheek. It is a wonderful read, despite dragging a little in Part Two, and offers an experience we are otherwise denied: coming upon a Shakespeare play completely afresh, without the academic and theatrical baggage that inevitably attach to years of over-analysis. It is, I imagine, quite how the plays were experienced in the late 1500s.
The book is a hoax par excellence, structured in three equally beguiling parts. The first is simply a note from the publisher, a brilliant concoction that I suspect might actually fool some readers. It is but one of several small masterstrokes, such as the inclusion of both Phillips's and Shakespeare's previous works on the authorial bibliography page at the start of the book and a short biography of both writers at the end, that give the entire project an air of authenticity. Indeed, the whole thing is structured and presented in much the same way as any other Shakespeare play you might buy these days and, in that sense, is perfectly pitched to suck in the unsuspecting reader.
The second part of the book is Phillips's introduction, which the publisher has supposedly asked (well, forced) him to write. It is long, tortured and mostly compelling; the tale of how Phillips's father, a master forger, gave him this new play just before he died, swearing to the son that just this one time he was not pulling a swifty. It was, the father says, his way of making up for his absenteeism during Phillips's sad childhood. The introduction is the longest part of the novel, a two hundred and fifty page family memoir of disappointment and doubt, building to a crescendo of denial. As a stand-alone book, this would have been a touching read. In particular, the relationship between Phillips and his twin sister is beautifully told, making it all the more heartbreaking when they fall out over a mutual love (Phillips essentially steals and impregnates his sister's girlfriend). But it is the use to which Phillips puts this section that really makes it hit the mark. In a twist of pure genius, Phillips says that he does not believe the play is real, despite what all the Shakespeare scholars have said. Phillips claims he didn't want the thing published, and threatened to expose the hoax. But the folk at Random House shot back with threats to sue for loss of potential profit (and never publish any of his work again). They nut out a compromise - the publisher allows Phillips to mount his case against it but the play is going to be published as if it were genuine. It is a sly device on the part of Phillips. Spruiking its bona fides might have been funny, but it would also have made the joke more obvious. Here he gets to write a moving (albeit fictional) family memoir that invests the reader in the lie. It is far more convincing knowing that this highly-intelligent, well-regarded novelist does not believe in the product he is being forced to sell.
After almost three hundred pages comes Part Three, the piece de resistance: A complete five act play called The Tragedy of Arthur. Now I certainly do not lay claim to any sort of Shakespearean scholarship, but I bought it. The Tragedy of Arthur, stripped of the romanticism usually associated with the most-likely mythical king, is vintage Shakespearean tragedy. There is no round table. No Lancelot. And no Knights Who Say Ni. It is a bloody, treacherous tale of kings battling for the throne of a united England. Arthur (king of Britain) versus Mordred (king of the Picts), duking it out for a title, some land and the hand of Guenhera (who popular culture knows as Guinevere). Given my inability to grasp many of the allusions, or draw parallels between what was going on in the play and what had happened in Phillips's childhood, I was a little bored while reading the thing (sorry, Shakespeare does my head in), and believed myself not to have in any sense been captivated by the story. But then Act V came around with its litany of awful occurrences and I found myself shocked and emotionally drained. I'm not sure when it happened, but I was completely in its thrall. Heck, it may be homage and pastiche, but The Tragedy of Arthur is a damn good play. I'm hardly alone in thinking this. True Shakespeare aficionados have given this play the thumbs up and, apparently, there are moves to stage it. I, for one, would probably buy a ticket.
In keeping with the 'authentic style' of the book, Part Three comes complete with copious footnotes in which Phillips and a 'Shakespearean scholar' argue over various lines, the former to bolster his claim of its fraudulent character and the latter to dismiss Phillips and add his own typically earnest explanations. Recalling such notes in the plays I studied at school, I found it all quite hilarious yet tremendously effective.
Everything about this book, and the play contained within, is executed with style, flair and tongue firmly planted in cheek. It is a wonderful read, despite dragging a little in Part Two, and offers an experience we are otherwise denied: coming upon a Shakespeare play completely afresh, without the academic and theatrical baggage that inevitably attach to years of over-analysis. It is, I imagine, quite how the plays were experienced in the late 1500s.
Finally, A Worthy Winner!
on Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Whenever I mount the blogospherical soapbox to kvetch about literary prizes, I can't help but let my more cynical side shine through. However, one prize was just handed out to a very deserving recipient and it would be remiss of me to let it pass without some sort of fanfare. Well done to The Avenue Bookstore in Albert Park, my home away from home, which was just named the Australian Book Industry Awards' Victorian Bookseller of the Year. It really is Melbourne's best; I always find something new and interesting on its shelves, the staff are true book lovers (and lovely people to boot), and it has a wonderful community vibe. Why are you still even reading this? Get off you stupid computer now and head to The Avenue before it wins the national title and fills up with Borders refugees.
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