Sick of everyone whinging about the end of publishing as we know it? Well then small Aussie press, Finlay Lloyd, have the answer for you with their new series , Finlay Lloyd Shorts. This initiative is one of the most exciting things going right now: rising literary stars given sixty pages to create fully realised works. In the first crop there's graphic fiction, novellas and poetry, all presented as beautiful single volumes that will restore your faith in the physical manifestation of the written word. To celebrate their imminent release, I thought I'd devote an entire Microviews post to checking them out.
Anxiety Soup by Tara Mokhtari
I was glad to find a few poems in Tara Mokhtari's collection that even a neanderthal like me can understand and enjoy. Dear Stevie, an homage to a poet's failed suicide and consequent legacy, tugs and stings in equal measure. Poems about cats, awkward post-youth and even more awkward short romances also hit the mark. I suspect if I could actually appreciate poetry I'd be raving.
3 Out Of 5 Rhyming Quintuplets
The Dark Days of Matty Lang by Wayne Strudwick
Matty Lang has survived a car crash that killed is girlfriend and left his best friend in a coma. Struggling with the physical and emotional trauma, he desperately grasps at flashes of memory to piece the events of the night back together. A taut, melancholic narrative that builds to a truly heartbreaking crescendo, The Dark Days of Matty Lang is a mini-marvel.
4 Out Of 5 Fender Benders
Nothing Ventured by Natalia Zajaz
Back at school I had a friend who was always penning clumsily sketched but perfectly observed comics of everyday life. He wasn't a fine artist by any stretch, but it didn't matter. The true art was in the storytelling. Reading Natalia Zajaz's collection of wickedly funny short graphic stories sends me right back to those days. Minus the wedgies, of course.
3.5 Out of 5 Wandering Doodles
Bruno Kramzer by A.S. Patric
Patric follows up last year's stellar collection Las Vegas For Vegans with this deliciously nasty yet warm hearted tale of a professional rogue in crisis. Poor Bruno Kramzer's missions aren't quite going to plan, he's got family problems and his old friends are falling on hard times. As he sets off on one hilarious caper after another, Patric drops ever more unsubtle hints that it is all leading somewhere intriguingly familiar. You'll smile when the realisation hits; turns out Patric is to Kafka what Stoppard was to Shakespeare.
4.5 Out Of 5 Pernicious Pranks
NY by Mandy Ord
A very cool microfiction set to pictures about a pop culture obsessed, awkwardly paranoid graphic novelist finding her feet in the big apple. The charcoal-style etchings are a treat, the story telling tight with flashes of surreal charm. A brief but delightful book.
4 Out Of 5 Falling Apples
Microviews Vol. 39: Apocalypse New Zealand
on Thursday, September 19, 2013
The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
After her stunning debut, The Rehearsal, it was clear that Eleanor Catton was destined for big things. What I didn't expect, however, was that she would deliver so bloody literally. The Luminaries is a big book; in size, scope, ambition and enjoyability. I may be wrong, but to my mind it is the first great (did I mention it's huge?) New Zealand western epic. Any attempt to summarise the plot would fail to do it justice. Suffice to say it centres on a cunning gold prospecting scam, murders real and imagined, a decent dash of opium, vengeance and, oddly, astrology. There's also a villain to rival anything Cormac McCarthy has thrown our way, though the extent of his villainy becomes less clear cut as the book progresses. Catton demonstrates a master's ability to control a large and varied cast of characters and plot lines, allowing the many threads to shoot off into the distance before drawing them back together to create a gorgeously complex tapestry. And though I don't have enough of a handle on astrology to really get the allusions, the zodiac wheel is an ingenious device to bring the story full circle and keep you guessing long after you think you've figured it all out. The Luminaries is a rich, rollicking tale that can be enjoyed by casual readers and Litsnobs alike and a very worthy contender for this year's Booker Prize.
4 Out Of 5 Ample Aquarians
Maddaddam by Margaret Atwood
Right now my head and heart are at war. I love Margaret Atwood. Very few writers have managed to be as consistently good, diverse and wildly daring as she. Her post-Apocalyptic trilogy, to which Maddaddam is the conclusion, is a masterwork of invention and execution. The world she has created is incredible (though I did have one minor quibble with the anachronistic use of 'modern' terms). Almost no conceivable aspect is left unrealised. Yet (and it's a big yet!), I just haven't been able to warm to any of the three books. I don't mean to disparage; it's a personal thing. Maddaddam wraps up the story of Oryx, Crake, God's Gardeners and all their associated minions with real gusto. There's a killer cat and mouse chase as the various clans join up to fight a common enemy. There's much greater clarity about what caused the whole "waterless flood". And what Atwood has to say about creation myths (not to mention how she says it) is not only a joy but, in my opinion, the greatest strength of the book. And yet... I wish I could explain it. My head is jumping around, doing backflips, waving pompoms. My heart, on the other hand, is off to grab a beer.
3.5 Out Of 5 Spliced Genes
Life With A Star by Jiri Weil
Jiri Weil is one of the unsung heroes of Czech literature. Those who know his work love him. Indeed, Philip Roth spends three pages raving in his forward to this edition. Life With A Star is one of two Weil books available in English and while the other, Mendelssohn Is On The Roof, is by far the funnier and more accessible, Life With A Star is a powerful novel that stands alongside Mr. Theodore Mundstock as one of the greatest portraits of Czech life under Nazi occupation. Josef Roubicek is a bank clerk, a minor bureaucrat, who finds himself cast aside when his country is annexed. By virtue of a clerical error, he is left off the transports to Terezin and so he spends his days working for the Jewish community, haplessly trying to help those he meets and obsessing over a stray cat. Shifting between moments of spite (Josef prematurely smashes everything in his apartment so the Nazis won't be able to loot it when they deport him), paranoia (he is constantly waiting for the error to be rectified) and hope, Life With A Star is a deeply humane, slightly surreal and unexpectedly funny take on what it's like to live as a non-person.
5 Out Of 5 Iron Tracks
The Counselor by Cormac McCarthy
Not a novel but a screenplay, The Counselor is a small serve of sorbet for those of us anxiously awaiting McCarthy's follow-up to The Road. Thankfully, he has interspersed a good deal of descriptive prose between the dialogue to satiate our cravings but don't get too excited; it will hardly leave you feeling satisfied. The story is pretty straightforward: a lawyer gets caught up in a major drug deal only to find himself way out of his depth. In many ways, The Counselor is reminiscent of No Country For Old Men (which to me read like a script anyway); it's a sassy crime caper with razor sharp dialogue (aside from a few cringeworthy moments), extreme violence and a bunch of morally dubious, thoroughly unlikeable characters. It's and engaging enough read but there's nothing earth shattering to be found. Indeed, you might want to wait for the movie. That's clearly how the great man intended for you to experience it.
3.5 Out Of 5 Drug Mules
Open Heart by Elie Wiesel
Wiesel takes us to the very edge of life again, this time in an entirely different context. Open Heart is a short account of the Nobel laureate's recent brush with a more prosaic death: heart surgery. Needless to say, he has ramped up his sentimentality with age and this has lots of sickly sweet passages about his wife, son, grandkids and friends (he certainly isn't averse to name dropping). The book's true strength, however, lies in its more philosophical moments; as ever Wiesel is reflective and insightful about the big questions - life, death and religion. A minor work, but a lovely read.
3.5 Out Of 5 Scalpels
After her stunning debut, The Rehearsal, it was clear that Eleanor Catton was destined for big things. What I didn't expect, however, was that she would deliver so bloody literally. The Luminaries is a big book; in size, scope, ambition and enjoyability. I may be wrong, but to my mind it is the first great (did I mention it's huge?) New Zealand western epic. Any attempt to summarise the plot would fail to do it justice. Suffice to say it centres on a cunning gold prospecting scam, murders real and imagined, a decent dash of opium, vengeance and, oddly, astrology. There's also a villain to rival anything Cormac McCarthy has thrown our way, though the extent of his villainy becomes less clear cut as the book progresses. Catton demonstrates a master's ability to control a large and varied cast of characters and plot lines, allowing the many threads to shoot off into the distance before drawing them back together to create a gorgeously complex tapestry. And though I don't have enough of a handle on astrology to really get the allusions, the zodiac wheel is an ingenious device to bring the story full circle and keep you guessing long after you think you've figured it all out. The Luminaries is a rich, rollicking tale that can be enjoyed by casual readers and Litsnobs alike and a very worthy contender for this year's Booker Prize.
4 Out Of 5 Ample Aquarians
Maddaddam by Margaret Atwood
Right now my head and heart are at war. I love Margaret Atwood. Very few writers have managed to be as consistently good, diverse and wildly daring as she. Her post-Apocalyptic trilogy, to which Maddaddam is the conclusion, is a masterwork of invention and execution. The world she has created is incredible (though I did have one minor quibble with the anachronistic use of 'modern' terms). Almost no conceivable aspect is left unrealised. Yet (and it's a big yet!), I just haven't been able to warm to any of the three books. I don't mean to disparage; it's a personal thing. Maddaddam wraps up the story of Oryx, Crake, God's Gardeners and all their associated minions with real gusto. There's a killer cat and mouse chase as the various clans join up to fight a common enemy. There's much greater clarity about what caused the whole "waterless flood". And what Atwood has to say about creation myths (not to mention how she says it) is not only a joy but, in my opinion, the greatest strength of the book. And yet... I wish I could explain it. My head is jumping around, doing backflips, waving pompoms. My heart, on the other hand, is off to grab a beer.
3.5 Out Of 5 Spliced Genes
Life With A Star by Jiri Weil
Jiri Weil is one of the unsung heroes of Czech literature. Those who know his work love him. Indeed, Philip Roth spends three pages raving in his forward to this edition. Life With A Star is one of two Weil books available in English and while the other, Mendelssohn Is On The Roof, is by far the funnier and more accessible, Life With A Star is a powerful novel that stands alongside Mr. Theodore Mundstock as one of the greatest portraits of Czech life under Nazi occupation. Josef Roubicek is a bank clerk, a minor bureaucrat, who finds himself cast aside when his country is annexed. By virtue of a clerical error, he is left off the transports to Terezin and so he spends his days working for the Jewish community, haplessly trying to help those he meets and obsessing over a stray cat. Shifting between moments of spite (Josef prematurely smashes everything in his apartment so the Nazis won't be able to loot it when they deport him), paranoia (he is constantly waiting for the error to be rectified) and hope, Life With A Star is a deeply humane, slightly surreal and unexpectedly funny take on what it's like to live as a non-person.
5 Out Of 5 Iron Tracks
The Counselor by Cormac McCarthy
Not a novel but a screenplay, The Counselor is a small serve of sorbet for those of us anxiously awaiting McCarthy's follow-up to The Road. Thankfully, he has interspersed a good deal of descriptive prose between the dialogue to satiate our cravings but don't get too excited; it will hardly leave you feeling satisfied. The story is pretty straightforward: a lawyer gets caught up in a major drug deal only to find himself way out of his depth. In many ways, The Counselor is reminiscent of No Country For Old Men (which to me read like a script anyway); it's a sassy crime caper with razor sharp dialogue (aside from a few cringeworthy moments), extreme violence and a bunch of morally dubious, thoroughly unlikeable characters. It's and engaging enough read but there's nothing earth shattering to be found. Indeed, you might want to wait for the movie. That's clearly how the great man intended for you to experience it.
3.5 Out Of 5 Drug Mules
Open Heart by Elie Wiesel
Wiesel takes us to the very edge of life again, this time in an entirely different context. Open Heart is a short account of the Nobel laureate's recent brush with a more prosaic death: heart surgery. Needless to say, he has ramped up his sentimentality with age and this has lots of sickly sweet passages about his wife, son, grandkids and friends (he certainly isn't averse to name dropping). The book's true strength, however, lies in its more philosophical moments; as ever Wiesel is reflective and insightful about the big questions - life, death and religion. A minor work, but a lovely read.
3.5 Out Of 5 Scalpels
Booker's War Of Undependence
on Wednesday, September 18, 2013
It's like the War of Independence never happened!
At some point between me jumping on a plane in Melbourne and surfacing two days later from a jet lagged haze in Detroit, word had begun to get out that, as of next year, the Booker Prize would be welcoming entries from American authors. I have yet to see an official announcement, but BookNerd Universe is going nuts over the whole caper. Is it a brilliant move of Machiavellian literary colonialism or the desperate gasp of a prize fearing for its very identity? After all, Booker's long standing position as the "literary person's literary prize" took a serious beating after Rimingtongate and now stands to lose the mantle (or is that Mantel?) to the spanking new Folio Prize. I thought they'd answered their critics well with the announcement of an extraordinarily solid, if somewhat predictable, shortlist last week but they still seems to be bobbing up and down in the water, waving their hands in panic.
Opinions are strongly divided. On one hand there are those who welcome the move. It could, if Team Booker play their cards right, make the prize the undisputed top accolade for novels written in the English language. American fiction isn't quite the powerhouse it once was, so the playing field is fairly level. I, for one, am intrigued to see what would make a "Best of English Language" shortlist. I mean, think about it. Geographical borders seem silly these days. Two of the shortlisted writers for this year's Booker call America home. Isn't it high time we broke down the artifice?
On the other hand, there's something charming about a Commonwealth writing prize (as opposed to the Commonwealth writing prizes). America has annoyingly insular prizes coming out of the wazoo (The Pulitzer, National Book Award, etc) so why shouldn't the rest of the English speaking world keep one for themselves? This is like those stupid free trade agreements where only one side believes in free trade. The Booker ought to be literature's tariff! Furthermore, there's something je ne sais quoi about the Booker's current character that would be diluted with the introduction of American literature. Or, rather, there is something particular about American lit that I'm quite glad not to see in the Booker mix. Call it naval gazing self-consciousness, muscular self-assuredness or whatever; it's seldom found in the kind of works that get a Booker nod and I'm quite happy for it to stay that way. Oh, and isn't there already a Man Booker International Prize? Granted it is more like the Nobel, aimed at recognising the entire body of an author's work (especially those that seem to be ignored by the Swedish Academy) but still, wasn't that free-trade enough for the haters?
I'm sure this will continue to play out over the coming months (or years if it actually happens), but for now let's keep our eyes on the prize. Literally. Call me a cynic, but the timing could not have been worse. We have six books we should be talking about right now. Let's not take the limelight away from them.
Note: Less than an hour after I posted this, Booker made it official. See the full statement here
At some point between me jumping on a plane in Melbourne and surfacing two days later from a jet lagged haze in Detroit, word had begun to get out that, as of next year, the Booker Prize would be welcoming entries from American authors. I have yet to see an official announcement, but BookNerd Universe is going nuts over the whole caper. Is it a brilliant move of Machiavellian literary colonialism or the desperate gasp of a prize fearing for its very identity? After all, Booker's long standing position as the "literary person's literary prize" took a serious beating after Rimingtongate and now stands to lose the mantle (or is that Mantel?) to the spanking new Folio Prize. I thought they'd answered their critics well with the announcement of an extraordinarily solid, if somewhat predictable, shortlist last week but they still seems to be bobbing up and down in the water, waving their hands in panic.
Opinions are strongly divided. On one hand there are those who welcome the move. It could, if Team Booker play their cards right, make the prize the undisputed top accolade for novels written in the English language. American fiction isn't quite the powerhouse it once was, so the playing field is fairly level. I, for one, am intrigued to see what would make a "Best of English Language" shortlist. I mean, think about it. Geographical borders seem silly these days. Two of the shortlisted writers for this year's Booker call America home. Isn't it high time we broke down the artifice?
On the other hand, there's something charming about a Commonwealth writing prize (as opposed to the Commonwealth writing prizes). America has annoyingly insular prizes coming out of the wazoo (The Pulitzer, National Book Award, etc) so why shouldn't the rest of the English speaking world keep one for themselves? This is like those stupid free trade agreements where only one side believes in free trade. The Booker ought to be literature's tariff! Furthermore, there's something je ne sais quoi about the Booker's current character that would be diluted with the introduction of American literature. Or, rather, there is something particular about American lit that I'm quite glad not to see in the Booker mix. Call it naval gazing self-consciousness, muscular self-assuredness or whatever; it's seldom found in the kind of works that get a Booker nod and I'm quite happy for it to stay that way. Oh, and isn't there already a Man Booker International Prize? Granted it is more like the Nobel, aimed at recognising the entire body of an author's work (especially those that seem to be ignored by the Swedish Academy) but still, wasn't that free-trade enough for the haters?
I'm sure this will continue to play out over the coming months (or years if it actually happens), but for now let's keep our eyes on the prize. Literally. Call me a cynic, but the timing could not have been worse. We have six books we should be talking about right now. Let's not take the limelight away from them.
Note: Less than an hour after I posted this, Booker made it official. See the full statement here
Booker Prize 2013: My Shortlist Scorecard (And Some Further Thoughts)
on Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Brace yourselves book nerds, the Booker shortlist has just been announced. Vying for literary immortality this year are:
Harvest by Jim Crace
The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin
The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo
The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri
A Tale For The Time Being by Ruth Ozecki
Which means I picked a whopping 3 of them. That's 50%. Only eight percent less than my final exam mark for Constitutional Law. Go me!
As for the list, I don't have a great deal to say. It's strong but it's also quite safe. Team Booker have opted for the heavy hitters (Crace, Toibin, Lahiri and Ozecki) and steered clear of anything resembling experimentalism. No debuts. No balls. At least I won't have to suffer through the more twee titles that stumbled their way onto the long list. And Catton should make next week's long haul plane trip a bit more bearable. Carrying it, on the other hand, won't be much fun, especially if it falls on my head from the overhead compartment. As for the other three, I'll knock them over on the way back.
The prize is awarded on October 15. Stay tuned for my form guide. As usual, it will probably be wrong.
Harvest by Jim Crace
The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin
The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo
The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri
A Tale For The Time Being by Ruth Ozecki
Which means I picked a whopping 3 of them. That's 50%. Only eight percent less than my final exam mark for Constitutional Law. Go me!
As for the list, I don't have a great deal to say. It's strong but it's also quite safe. Team Booker have opted for the heavy hitters (Crace, Toibin, Lahiri and Ozecki) and steered clear of anything resembling experimentalism. No debuts. No balls. At least I won't have to suffer through the more twee titles that stumbled their way onto the long list. And Catton should make next week's long haul plane trip a bit more bearable. Carrying it, on the other hand, won't be much fun, especially if it falls on my head from the overhead compartment. As for the other three, I'll knock them over on the way back.
The prize is awarded on October 15. Stay tuned for my form guide. As usual, it will probably be wrong.
The Booker Shortlist: A Guesstimation Guide
Less than twenty four hours to go before the unveiling of this year's Booker Prize shortlist and I'm embarrassingly behind on my annual quest to read all thirteen contenders. Thus far I've done four and bought three others. To be honest, I just haven't been that inspired. I will, of course, read through the shortlist when it is announced but I'm secretly hoping that will only mean three or, at a stretch, four more because, frankly, I have a massive pile of non-Booker novels next to my bed that I would much prefer to get stuck into. Also, I'm worried about my poor dog. He keeps pushing against the tower with his nose and it's only a matter of time before the whole thing comes tumbling down on his head.
Needless to say I'm in no position to pre-empt tomorrow's announcement. For all I know, nearly every one of the books I haven't read is a true masterpiece. After all, they beat out the likes of J.M. Coetzee, Roddy Doyle, Margaret Atwood and David Peace to get to the final thirteen. What I can do, however, is hazard a few predictions based on the trends of previous years. I have read almost everything on the past six Booker long lists and have come to realise that those that do make the cut tend to fall into certain categories. Ditto the ones that miss out. So, knowing almost nothing about the majority of the books that stand to be included, here's my completely hypothetical shortlist breakdown:
The Sure Bet That Won't Win
In 2007 I put a hundred bucks on Mister Pip before the long list was even announced. I think I got odds of about 100 to 1. As each Booker step progressed - the long list, the shortlist - the odds tightened and I went from planning a fancy dinner to trawling real estate websites to find a nice looking tropical island. By the morning of the announcement, it was neck and neck between Lloyd Jones and Ian McEwan. Countless suckers had caught on to my brilliant prediction and were only getting 3 to 1. Then came the great moment: The Booker Prize 2007 goes to... Anne Enright for The Gathering. WHAT??? I still maintain that Jones was robbed. So do many other people. That's not to say The Gathering wasn't a wonderful (albeit bleak) novel. It's just that Mister Pip is one of those once in a lifetime, want to caress, cuddle, marry and grow old together books. This year, the sure bet would have to be Jim Crace. Harvest is a marvel. It also sits atop the Ladbrokes list at 3/1. Everyone wants it to win, not only because it objectively deserves to but also because we all love Jim Crace. The guy is retiring and has earned his gold watch. Moreover, we can give it to him without the slight embarrassment of knowing this particular book didn't deserve it (hello Ian McEwan and John Banville). All of which is to say, Harvest will be on the shortlist. It should win the prize. It probably won't.
The Unworthy Consolation Candidate
Staying on the topic, remember Let The Great World Spin? That book was awesome. I still consider it THE Great American Novel of the post-9/11 era. Never mind that it was written by an Irish guy or that it was ignored by Team Booker despite the fact it won the National Book Award across the Atlantic. Segue to that same Irish guy's follow up; a pretty ploddy affair utilising the very tricks that made Let the Great World Spin so incredible but to a much lesser effect... It's called TransAtlantic. It may well get on to the list. It just might win. It shouldn't.
The Controversial Inclusion
Team Booker loves a good argument. In the past, litnerds have gone bare knuckle over two main issues: how long a book ought to be to qualify as a novel (Sense of An Ending, On Chesil Beach) and whether an experimental book which isn't all that fictional can still be considered a work of fiction (Summertime, In A Strange Room). This year we a double dose of the first and an entirely new one to boot. As I've noted in a previous post, The Testament of Mary is one hundred and twelve pages. The Spinning Heart is one hundred and sixty. Having read them, it wouldn't surprise me if one or both of them ended up being shortlisted. Toibin's novel is just brilliant, while Ryan's is the sort of downtrodden outsider fiction (with a bit of experimental form thrown in for good measure) that prize givers love. No doubt traditionalists will be chomping on their monocles tomorrow. Ditto if The Kills makes it. A veritable doorstop, it is supposedly best experienced in electronic form, with supplementary online material adding to the experience. A prize for an e-book? What ever will they think of next?
The Rank Outsider
Remember The Clothes On Their Backs? What about The Dark Room? Swimming Home? There's always one that, no matter how good it is, we all forget the day after they hand out the prize. Contenders this year include Alison MacLeod's Unexploded, Charlotte Mendelson's Almost English and Eve Harris's The Marrying of Chani Kaufman. You can almost be certain that one of them will make the shortlist.
The Colonial Contender
Whether it be Australia, India, Canada or South Africa, Team Booker loves its colonies. The more exotic, the better. This year we have long listed novels from England-via-Malaysia (Five Star Billionaire), America-via-India (The Lowland), America-via-Zimbabwe (We Need New Names) and trusty old New Zealand (The Luminaries). It's likely that more than one of these will make the shortlist, but at the very least I'd be putting my money on New Zealand.
The Brick
Back in the days when I'd read the entire long list, there was nothing I hated more than 'the brick'. Darkmans, Wolf Hall, A Fraction of The Whole. You get the picture. This year we get two: The Kills at 1024 pages and The Luminaries at 832. I have a funny feeling both will be on the list. At least they look good.
The Whizzbang Debut
Got to have a debut to shake things up and cripple a writer with performance anxiety for the rest of their career. This time we have a choice of Donal Ryan, NoViolet Bulawayo and Eve Harris. Right now Harris is at the bottom of the Ladbrokes table at 14 to 1. Almost guarantees her a spot I'd say.
The Criminally Overlooked
And, of course, there will be one book that absolutely should be on the list but isn't. In the past we've had Netherland by Joseph O'Neill, Be Near Me by Andrew O'Hagan, Shalimar The Clown by Salman Rushdie and Schopenhauer's Telescope by Gerard Donovan. This year there are three that it would be a crime to leave off: Harvest, The Testament of Mary and The Luminaries. No doubt one will fall by the wayside.
Ok, so on the basis of all that opinionated crap, and using absolutely nonsensical algorithms (i.e. complete guesswork), my picks for tomorrow's Booker Prize Shortlist are:
Harvest by Jim Crace
The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
The Kills by Richard House
The Marrying of Chani Kaufman by Eve Harris
TransAtlantic by Colum McCann
A Tale For Time Being by Ruth Ozecki
With my floating seventh being The Spinning Heart by Donal Ryan
Based on my previous form when it comes to these things, I look forward to seeing how completely off the mark I am! To be honest, I'll be happy with 50%.
See you tomorrow.
Needless to say I'm in no position to pre-empt tomorrow's announcement. For all I know, nearly every one of the books I haven't read is a true masterpiece. After all, they beat out the likes of J.M. Coetzee, Roddy Doyle, Margaret Atwood and David Peace to get to the final thirteen. What I can do, however, is hazard a few predictions based on the trends of previous years. I have read almost everything on the past six Booker long lists and have come to realise that those that do make the cut tend to fall into certain categories. Ditto the ones that miss out. So, knowing almost nothing about the majority of the books that stand to be included, here's my completely hypothetical shortlist breakdown:
The Sure Bet That Won't Win
In 2007 I put a hundred bucks on Mister Pip before the long list was even announced. I think I got odds of about 100 to 1. As each Booker step progressed - the long list, the shortlist - the odds tightened and I went from planning a fancy dinner to trawling real estate websites to find a nice looking tropical island. By the morning of the announcement, it was neck and neck between Lloyd Jones and Ian McEwan. Countless suckers had caught on to my brilliant prediction and were only getting 3 to 1. Then came the great moment: The Booker Prize 2007 goes to... Anne Enright for The Gathering. WHAT??? I still maintain that Jones was robbed. So do many other people. That's not to say The Gathering wasn't a wonderful (albeit bleak) novel. It's just that Mister Pip is one of those once in a lifetime, want to caress, cuddle, marry and grow old together books. This year, the sure bet would have to be Jim Crace. Harvest is a marvel. It also sits atop the Ladbrokes list at 3/1. Everyone wants it to win, not only because it objectively deserves to but also because we all love Jim Crace. The guy is retiring and has earned his gold watch. Moreover, we can give it to him without the slight embarrassment of knowing this particular book didn't deserve it (hello Ian McEwan and John Banville). All of which is to say, Harvest will be on the shortlist. It should win the prize. It probably won't.
The Unworthy Consolation Candidate
Staying on the topic, remember Let The Great World Spin? That book was awesome. I still consider it THE Great American Novel of the post-9/11 era. Never mind that it was written by an Irish guy or that it was ignored by Team Booker despite the fact it won the National Book Award across the Atlantic. Segue to that same Irish guy's follow up; a pretty ploddy affair utilising the very tricks that made Let the Great World Spin so incredible but to a much lesser effect... It's called TransAtlantic. It may well get on to the list. It just might win. It shouldn't.
The Controversial Inclusion
Team Booker loves a good argument. In the past, litnerds have gone bare knuckle over two main issues: how long a book ought to be to qualify as a novel (Sense of An Ending, On Chesil Beach) and whether an experimental book which isn't all that fictional can still be considered a work of fiction (Summertime, In A Strange Room). This year we a double dose of the first and an entirely new one to boot. As I've noted in a previous post, The Testament of Mary is one hundred and twelve pages. The Spinning Heart is one hundred and sixty. Having read them, it wouldn't surprise me if one or both of them ended up being shortlisted. Toibin's novel is just brilliant, while Ryan's is the sort of downtrodden outsider fiction (with a bit of experimental form thrown in for good measure) that prize givers love. No doubt traditionalists will be chomping on their monocles tomorrow. Ditto if The Kills makes it. A veritable doorstop, it is supposedly best experienced in electronic form, with supplementary online material adding to the experience. A prize for an e-book? What ever will they think of next?
The Rank Outsider
Remember The Clothes On Their Backs? What about The Dark Room? Swimming Home? There's always one that, no matter how good it is, we all forget the day after they hand out the prize. Contenders this year include Alison MacLeod's Unexploded, Charlotte Mendelson's Almost English and Eve Harris's The Marrying of Chani Kaufman. You can almost be certain that one of them will make the shortlist.
The Colonial Contender
Whether it be Australia, India, Canada or South Africa, Team Booker loves its colonies. The more exotic, the better. This year we have long listed novels from England-via-Malaysia (Five Star Billionaire), America-via-India (The Lowland), America-via-Zimbabwe (We Need New Names) and trusty old New Zealand (The Luminaries). It's likely that more than one of these will make the shortlist, but at the very least I'd be putting my money on New Zealand.
The Brick
Back in the days when I'd read the entire long list, there was nothing I hated more than 'the brick'. Darkmans, Wolf Hall, A Fraction of The Whole. You get the picture. This year we get two: The Kills at 1024 pages and The Luminaries at 832. I have a funny feeling both will be on the list. At least they look good.
The Whizzbang Debut
Got to have a debut to shake things up and cripple a writer with performance anxiety for the rest of their career. This time we have a choice of Donal Ryan, NoViolet Bulawayo and Eve Harris. Right now Harris is at the bottom of the Ladbrokes table at 14 to 1. Almost guarantees her a spot I'd say.
The Criminally Overlooked
And, of course, there will be one book that absolutely should be on the list but isn't. In the past we've had Netherland by Joseph O'Neill, Be Near Me by Andrew O'Hagan, Shalimar The Clown by Salman Rushdie and Schopenhauer's Telescope by Gerard Donovan. This year there are three that it would be a crime to leave off: Harvest, The Testament of Mary and The Luminaries. No doubt one will fall by the wayside.
Ok, so on the basis of all that opinionated crap, and using absolutely nonsensical algorithms (i.e. complete guesswork), my picks for tomorrow's Booker Prize Shortlist are:
Harvest by Jim Crace
The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
The Kills by Richard House
The Marrying of Chani Kaufman by Eve Harris
TransAtlantic by Colum McCann
A Tale For Time Being by Ruth Ozecki
With my floating seventh being The Spinning Heart by Donal Ryan
Based on my previous form when it comes to these things, I look forward to seeing how completely off the mark I am! To be honest, I'll be happy with 50%.
See you tomorrow.
Microviews Vol. 38: Hearts Of Darkness
on Saturday, September 7, 2013
Before I Burn by Gaute Heivoll
So it turns out that, contrary to all the hooplah of the past few years, Norway isn't just good at crime fiction. They also do serious literature which, I guess, is a relief for those of us who don't give two dragons about a girl's shitty tattoo. Turning the metafiction meter up to 11, Gaute Heivoll (or a fictional simulacrum thereof) returns to his hometown to investigate a series of arson attacks that took place in the year he was born. It might sound a bit crimey (got to suck those Nesboites in somehow), but there is no who, how or whydunnit to be found here. Instead we get a deep meditation on alienation, obsession and fatherhood in rural Norway that courses along with the tension of a thriller, yet possesses the smarts of pocket protector. It's a wonderfully complex novel that just might be the bridge between Stieg Larsson and Karl Ove Knausgaard. (Spoiler Alert: It has nothing to do with Larsson. I just want people who like that crap to read decent literature)
4 Out Of 5 Tindersticks
The Spinning Heart by Donal Ryan
A narrative jigsaw of sorts, The Spinning Heart forces the reader to piece together its tale of murder, kidnapping and economic collapse through the various (and varied) voices of the folk who inhabit a small Irish town. Thankfully the book is short; Ryan clearly knows he is asking his readers to wade through literary quicksand. That is to say, it's hard going, but it certainly sucks you in!
3.5 Out of 5 Potato Chips
Indian Nocturne by Antonio Tabucchi
The ghost of Joseph Conrad haunts this creepy little novel in which a man searches for his lost friend in the dark slums of India. Propelled forward by a series of unsettling encounters he is, it seems, always one step behind the elusive Xavier. As he ventues from a run down brothel, to a medical clinic to a truly screwed up cult headquarters the clues trickle in and you begin to doubt the very essence of the quest. This is Tabucchi at his most esoteric, unexpected best.
4 Out Of 5 Corpulent Kurtzes
The Plains by Gerald Murnane
Smart money has long held Murnane to be Australia's best chance for a Nobel and yet I've never had any inclination to read him. Call it cultural cringe or general disinterest but it took the insistent - and I'm talking years - hucking from a friend to get me to begrudgeingy pick this up and give him a go. Well... egg (and bacon) on my face! The Plains is unlike any Australian book I've read. A man ventures into the wide expanse of nothingness to research a film that he hopes to one day make. He collects the stories of those who live on the land, gradually being drawn in until he is a slave to some overbearing collective consciousness. The obvious parallel is Kafka's castle; the film is something that will probably never be finished. But the filmmaker's complete assimilation into his hostile environs is a fascinating thing to behold.
4 Out Of 5 Cattle Stations
Psalm 44 by Danilo Kis
A short harrowing novel set in the women's barracks at Auschwitz in the final days of the war. Several women plot their escape in the hope of saving the baby that was born against all odds in the camp. Kis's brilliance lies in his choice to steer clear of the atrocities we usually associate with Holocaust novels. But for one absolutely horrific passage towards the end it is a riveting jailbreak narrative, punctuated with a mixture of hope, despair and love as the new mother pines after the child's father, a young doctor who saved her life from the clutches of Dr. Nietzsche (a thinly veiled Mengele). Hard to believe this was Kis's first book, written when he was only twenty five.
4.5 Out Of 5 Steve McQueens
So it turns out that, contrary to all the hooplah of the past few years, Norway isn't just good at crime fiction. They also do serious literature which, I guess, is a relief for those of us who don't give two dragons about a girl's shitty tattoo. Turning the metafiction meter up to 11, Gaute Heivoll (or a fictional simulacrum thereof) returns to his hometown to investigate a series of arson attacks that took place in the year he was born. It might sound a bit crimey (got to suck those Nesboites in somehow), but there is no who, how or whydunnit to be found here. Instead we get a deep meditation on alienation, obsession and fatherhood in rural Norway that courses along with the tension of a thriller, yet possesses the smarts of pocket protector. It's a wonderfully complex novel that just might be the bridge between Stieg Larsson and Karl Ove Knausgaard. (Spoiler Alert: It has nothing to do with Larsson. I just want people who like that crap to read decent literature)
4 Out Of 5 Tindersticks
The Spinning Heart by Donal Ryan
A narrative jigsaw of sorts, The Spinning Heart forces the reader to piece together its tale of murder, kidnapping and economic collapse through the various (and varied) voices of the folk who inhabit a small Irish town. Thankfully the book is short; Ryan clearly knows he is asking his readers to wade through literary quicksand. That is to say, it's hard going, but it certainly sucks you in!
3.5 Out of 5 Potato Chips
Indian Nocturne by Antonio Tabucchi
The ghost of Joseph Conrad haunts this creepy little novel in which a man searches for his lost friend in the dark slums of India. Propelled forward by a series of unsettling encounters he is, it seems, always one step behind the elusive Xavier. As he ventues from a run down brothel, to a medical clinic to a truly screwed up cult headquarters the clues trickle in and you begin to doubt the very essence of the quest. This is Tabucchi at his most esoteric, unexpected best.
4 Out Of 5 Corpulent Kurtzes
The Plains by Gerald Murnane
Smart money has long held Murnane to be Australia's best chance for a Nobel and yet I've never had any inclination to read him. Call it cultural cringe or general disinterest but it took the insistent - and I'm talking years - hucking from a friend to get me to begrudgeingy pick this up and give him a go. Well... egg (and bacon) on my face! The Plains is unlike any Australian book I've read. A man ventures into the wide expanse of nothingness to research a film that he hopes to one day make. He collects the stories of those who live on the land, gradually being drawn in until he is a slave to some overbearing collective consciousness. The obvious parallel is Kafka's castle; the film is something that will probably never be finished. But the filmmaker's complete assimilation into his hostile environs is a fascinating thing to behold.
4 Out Of 5 Cattle Stations
Psalm 44 by Danilo Kis
A short harrowing novel set in the women's barracks at Auschwitz in the final days of the war. Several women plot their escape in the hope of saving the baby that was born against all odds in the camp. Kis's brilliance lies in his choice to steer clear of the atrocities we usually associate with Holocaust novels. But for one absolutely horrific passage towards the end it is a riveting jailbreak narrative, punctuated with a mixture of hope, despair and love as the new mother pines after the child's father, a young doctor who saved her life from the clutches of Dr. Nietzsche (a thinly veiled Mengele). Hard to believe this was Kis's first book, written when he was only twenty five.
4.5 Out Of 5 Steve McQueens
First World Reading Problems Vol. 2: The DEARsaster
on Tuesday, August 27, 2013
DEARsaster (n): Existential angst and anxiety caused by the surprise release of a new book by one of your favourite authors whilst in the middle of a long and/or dense book you are really enjoying.
So I'm taking my usual Monday mid-morning procrastination stroll through a local bookstore when KABLAM!!! I'm blindsided by the new Margaret Atwood novel MADDADDAM. I knew it was coming out sometime soon - September? Christmas? 2017? - but it never really occurred to me that she'd catch me so very unawares. It's as if the genetically modified pig on the cover flew it express onto the bookshelves just to screw with my perfectly ordered reading life. Now I can't say I was the greatest fan of the first two parts of her post-Apocalyptic trilogy (Oryx & Crake and The Year of the Flood), but c'mon... she is, to paraphrase Samuel L. Jackson, Margaret Friggin' Atwood, a true living legend whose body of incredibly varied work has landed her firmly on the Drop Everything And Read list. What's more, MADDADDAM is in hardcover! That's like book crack for me! True to form, I do the sensible thing any addict would do - despite having it on order from overseas, I pick it up here. Support the local book trade, yadda yadda yadda (Read: major delayed gratification fail).
One problem. I'm midway through a debut novel that I am thoroughly enjoying but that, despite only being 300 pages long, is taking me an inordinate amount of time to finish. Usually I'd polish something that length off in one to two days tops. La Vida Doble by Arturo Fontaine, however, is different. It demands to be savoured, which is precisely what I've been doing for the past week. I'm not going to give much away until I'm done and have some time to properly digest it, save only to say that it's one of the best novels of Chile's Dirty War that I've ever read (I seem to be saying that a lot lately).
So here's the dilemma, and the very essence of the DEARsaster: Do I put down a book I'm loving for an author I've sworn to drop everything to read?
I suppose there's an easy solution in trying to read the two simultaneously. I'm often reading two, three, even four books at once. In this case, however, I can't help but feel it would be an injustice to both if I tried (plus, I'm technically already reading the first volume of the Javier Marias trilogy and the collected short stories of Terry Pratchett). The absurdist in me can't help wanting to try the left-brain/right-brain challenge and literally read both at the same time; one in each hand, one eye on each book. Tempting. Or I could run around in circles as if this is the most ginormously catastrophic problem in the world right now. Clearly I have chosen option three.
As you can tell, I don't profess to have the answer but God knows I need one soon. My poor little legs have grown accustomed to my sedentary life. Please... please don't make me run anymore.
So I'm taking my usual Monday mid-morning procrastination stroll through a local bookstore when KABLAM!!! I'm blindsided by the new Margaret Atwood novel MADDADDAM. I knew it was coming out sometime soon - September? Christmas? 2017? - but it never really occurred to me that she'd catch me so very unawares. It's as if the genetically modified pig on the cover flew it express onto the bookshelves just to screw with my perfectly ordered reading life. Now I can't say I was the greatest fan of the first two parts of her post-Apocalyptic trilogy (Oryx & Crake and The Year of the Flood), but c'mon... she is, to paraphrase Samuel L. Jackson, Margaret Friggin' Atwood, a true living legend whose body of incredibly varied work has landed her firmly on the Drop Everything And Read list. What's more, MADDADDAM is in hardcover! That's like book crack for me! True to form, I do the sensible thing any addict would do - despite having it on order from overseas, I pick it up here. Support the local book trade, yadda yadda yadda (Read: major delayed gratification fail).
One problem. I'm midway through a debut novel that I am thoroughly enjoying but that, despite only being 300 pages long, is taking me an inordinate amount of time to finish. Usually I'd polish something that length off in one to two days tops. La Vida Doble by Arturo Fontaine, however, is different. It demands to be savoured, which is precisely what I've been doing for the past week. I'm not going to give much away until I'm done and have some time to properly digest it, save only to say that it's one of the best novels of Chile's Dirty War that I've ever read (I seem to be saying that a lot lately).
So here's the dilemma, and the very essence of the DEARsaster: Do I put down a book I'm loving for an author I've sworn to drop everything to read?
I suppose there's an easy solution in trying to read the two simultaneously. I'm often reading two, three, even four books at once. In this case, however, I can't help but feel it would be an injustice to both if I tried (plus, I'm technically already reading the first volume of the Javier Marias trilogy and the collected short stories of Terry Pratchett). The absurdist in me can't help wanting to try the left-brain/right-brain challenge and literally read both at the same time; one in each hand, one eye on each book. Tempting. Or I could run around in circles as if this is the most ginormously catastrophic problem in the world right now. Clearly I have chosen option three.
As you can tell, I don't profess to have the answer but God knows I need one soon. My poor little legs have grown accustomed to my sedentary life. Please... please don't make me run anymore.
Happy National Bookstore Day!!!
on Saturday, August 10, 2013
"He walked among the bookstore shelves, hearing Muzak in the air. There were rows of handsome covers, prosperous and assured. He felt a fine excitement, hefting a new book, fitting hand over sleek spine, seeing lines of type jitter past his thumb as he let the pages fall. He was a young man, shrewd in his fervors, who knew there were books he wanted to read and others he absolutely had to own, the ones that gesture in special ways, that have a rareness or daring, a charge of heat that stains the air around them."
- Don Delillo, Mao II
"Jake went in, aware that he had, for the first time in three weeks, opened a door without hoping madly to find another world on the other side. A bell jingled overhead. The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home"
- Stephen King, The Waste Lands
Now get off your computer and buy some books!
- Don Delillo, Mao II
"Jake went in, aware that he had, for the first time in three weeks, opened a door without hoping madly to find another world on the other side. A bell jingled overhead. The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home"
- Stephen King, The Waste Lands
Now get off your computer and buy some books!
Microviews Vol. 37: Kiddy Kafka And The Commie Carcass
on Friday, August 9, 2013
Mr. Theodore Mundstock by Ladislav Fuks
Ten years ago I stumbled across this absurd delight of a novel in a small Czech bookstore and instantly fell in love. Set in wartime Prague, it tells the story of an elderly man of questionable sanity, who sets up a mock concentration camp in his apartment to acclimatise to his ultimate fate. Sound strange? That's just the beginning. Accompanied only by his shadow (both greek chorus and devil's advocate) and some weird bird-like creature, he lays out a wooden board, practises stockpiling scraps of food and simulates assaults by over-zealous camp guards. He also acts as self-appointed bringer-of-hope to those around him, promising his neighbours that they need not fear deportation as the war will end before 'the Spring". It is as sad as it is calculated. Is he just mad or do these baseless promises help the others survive? Mr. Theodore Mundstock is one of the best, albeit, strangest novels I have read. With generous scoops of both comedy and tragedy, it confronts very difficult issues of morality and honesty in times of crisis, all the while questioning what amounts to rational action when the entire framework of rationality has collapsed.
5 Out Of 5 Attic Prisons
My First Kafka by Matthue Roth
Franz Kafka's short stories are, to my mind, the greatest fairytales ever written for adults. Kudos to the rather warped imagination of Matthue Roth then for rendering them so brilliantly into a form that can be enjoyed by children too. Roth has taken three of Kafka's tales - Josephine the Singer, The Metamorphosis and Excursion Into The Mountains - and rewritten them in short verse. And while he might have trimmed away the verbiage, he has most certainly retained all that makes ol' Franz so damn great. Accompanied by exquisite woodcut illustrations by Rohan Daniel Eason that call to mind the traditional Day of The Dead stylings of Grim Fandango (one of my favourite computer games of all time), albeit in relief, this slim volume will no doubt serve as the perfect introduction to the 20th century's most iconic writer. I only hope this is the first in a series - I'm already putting in my request for In The Penal Settlement, The Hunger Artist and Before The Law.
4.5 Out Of 5 Bogeyman Beetles
The Reprisal by Laudomina Bonanni
A ragtag bunch of fascist Italian militia capture a pregnant woman in the last days of World War 2. Convinced that she is a resistance fighter, they put her to trial in a barn, convict her and pass sentence: Death. However, before they can carry it out they are joined by a young priest who convinces them to wait until the baby arrives. Much of the tension of Bonanni's supposed lost classic arises from the ensuing wait. Will the war end before the baby comes? Will the woman be executed? Is she even a resistance fighter? There is so much about this book that I ought to have loved and yet I just couldn't get into it. Bonanni turns a great story into a dry chore of a book. I guess there's a reason some classics are lost.
2.5 Out Of 5 Partisan Patsies
Therese Desqueyroux by Francois Mauriac
This grinding tale of a woman who attempts to murder her husband to escape the confines of genteel life must have been a sensation when it was published back in the late 1920s. Mauriac doesn't have many nice things to say about the French upper crust - the family rallies behind Therese but only to protect their own reputation and, when she is released, they practically keep her under house arrest so that she doesn't spoil an upcoming family celebration. Unfortunately this book, which played a large part in Mauriac receiving the Nobel Prize in 1952, hasn't aged well. The tone is dour and the prose stuffy. Sure, it's an enlightening glimpse into a particular period, but beyond that it's little more than a mere historical curio.
2.5 Out Of 5 Liaisons Dangereuses
The Banner of The Passing Clouds by Anthea Nicholson
Granta kicks yet another goal with this complex story of Communist and post-communist Georgia. The initial conceit is fascinating in itself - a boy born on the day Stalin dies, given his exact name (Iosif Dzhugashvili) in tribute, grows up with the ghost of the former leader residing in his chest. Strangely, the Stalin schtick quietens as the novel gives way to an intriguing story of Communist-era pop culture and the desire to escape. Iosif's brother hooks up with his crush, the two become the biggest pop band in the country then get done for trying to hijack a plane to cross the border into freedom. Whether or not they are guilty (they are, but the guns were fake and all fatalities were caused by the 'rescuers') is of little relevance. They are tried, convicted and punished, though Iosif is not told of their fate. They simply disappear, pending appeal. Nicholson's depiction of the crushing machinery of injustice and the personal toll it takes on Iosif is harrowing. Interstingly, The Banner of The Passing Clouds is not just an indictment on the Communist regime. Life after the disintegration of the USSR isn't exactly the promised land for which Iosif had hoped. A beautiful, tragic debut.
4 Out Of 5 Siberian Gulags
A Guided Tour Through The Museum of Communism by Slavenka Drakulic
There must be countless ways to write history but Slavenka Drakulic's is undoubtedly one of the strangest. A bestiary of creatures narrates this compendium of short lessons about life behind the Iron Curtain. Some are the leaders' pets, some outcasts in ruined cities, some possibly even murderers. The 'stories' really work when the animal is not merely recounting historical facts and figures but, rather, finding themselves immersed in the absurdities of life under Communist rule. Two in particular stand out. The mole's take on Berlin self-consciously invokes Kafka with its combination of despair and wonder (not to mention that it is presented as an address to a symposium of moles). Also the final story of a mysterious raven in Albania is creepy and allegorical - the only time when a human is actually telling the story and, perhaps, the animal is merely a code for a sinister player in the suicide (or perhaps murder) of Mehmet Shehu. Drakulic isn't on a complete rampage here either; like Anthea Nicholson she is quite openly critical about life after Communism in many of the countries. You'd be hard pressed to find a better introduction to the topic.
3.5 Out Of 5 Animal Farms
Ten years ago I stumbled across this absurd delight of a novel in a small Czech bookstore and instantly fell in love. Set in wartime Prague, it tells the story of an elderly man of questionable sanity, who sets up a mock concentration camp in his apartment to acclimatise to his ultimate fate. Sound strange? That's just the beginning. Accompanied only by his shadow (both greek chorus and devil's advocate) and some weird bird-like creature, he lays out a wooden board, practises stockpiling scraps of food and simulates assaults by over-zealous camp guards. He also acts as self-appointed bringer-of-hope to those around him, promising his neighbours that they need not fear deportation as the war will end before 'the Spring". It is as sad as it is calculated. Is he just mad or do these baseless promises help the others survive? Mr. Theodore Mundstock is one of the best, albeit, strangest novels I have read. With generous scoops of both comedy and tragedy, it confronts very difficult issues of morality and honesty in times of crisis, all the while questioning what amounts to rational action when the entire framework of rationality has collapsed.
5 Out Of 5 Attic Prisons
My First Kafka by Matthue Roth
Franz Kafka's short stories are, to my mind, the greatest fairytales ever written for adults. Kudos to the rather warped imagination of Matthue Roth then for rendering them so brilliantly into a form that can be enjoyed by children too. Roth has taken three of Kafka's tales - Josephine the Singer, The Metamorphosis and Excursion Into The Mountains - and rewritten them in short verse. And while he might have trimmed away the verbiage, he has most certainly retained all that makes ol' Franz so damn great. Accompanied by exquisite woodcut illustrations by Rohan Daniel Eason that call to mind the traditional Day of The Dead stylings of Grim Fandango (one of my favourite computer games of all time), albeit in relief, this slim volume will no doubt serve as the perfect introduction to the 20th century's most iconic writer. I only hope this is the first in a series - I'm already putting in my request for In The Penal Settlement, The Hunger Artist and Before The Law.
4.5 Out Of 5 Bogeyman Beetles
The Reprisal by Laudomina Bonanni
A ragtag bunch of fascist Italian militia capture a pregnant woman in the last days of World War 2. Convinced that she is a resistance fighter, they put her to trial in a barn, convict her and pass sentence: Death. However, before they can carry it out they are joined by a young priest who convinces them to wait until the baby arrives. Much of the tension of Bonanni's supposed lost classic arises from the ensuing wait. Will the war end before the baby comes? Will the woman be executed? Is she even a resistance fighter? There is so much about this book that I ought to have loved and yet I just couldn't get into it. Bonanni turns a great story into a dry chore of a book. I guess there's a reason some classics are lost.
2.5 Out Of 5 Partisan Patsies
Therese Desqueyroux by Francois Mauriac
This grinding tale of a woman who attempts to murder her husband to escape the confines of genteel life must have been a sensation when it was published back in the late 1920s. Mauriac doesn't have many nice things to say about the French upper crust - the family rallies behind Therese but only to protect their own reputation and, when she is released, they practically keep her under house arrest so that she doesn't spoil an upcoming family celebration. Unfortunately this book, which played a large part in Mauriac receiving the Nobel Prize in 1952, hasn't aged well. The tone is dour and the prose stuffy. Sure, it's an enlightening glimpse into a particular period, but beyond that it's little more than a mere historical curio.
2.5 Out Of 5 Liaisons Dangereuses
The Banner of The Passing Clouds by Anthea Nicholson
Granta kicks yet another goal with this complex story of Communist and post-communist Georgia. The initial conceit is fascinating in itself - a boy born on the day Stalin dies, given his exact name (Iosif Dzhugashvili) in tribute, grows up with the ghost of the former leader residing in his chest. Strangely, the Stalin schtick quietens as the novel gives way to an intriguing story of Communist-era pop culture and the desire to escape. Iosif's brother hooks up with his crush, the two become the biggest pop band in the country then get done for trying to hijack a plane to cross the border into freedom. Whether or not they are guilty (they are, but the guns were fake and all fatalities were caused by the 'rescuers') is of little relevance. They are tried, convicted and punished, though Iosif is not told of their fate. They simply disappear, pending appeal. Nicholson's depiction of the crushing machinery of injustice and the personal toll it takes on Iosif is harrowing. Interstingly, The Banner of The Passing Clouds is not just an indictment on the Communist regime. Life after the disintegration of the USSR isn't exactly the promised land for which Iosif had hoped. A beautiful, tragic debut.
4 Out Of 5 Siberian Gulags
A Guided Tour Through The Museum of Communism by Slavenka Drakulic
There must be countless ways to write history but Slavenka Drakulic's is undoubtedly one of the strangest. A bestiary of creatures narrates this compendium of short lessons about life behind the Iron Curtain. Some are the leaders' pets, some outcasts in ruined cities, some possibly even murderers. The 'stories' really work when the animal is not merely recounting historical facts and figures but, rather, finding themselves immersed in the absurdities of life under Communist rule. Two in particular stand out. The mole's take on Berlin self-consciously invokes Kafka with its combination of despair and wonder (not to mention that it is presented as an address to a symposium of moles). Also the final story of a mysterious raven in Albania is creepy and allegorical - the only time when a human is actually telling the story and, perhaps, the animal is merely a code for a sinister player in the suicide (or perhaps murder) of Mehmet Shehu. Drakulic isn't on a complete rampage here either; like Anthea Nicholson she is quite openly critical about life after Communism in many of the countries. You'd be hard pressed to find a better introduction to the topic.
3.5 Out Of 5 Animal Farms
Microviews Vol. 36: Where All The Missing Socks Go (Neither The Wild West Nor A Galaxy Far, Far Away)
on Monday, August 5, 2013
The Son by Philip Meyer
Here's the thing with "The Great American Novel". People are too quick to slap on the sobriquet, thereby effectively kneecapping its recipient. So put your hands together for the latest Great American Novel to hit the shelves. Epic in scope (and pages), The Son is a multi-generational tale of one pilgrim family's progress from the frontier to genteel society. Often brutal, seldom flattering, it lays bare the sins of white America's past and, to a lesser extent, present. Meyer tracks the family through three characters - Eli McCullough, his son Peter and Peter's grand-niece Jeannie. The latter two are engaging enough - Peter partakes in a massacre of his Mexican neighbours then shacks up with the sole survivor, Jeannie struggles to keep control of the McCullough oil empire while her mind slips away. Yet it is Eli's tale, from his kidnap by Commanche Indians at thirteen, through his training as a brave and later repatriation into white society that really makes this book worth reading. Filled with passages that would make Cormac McCarthy blush, Eli's thread would in itself have made the case for Meyer entering the greater canon. Unfortunately, the other two threads pale next to it and only serve to dilute the overall experience. As it stands, The Son is a regular length masterpiece hiding within the pages of a very good, very long book.
4 Out of 5 Pretty Horses
Tampa by Alissa Nutting
Lolita didn't become a classic because of its graphic description of Humbert Humbert jacking off at every possible opportunity over the idea (and later the person) of a little girl. Seems Alissa Nutting missed the memo because this tawdry affair (pun semi-intended) lacks the depth, psychological complexity and beautiful subtlety of Nabokov's masterpiece. Leaving its lasciviousness aside, Celeste is one of the least believable characters in contemporary literature and the plot holes that Nutting creates to allow her to fulfil her sick desires are so big that I suspect every sock ever lost in a dryer in the history of the world could fit inside. To be fair, Tampa has one redeeming feature: the jacket design is incredible Otherwise, this is an embarrassing disaster of a novel. If your interest has been piqued by the hype, read Zoe Heller's Notes On A Scandal or Eleanor Catton's The Rehearsal instead.
1.5 Out Of 5 Bargain Bins
My Father's Ghost Is Climbing In The Rain by Patricio Pron
Pron brings fresh Bolano stylings to the Dirty War in this deeply affecting, pleasantly surprising novel. What begins as a son's homecoming to care for his dying father quickly becomes a personal investigation into the investigation of a murder. Neither the who, why or howdunnit matters, but rather what made the narrator's father take such a special interest in the case. I was expecting a typical Music Box-type denouement, but Pron is far smarter and more compassionate than that. The answer lies not in complicity but survivor's guilt, making My Father's Ghost... a truly original, powerful addition to the body of literature on one of modern history's most troubling periods.
3.5 Out Of 5 Shiny Epaulettes
William Shakespeare's Star Wars by Ian Doescher
Verily go thou nerdgasm. Doth Ian Doescher fancy himself a modern Francis Bacon or Chritopher Marlowe? Alak alak. Tis' but a blip on yonder radar for, while a good idea this might seem at first, a crime against good sense it turns out to be. Did Doescher listen not to the great Yoda? Doeth or Doeth not, there is no try. Better he did not. Beep Beep Woooow saith the R2 unit.
2.5 Out Of 5 Death Stars
Two Novellas by David Vogel
Following my delight in the discovery of Vogel's Viennese Romance I was very excited to see this sitting on the table at my local bookstore. Needless to say, I snapped it up immediately, dragged back in the shingle, and disappeared for a few hours. It was not the sublime reading experience I had been hoping for. The first novella, In The Sanatorium, has an oddly Monty Pythonesque edge, with its blackly comic tale of a hypochondiac in a clinic for people with TB. As the predicaments grew more dire, and the characters more jolly, I couldn't help but sing the great refrain to "Always look on the bright side of life". The second novella, Facing The Sea, is a much more ordinary affair. Despite an air of decadence that brings to mind both Fitzgerald and Huysmans, I just couldn't take to the couple struggling with their fidelity while holidaying on some wanky beach. I was hoping for Mr. Ripley to make an appearance, if only to stick a knife or seven into the decadent posers.
3 Out Of 5 Iron Lungs
Here's the thing with "The Great American Novel". People are too quick to slap on the sobriquet, thereby effectively kneecapping its recipient. So put your hands together for the latest Great American Novel to hit the shelves. Epic in scope (and pages), The Son is a multi-generational tale of one pilgrim family's progress from the frontier to genteel society. Often brutal, seldom flattering, it lays bare the sins of white America's past and, to a lesser extent, present. Meyer tracks the family through three characters - Eli McCullough, his son Peter and Peter's grand-niece Jeannie. The latter two are engaging enough - Peter partakes in a massacre of his Mexican neighbours then shacks up with the sole survivor, Jeannie struggles to keep control of the McCullough oil empire while her mind slips away. Yet it is Eli's tale, from his kidnap by Commanche Indians at thirteen, through his training as a brave and later repatriation into white society that really makes this book worth reading. Filled with passages that would make Cormac McCarthy blush, Eli's thread would in itself have made the case for Meyer entering the greater canon. Unfortunately, the other two threads pale next to it and only serve to dilute the overall experience. As it stands, The Son is a regular length masterpiece hiding within the pages of a very good, very long book.
4 Out of 5 Pretty Horses
Tampa by Alissa Nutting
Lolita didn't become a classic because of its graphic description of Humbert Humbert jacking off at every possible opportunity over the idea (and later the person) of a little girl. Seems Alissa Nutting missed the memo because this tawdry affair (pun semi-intended) lacks the depth, psychological complexity and beautiful subtlety of Nabokov's masterpiece. Leaving its lasciviousness aside, Celeste is one of the least believable characters in contemporary literature and the plot holes that Nutting creates to allow her to fulfil her sick desires are so big that I suspect every sock ever lost in a dryer in the history of the world could fit inside. To be fair, Tampa has one redeeming feature: the jacket design is incredible Otherwise, this is an embarrassing disaster of a novel. If your interest has been piqued by the hype, read Zoe Heller's Notes On A Scandal or Eleanor Catton's The Rehearsal instead.
1.5 Out Of 5 Bargain Bins
My Father's Ghost Is Climbing In The Rain by Patricio Pron
Pron brings fresh Bolano stylings to the Dirty War in this deeply affecting, pleasantly surprising novel. What begins as a son's homecoming to care for his dying father quickly becomes a personal investigation into the investigation of a murder. Neither the who, why or howdunnit matters, but rather what made the narrator's father take such a special interest in the case. I was expecting a typical Music Box-type denouement, but Pron is far smarter and more compassionate than that. The answer lies not in complicity but survivor's guilt, making My Father's Ghost... a truly original, powerful addition to the body of literature on one of modern history's most troubling periods.
3.5 Out Of 5 Shiny Epaulettes
William Shakespeare's Star Wars by Ian Doescher
Verily go thou nerdgasm. Doth Ian Doescher fancy himself a modern Francis Bacon or Chritopher Marlowe? Alak alak. Tis' but a blip on yonder radar for, while a good idea this might seem at first, a crime against good sense it turns out to be. Did Doescher listen not to the great Yoda? Doeth or Doeth not, there is no try. Better he did not. Beep Beep Woooow saith the R2 unit.
2.5 Out Of 5 Death Stars
Two Novellas by David Vogel
Following my delight in the discovery of Vogel's Viennese Romance I was very excited to see this sitting on the table at my local bookstore. Needless to say, I snapped it up immediately, dragged back in the shingle, and disappeared for a few hours. It was not the sublime reading experience I had been hoping for. The first novella, In The Sanatorium, has an oddly Monty Pythonesque edge, with its blackly comic tale of a hypochondiac in a clinic for people with TB. As the predicaments grew more dire, and the characters more jolly, I couldn't help but sing the great refrain to "Always look on the bright side of life". The second novella, Facing The Sea, is a much more ordinary affair. Despite an air of decadence that brings to mind both Fitzgerald and Huysmans, I just couldn't take to the couple struggling with their fidelity while holidaying on some wanky beach. I was hoping for Mr. Ripley to make an appearance, if only to stick a knife or seven into the decadent posers.
3 Out Of 5 Iron Lungs
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