Premature Congratulations: What's With All The "Best Of" Lists?

Knock knock...

Hello?

Anyone in book world listening?

Here we are at the tail end of November and there's a sudden influx of Best Of 2013 lists. The Guardian just did their annual survey of authors. Goodreads has its poll running. Both Barnes and Noble and Amazon have already started flogging their picks in anticipation of the Christmas shopping rush. Even semi-respectable rags like Huffington Post and Publishers Weekly have blown their literary loads (and seriously, PW, Mohsin Hamid??? Did you even read that thing?).

HAVE YOU ALL GONE MAD?

There are still five weeks left. That's five weeks of reading all those books released this year that you have not yet had the chance to read. Best Of lists are for December. The last week of December, to be precise. Nobody wants to see your Best Of lists before that.

Grumble grumble.

National Book Award 2013: The Bird and the McBridesmaids

At last I got one right!!!

Just as I predicted a few days ago, James McBride's The Good Lord Bird has taken home this year's National Book Award for fiction. Sure, I hadn't actually read it when I made the prediction but it was on top of my pile. And, true to this weird practical clairvoyance I seem to have when it comes to these things, I was on the last chapter of the book when the announcement was made. That means McBride joins Jose Saramago, J. M. Coetzee, Orhan Pamuk, Peter Carey, and Kiran Desai as recipients of major awards while I happened to be reading their work. Seriously. It's crazy Twilight Zone stuff. Next year I think I'll put my 'skill' to good use and try to engineer outcomes. If it actually works, stuff it, I'm starting a religion.

But I digress... Can't say I'm upset by the win. McBride's book is a lot of fun and tackles some pretty big issues. That said, I'm not sure it's Great American Novel stuff (full review coming soon!), but it certainly offers a unique (and slightly wacky) window on a very interesting period in American history. It is also quintessentially 'Murrrcan in its substance and style. So, all in all a good, safe pick by the National Book Foundation. And a bloody ripper pick by me!

The World Is A Lessing Place

What terribly sad news to wake up to this morning; Doris Lessing, my absolutely favourite Nobel laureate of recent years, passed away overnight aged 94. Sure, it was a fair innings, but she was a literary treasure, someone whose age almost proved her immortality. I could go on for hours about her brilliance but I think it can all be summed up in a single video. What fantastically cynical wit she showed when told of her big gong:



Farewell you great human being. Thanks for The Good Terrorist. And The Fifth Child. And The Golden Notebook. And Memoirs of a Survivor. And the Canopus In Argus: Archives cycle. And The Sweetest Dream. And The Children of Violence series. And... And... And...

The National Bonk Awards (By Which I Mean The National Book Award and the Bad Sex in Fiction Award)

Thought you'd escaped my fetish for book awards? Think again.

It's National Book Award week and, like the Booker, this year boasts a pretty impressive shortlist. In case you haven't seen it (and let's face it, although Americans think there are only two book awards - this and the Pulitzer - those of us in the Yankee diaspora tend to be a little more blase about it all) the books battling it out for hometown glory are:

The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri
Tenth of December by George Saunders
The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner
The Good Lord Bird by James McBride
Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon

Hard to pick a winner here, not that my predictions ever count for anything (right, Jim Crace?). A number of factors seem to bode well for George Saunders. Not only is he a long time darling of the American literati but this particular book got crazy buzz when it was released. Plus, with Alice Munro taking out the Nobel, this might just be the year of the short story. Personally I wasn't all that fussed with Tenth of December. Sure, it had a couple of great stories, but I could take or leave the rest. The other big buzz magnet this year was Kushner who had everyone from the latte-sipping West Villagers to the brisket-munching Brooklynites (apparently nobody above Union Square gave a shit) heralding the arrival of a new saviour. It's been on my shelf for ages and, I suppose, if it wins I'll get around to reading it. But for now it remains amongst the books I won't be reading this year. Lahiri gets a second bite at the apple but I suspect that come Wednesday she'll still be hungry. Reviews for Pynchon have been kinda patchy but I'm thinking they might give him the prize just to see if he turns up or if, as I suspect, Bleeding Edge was one of the manuscripts found in JD Salinger's safe. Which leaves my personal pick - The Good Lord Bird. The story of abolitionist John Brown told through the eyes (and stylised patio) of a cross dressing slave, it has WINNER written all over it. Also, as it happens, it's the next book on my pile to read and I've had some form in the past reading the book that won a major award at the time that award was announced.

This is also the time of the most enjoyable literary award on the calendar - The Bad Sex in Fiction Award. Run by my favourite book rag, The Literary Review, it is bestowed on the most off-purple prose in a new novel (erotica is excluded from contention so EL James has never got a look in). This year's shortlist is:

My Education by Susan Choi
The Last Banquet by Jonathan Grimwood
House of Earth by Woody Guthrie
Motherland by William Nicholson
The Victoria System by Eric Reinhardt
The World Was All Before Them by Matthew Reynolds
The City of Devi by Manil Suri
Secrecy by Rupert Thomson

Special props to Suri for "As he presses forth, he pulls me to him, so that my body bends against his in the same arc, like in the yoga asanas we once practiced. I feel his penis climb up my thigh", but surely the frontrunner has to be Woodie Guthrie's godawful sex scenes in an otherwise pretty decent book. Those of you with photographic memories might recall my review: "Think a less accomplished Steinbeck or Sinclair, with the added bonus of long descriptions of the protagonist's penis and you'll have some idea of what you're in for." Don't believe me? Here's a small... um... taste: "So magnified and so keen were her feelings that her inner nerves could even feel the bumps, the ridges, the pimples, the few stray hairs along the shaft of his male rod." It's gold, Jerry. GOLD!!!

Follow the hilarity on Twitter at #badsex

Books I Won't Be Reading

Now that the initial panic of Cramageddon has subsided, I've done a bit of literary triage to lighten the load.

I've pretty much stuck to two rules:

1) No blockbusters. They'll be getting enough coverage come December without my input.

2) No books over 350 pages. In fact, if you decide to drop a brick in November (or have dropped a brick that I haven't yet read by November) I say a pox on you and your verbosity.

So, with my derision deflectors set to full power, here's a few of the books I've decided not to read in 2013:

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. Sure, I was excited as the rest of you when I heard this was coming out. And yes, I loved The Secret History. Then I remembered The Little Friend and thought, fuck it, I'm not committing myself to 800-odd pages when you've only got a 50% strike rate.

Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. I read Half Of A Yellow Sun. Can't be stuffed reading the other half.

The Kills by Richard House. If only it had made the Booker shortlist I wouldn't have had a choice. Indeed, I would have welcomed its company on the long haul flight back from Detroit, to give a certain symmetry to my flight across with The Luminaries. Alas, now that I do, I think I'll put it aside for a summer beach read. Then again, I don't really like the beach. Or summer.

The Accursed by Joyce Carol Oates. What was this? Book number 3 for her in 2013? I can't even write shopping lists that prolifically.

Eyrie by Tim Winton. Breath was great. I can take or leave pretty much everything else of his. I imagine Eyrie will have surfing in it. Sorry if I just spoiled it for you.

The Golem and The Jinni by Helene Wecker. I actually really want to read this. It has a certain air of charm and wonder. But right now I've got golems coming out every orifice and, when the mud hardens, it's gonna hurt. Pass.

Seiobo There Below by Laszlo Krasznahorkai. It's the first book by him that I'm going to skip. My brain just can't handle the impenetrable prose or the theoretical density. And it's about flowers. Those bastards give me hayfever.

The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner. This minute's Great American Novel. Expect to see it atop many lists. Just not mine.

Triage done, let's see how I go with the rest.

First World Reading Problems Vol. 3: Cramageddon

Cramageddon(n): The last ditch effort to read as many books as possible before the end of the year. Usually undertaken with the intention of bumping up one's end of year tally (it is a competition, after all) or ensuring the infallibility of one's "Best Of" lists.

Aaaaaaaargh! 2014 is almost upon us and this, dear Bookworms, is my "To Read" shelf:

Yep, despite a fifty percent hit rate on new releases (sixty six of the one hundred and thirty five books I've read this year), I still have a long way to go. Somehow, I don't think I'm going to get through all of them.

How then to decide? Are there any that I'm really dying to read? Or that I absolutely must read if I don't want to seem foolish when I compile my "Best Of" list? I know books like The Goldfinch, The Flamethrowers and Bleeding Edge will be topping many other people's lists. But how can I pass up newies from former favourites like William H. Gass, Paul Auster or my old guilty pleasure, Robert Harris? And what about the buzz around The Golem and The Jinni, The Madonna On The Moon and The Man With the Compound Eyes? So many great books. So little time.

Ok, November. It's you, me and this pile. On your marks. Get set. CRAMAGEDDON!

Amazon's Day One: New Dawn or Old Hat?

Is there a new battlefield in the war of words?

A couple of days ago Team Amazon announced that they were launching a new offensi... um... initiative called Day One which, despite its name, will be a weekly e-publication dedicated to short fiction and poetry. It is, according to Amazon's spin doctors, an attempt to bring the old raison d'être of the literary magazine (exposing new talent to potential readers) to the digital age. Each week, sucke... um... subscribers will be sent a story and poem (with a little introductory blab from the 'editor' and a specially commissioned cover) on their Kindle or Kindle Reading App. So as not to be overwhelmed (subscribers, it appears, are remarkably fickle) there will only be one story and one poem per issue, thus saving readers from such overbearing things as variety, depth, commentary, criticism and (arguably) value.

All jokes aside, the wilfully blind optimist in me thinks it could indeed be a great launchpad for future stars. Let's face it. In an ever expanding field, it is hard to know who you ought to be checking out. Even buzz has become white noise. If this serves to direct you to just one new author you come to love, it will have been worth the subscription price ($19.99 per year).

My inner cynic, however, has caught a whiff of crass marketeering - given Amazon has moved into the world of publishing, not to mention shut out some publishers following the big court case, it will be interesting to see just who is featured in Day One. Will this just be a way to either push their own writers or charge publishers to have new discoveries 'featured' in the mag? Credit where it is due, though. They are actually making people pay to read what essentially amounts to promotional material! That there is some serious chutzpah.

We won't know for a while how Day One pans out but, either way, I've already been shunted to the sidelines. The service is only available to American subscribers. Bah, humbug!

Microviews Vol. 43: Murder, Mephistopheles and Michael Jackson

Murder in Mississippi by John Safran
Spare a thought for the unfortunate kebab at the pointy end of a John Safran TV skewering. Life in the wake of having your idiocy/bigotry/ineptitude unveiled like that must be quite the burden. However, for white supremacist nutjob extraordinaire, Richard Barrett, TV exposure was the least of his problems. Soon after Safran's prank - which, incidentally, never actually went to air - Barrett up and got himself murdered. By a black guy. In rather homoerotic circumstances. Not quite the Confederate flag end he'd envisaged, methinks. Murder In Mississippi sees Safran return to the scene of the crime in an attempt to make sense of this very peculiar death. Believe the hype and it's a modern day In Cold Blood, but Safran is no Capote and the killer, Vincent McGee, is certainly no Dick Hickock or Perry Smith. That's a good thing, though. If this was mere homage it wouldn't be half as interesting. Safran is in a position that Capote could only have dreamed of - not only does he get to know the murderer but he also knew the victim. That Safran is an outsider - pasty, Australian, Jewish with a grating lisp that you won't be able to get out of your head as you read - allows him the kind of objectivity that even his most desperate attempts to insert himself into the narrative cannot diminish. As usual, he is an idiosyncratic joy. It's hard not to love his bumbling attempts to ingratiate himself with the various major players (several of whom have still not forgiven him for the original TV prank), the way he plays and is played in equal measure or the moments of childlike wonder and realisation that only he could bring to this kind of enterprise. And while Safran may not reach the most fulfilling of conclusions, the journey makes for a fascinating exploration of masculinity, Southern social fragility and the very strange machinations of the American criminal justice system.
4 Out of 5 Green Dot Cards

A Beautiful Truth by Colin McAdam
Several chapters into A Beautiful Truth I was reminded of that case a couple of years ago where some woman had her face ripped off by her friend's pet chimpanzee. Then my mind wandered across to Michael Jackson and his tragic chimp, Bubbles. Point being, it's never a good idea to keep a chimp as a pet. One way or another, one of you is going to get run over by a tractor. So too here - a passable mishmash of simian sociology, political commentary and good ol' soppy sentimentality that never quite strikes the right balance - I could feel those monster wheels rolling back and forth throughout. The chapters later in the book when the hand-raised pet is given to a research facility are powerful, but it washes over quickly. I get it. We're all the same. Be nice to animals. And stay away from Michael Jackson.
2.5 Out of 5 Tick Pickers

Youth Without God by Odon Von Horvath
In what might have made a pretty decent Marx Brothers moment, Odon Von Horvath was killed in Paris when a tree under which he was hiding was hit by lightning, causing a large branch to fall directly on his head. To add ironic insult to fatal injury, he was only in France because he had fled Austria after the Anschluss to escape likely persecution (if not murder) by the Nazis. And so it is that his death has eclipsed his work, which is a shame really because Youth Without God is a marvellous little book. A fierce interrogation of minor rebellion against a totalitarian state, it centres around an unassuming schoolteacher suddenly thrown into the thick of it when he reprimands a student for a racist comment. Labeled a traitor and cast aside, things only get worse when he is implicated in a murder. Youth Without God is a sharp and unforgiving little book. There's a slight whiff of redemption towards the end but it is little consolation for the branch Horvath has already dropped on your head.
4 Out of 5 Goose Steps

The Facades by Eric Lundgren
Molly Svenson was Trude's most celebrated mezzo-soprano until one night, after a performance, she just vanished. Now her poor husband Sven is left zipping around the city in a desperate attempt to find her. The police aren't really getting anywhere, friends aren't being particularly helpful, and their dropkick son has fallen under the sway of a ridiculous cult. It's all very disjointed and unsettling, which is exactly the point. This is a book about displacement, full of absurdities and comic flourishes, where nothing is quite as it seems. Trude itself is a masterful creation - a labyrinth conceived by a mad architect who wanted the city to function as some kind of grand puzzle. It's a shame, then, that Lundgren runs out of steam towards the end. The denouement is a letdown and, while you might be sad to leave Trude, you'll have stopped caring about that neurotic whinger Sven.
3.5 Out of 5 Curious Incidents

The Implacable Order Of Things by Jose Luis Peixoto
Twins joined at the finger, giants, wise centenarians, cuckolded shephards and even the devil himself populate a remote European village in this dark fable of love and longing, revenge and philosophical ponderings. Jose Saramago rated it (and, let's not forget, the belicose Nobelian rated my favourite find of the year, Carlos M. Tavares). And that title... what a ripper! Alack, alack, I just couldn't connect. I so wanted to love The Implacable Order Of Things. The devil knows I tried. But there was a certain coldness that made my bits shrivel up any time I tried to get close. I'm sure Peixoto is capable of great things - his imagination is a garden of delights. If only, like the old Tin Man of yore, he had a heart.
3 Out Of 5 Linked Pinkies

Eleanor Catton: Booker's Latest Luminary

Last night I had a weird dream in which I read (in a newspaper of all things) that Jhumpa Lahiri had won the Booker Prize. I wasn't surprised. Nor was I disappointed. Can't say I was particularly excited, though. Fast forward to a few minutes ago when I woke up in time for the announcement and sat glued to Twitter because the Booker website had pretty much crashed. While waiting for the all-knowing blue spot to show up in the feed, I had all my fingers, toes and superfluous digits crossed that it would go to either Jim Crace or Eleanor Catton.

Well, it must have been that third ear, because Eleanor Catton has bagged herself a Booker for The Luminaries and, in doing so, injected some much needed excitement into a prize that is struggling for oxygen in an overcrowded field. It is a bold move, one sure to upset the fuddy duddies (who, I think, were rooting for either Crace or Toibin - both of who wrote very worthy books) and an hilarious middle finger to the whinging minions that keep harping on about the brevity of many Booker contenders (or winners). Oh, and she's the youngest winner ever too!

Before you run to your e-readers, a thought. I understand your concern. At 800 pages, The Luminaries is darn heavy. But, let me assure you, it's worth it. I carried the thing onto a plane last month and read it in a single sitting. It's that good (and fun, and eminently readable). If you go the e-route, you will miss out on the sheer joy of watching the physical progress of reading such a mammoth work, feeling the weight shift from one side to the other as you plough through. Go out and buy the bloody thing. In hardcover if you can. It's the sort of old-fashioned tale that deserves to be experienced on paper. Plus you get the added bonus of its lovely presence on your bookshelf for years to come so that you can remember the time you climbed book Everest with a young, cool and incredibly talented New Zealand sherpa as your guide.

And that, dear Bookworms, almost wraps up literary prize silly season. For once, it's looking like I'll be able to bid it a fond farewell with two great recipients for my two favourite prizes thus far. And if Jhumpa Lahiri, Rachel Kushner or James McBride wins the National Book Award, literary nirvana will be achieved. Better go buy some incense.

Booker Prize 2013: A Wildly Unreliable Last Minute Form Guide

Ok punters, get ready! They're in the home stretch. With less than twenty-four hours to go here's how the Booker race is shaping up.

Harvest by Jim Crace
What the Bookie says: 11/8
What I said: "Crace lays bare the darkest corners of human existence and shows its ultimate futility in the face of progress... a definite contender for Book of the Year." (Microviews 27)
The Final Pitch: Seven months after reading it, Harvest remains one of my favourite books of the year. It is literary fiction in the grand old fashion and yet it possesses a certain allegorical prescience that keeps it feeling thoroughly modern and relevant. In any other year, Crace could rock up to the Booker dinner with a box of popcorn, sit down with his feet on the table and munch away until his name was called. Alas, with such a strong group of contenders, he'd better polish up on his table manners and fake smile because this is anything but a sure bet.

The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton
What the Bookie says: 11/4
What I said: "... a rich, rollicking tale that can be enjoyed by casual readers and Litsnobs alike." (Microviews 40)
The Final Pitch: A fun, exciting and deftly woven brick of a book, The Luminaries is the work of a young writer in perfect command of her craft. But then again, that was already evident in her debut, The Rehearsal (a book that, when I read it, I had hoped would get a Booker nod). I'm glad the literary establishment has caught on. Eleanor Catton is the kind of writer that ought to be championed. As for her chances, it would certainly be a shot of adrenaline into a fairly stagnant enterprise and, given the recent moves to make the Booker less parochial, not an overly unlikely one. Whatever the outcome, Catton can rest easy - she may not win it this time, but she will almost certainly win it.

The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin
What the Bookie says: 4/1
What I said: "There's no Judas, no Last Supper, not even an Immaculate Conception to be found in Toibin's sober retelling of the Jesus story." (Microviews 27)
The Final Pitch: They copped it when McEwan won for Amsterdam. They copped it even worse when they gave it to Barnes for The Sense Of An Ending. Are they willing to weather the barrage of irate snobs lobbing hardcover copies of War and Peace from their crystal palaces by awarding one of the most prestigious literary prizes to a relative pamphlet? On merit alone, The Testament of Mary is a worthy candidate. It's a masterful act of biblical ventriloquism that, I dare say, may well have been diluted by unnecessary verbal wanderings. Like Harvest, it is one of the best things I've read this year. But it is only a hundred pages.

A Tale For The Time Being by Ruth Ozecki
What the Bookie says: 8/1
What I said: "... a fascinating thought experiment, but had Ozecki just stuck to telling Nao's story, it would have made for a much more satisfying book." (Microviews 41)
The Final Pitch: My affection for Ozecki's book has waned in the month or so since reading it. It's not that I don't like it or wasn't moved by Nao's heartbreaking story, it's just that A Tale For The Time Being has disappeared into the ether of pretty good books I've read. Of all the books on the shortlist, this is the one I think stands the least chance. It just lacks a certain je ne sais pas. That said, it is still in there with a chance and, given my history of predicting these things, will probably win.

We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo
What the Bookie says: 9/1
What I said: "Lesser works than this have won the Booker Prize. But then again, so have much greater." (Microviews 41)
The Final Pitch: If a single chapter could win the Booker Prize, then Bulawayo would be a dead set certainty. I have been raving about those ten or so pages to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing within hearing distance for the past five weeks. I will continue to do so long after the big dinner has come and gone. Alas, one passage does not a winner make.

The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri
What the Bookie says: 9/1
What I said: "... a beautifully balanced endeavour, tender yet angry and, perhaps of particular note, unadorned by literary tricks or grandstanding." (Microviews 42)
The Final Pitch: I don't know why this is so low on the punters' list. Perhaps it is because The Lowland is the most conventional narrative. Or maybe it's a backlash of sorts against the opening of the prize to American authors which, let's face it, Lahiri really is. Whatever the reason, people are idiots. I actually think she's in with a very good chance. Indeed, if I was a betting man who hadn't already lost more money than he'd care to admit on this prize, I'd actually put a few quid on her. With a Pulitzer in the bag and a National Book Award in the offing, I'd even chuck a dollar or two on the trifecta.

The Bookworm's Bet: Not that I have any form whatsoever in getting these things right, but I'd have to say Jim Crace will most likely win it this year. He very much deserves to. That said, I won't be quite as embarrassed as before if I get it wrong because this is the strongest field of shortlisted novels in recent memory. There's not a single book that can't stand proudly among the list of previous winners (although a couple might stand a bit closer to Vernon God Little than Midnight's Children). I'd love to see it go to Eleanor Catton - her blend of youth, extraordinary talent, fierce intelligence and (if the reports are to be believed) all round decency are exactly what the book world needs right now. And she's made it easy for us by writing a marvellous novel in The Luminaries. Similarly, a win for Colm Toibin would be a nice cat amongst the pigeons for the snobby establishment, not to mention the dogmatic god botherers in the audience. So those are my three picks in order: Crace, Catton and Toibin. Hopefully I don't prove to be the kiss of death again. I really want one of them to win it. I'll round out the bottom half as well: Lahiri, Bulawayo and Ozecki. You know what that means, right? Rush into your local Bookie and put your house on A Tale for The Time Being.