Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, news that Hilary Mantel just won the 2012 Booker Prize for Bring Up The Bodies has reached me as I float 39,000 feet above the sea on my way back home. I can't say the win was a surprise but it most certainly was a relief. For the second year running Team Booker have salvaged the dignity of the prize by plucking the only worthy winner from a very ordinary shortlist (yeah, you heard me, Will Self!). Granted I haven't read Bring Up The Bodies, and I didn't much like Wolf Hall, but I can certainly see why her epic Cromwell series garners such adulation from readers and prize-givers alike. Mantel's Tudor England is brilliantly realised, perhaps better than any other historical period I have ever seen in literary fiction. The spectacular marriage of historical fidelity and imagination is, to my mind, without parallel. That I didn't like the first and probably won't read the second (ah, who am I kidding? I'll fold eventually, just like I did with Wolf Hall three years on) is more just a matter of personal taste. This little bookworm don't dig the Tudors.
Nevertheless, there are many reasons to be excited about the outcome. Mantel is the first woman to win the prize twice, rounding out Booker's Holy Trinity alongside the very worthy J. M. Coetzee and the rather flukey Peter Carey. She is also the first person to win it for consecutive books, an especially noteworthy achievement given the short time between the wins. Take into account the gargantuan size of the both Wolf Hall and Bring Up The Bodies and your jaw should be copping a few grazes as it drags along the floor. Of course there is still one more instalment to come so you might want to head down to your local bookie and place a few bucks on the hatrick today before they suspend all bets on a near certainty.
Showing posts with label Books of 2012. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books of 2012. Show all posts
Kurt Vonnegut's Armageddon Bookend Begin-Again
on Wednesday, October 10, 2012
If the five or so books that have been published since he kicked the bucket are anything to go by, Kurt Vonnegut's death in 2007 was only a minor inconvenience. While other dead writers have been happy to rest on their celestial laurels, the great crackpot-with-a-conscience has managed to remain timely, exciting and very, very funny.
Now Vanguard Press has brought us a glorious little tome that bookends his career and proves that from beginning to end he was almost without peer. We Are What We Pretend To Be contains two previously unpublished short works: Vonnegut's first novella that was turned down for publication in 1950, and the first few chapters of a novel he was working on at the time of his death.
The novella, Basic Training, tells the story of Haley Brandon, a young man sent to work on the decaying farm owned by his uncle, an authoritarian ex-army man known only as The General. The farm is run like a training camp, heavily regimented and unforgivingly brutal. Haley falls in with The General's daughters and another farmhand, Mr. Banghart who, it soon becomes clear, is absolutely nuts. When Haley and the farmhand accidentally blow up The General's car, they flee to the city where things take a turn for the worse. Banghart finally loses it, kills someone, and swears to return to the farm to kill The General. Haley runs back to try to stop him. What follows is a tense, tautly rendered game of cat and mouse. Don't be fooled, however, into thinking that Basic Training is some kind of thriller. It may be thrilling, but it is a dark, bleak tale of desperation that unsettles just as much as it excites. Even the love story subplot is cold and unrequited.
Many Vonnegut devotees will be surprised by Basic Training. Surprised that it was written by Vonnegut at all - it shares a lot more with the harsh realism of Steinbeck, or even Cormac McCarthy, than anything else he went on to write. Surprised with the quality of the writing so early in his career. But, most of all, surprised that it was turned down for publication. Even putting my Vonnegut sycophancy aside, it is one of the best short works that I have ever read. The redemptive ending might be a little clumsy, but it does not diminish the work as a whole. Any author would be happy to have just written this and then been hit by a train.
Fans will be a lot more familiar with the vibe of the novel-in-progress If God Were Alive Today. It is a fun park ride of linguistic verve, full of wacky gags and cultural jabs, with Vonnegut using his washed-up comedian protagonist Gil Berman as a conduit to stick it to pretty much anything he goddamned wants to. If God Were Alive Today is presented here as a novella, but it is clearly unfinished and no doubt would have been a great full length novel had Vonnegut lived a bit longer. Berman's total meltdown and pathetic attempts to get his life back on track must have really resonated with a writer feeling his own physical decline and i would have loved to see how Vonnegut resolved it. It is sad, it is angry and it is funny (though often in an embarrassing Dad joke kind of way). In other words, it is crazy Kurt as his absolute best.
Now Vanguard Press has brought us a glorious little tome that bookends his career and proves that from beginning to end he was almost without peer. We Are What We Pretend To Be contains two previously unpublished short works: Vonnegut's first novella that was turned down for publication in 1950, and the first few chapters of a novel he was working on at the time of his death.
The novella, Basic Training, tells the story of Haley Brandon, a young man sent to work on the decaying farm owned by his uncle, an authoritarian ex-army man known only as The General. The farm is run like a training camp, heavily regimented and unforgivingly brutal. Haley falls in with The General's daughters and another farmhand, Mr. Banghart who, it soon becomes clear, is absolutely nuts. When Haley and the farmhand accidentally blow up The General's car, they flee to the city where things take a turn for the worse. Banghart finally loses it, kills someone, and swears to return to the farm to kill The General. Haley runs back to try to stop him. What follows is a tense, tautly rendered game of cat and mouse. Don't be fooled, however, into thinking that Basic Training is some kind of thriller. It may be thrilling, but it is a dark, bleak tale of desperation that unsettles just as much as it excites. Even the love story subplot is cold and unrequited.
Many Vonnegut devotees will be surprised by Basic Training. Surprised that it was written by Vonnegut at all - it shares a lot more with the harsh realism of Steinbeck, or even Cormac McCarthy, than anything else he went on to write. Surprised with the quality of the writing so early in his career. But, most of all, surprised that it was turned down for publication. Even putting my Vonnegut sycophancy aside, it is one of the best short works that I have ever read. The redemptive ending might be a little clumsy, but it does not diminish the work as a whole. Any author would be happy to have just written this and then been hit by a train.
Fans will be a lot more familiar with the vibe of the novel-in-progress If God Were Alive Today. It is a fun park ride of linguistic verve, full of wacky gags and cultural jabs, with Vonnegut using his washed-up comedian protagonist Gil Berman as a conduit to stick it to pretty much anything he goddamned wants to. If God Were Alive Today is presented here as a novella, but it is clearly unfinished and no doubt would have been a great full length novel had Vonnegut lived a bit longer. Berman's total meltdown and pathetic attempts to get his life back on track must have really resonated with a writer feeling his own physical decline and i would have loved to see how Vonnegut resolved it. It is sad, it is angry and it is funny (though often in an embarrassing Dad joke kind of way). In other words, it is crazy Kurt as his absolute best.
Nobel 2012: A Harpoon to Murakami's Heart
on Saturday, October 6, 2012
Step aside Murakami, there's a new (old) horse in town.
Seems Japan's best export since whaling has fallen from favour with the Nobel punters after leading the race for the past few months. We're only a week away from the big announcement and craggy Irish master (not to mention perennial Booker bridesmaid) William Trevor has firmed up as the new favourite. I hadn't considered him before - usually I'm waving the flag for either Ismail Kadare, Lazlo Krasznahorkai, Margaret Atwood or William H. Gass - but Trevor would be a very worthy winner. His short stories are stunning, and his longer works are always compelling and beautifully rendered.
As I went to write this I was surprised to find that betting has been suspended on the Ladbrokes site. However, the list still stands so you haven't missed out on seeing who sits near the top. Unsurprising Spoiler Alert!!! It includes Mo Yan, Cees Nootebom, Adonis, Tom Stoppard and, of course, Bob Dylan. From this we can learn only one thing: there is almost no chance of the prize going to any of them. Oh yeah, and don't hold your breath for Philip Roth either.
So who will it be? I'm putting some sly bucks on E. L. James... That'd give the prize a good rogering. Or were they reserving the Peace Prize for her?
Seems Japan's best export since whaling has fallen from favour with the Nobel punters after leading the race for the past few months. We're only a week away from the big announcement and craggy Irish master (not to mention perennial Booker bridesmaid) William Trevor has firmed up as the new favourite. I hadn't considered him before - usually I'm waving the flag for either Ismail Kadare, Lazlo Krasznahorkai, Margaret Atwood or William H. Gass - but Trevor would be a very worthy winner. His short stories are stunning, and his longer works are always compelling and beautifully rendered.
As I went to write this I was surprised to find that betting has been suspended on the Ladbrokes site. However, the list still stands so you haven't missed out on seeing who sits near the top. Unsurprising Spoiler Alert!!! It includes Mo Yan, Cees Nootebom, Adonis, Tom Stoppard and, of course, Bob Dylan. From this we can learn only one thing: there is almost no chance of the prize going to any of them. Oh yeah, and don't hold your breath for Philip Roth either.
So who will it be? I'm putting some sly bucks on E. L. James... That'd give the prize a good rogering. Or were they reserving the Peace Prize for her?
Booker Prize 2012: The Shortlist Short Shrift
on Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Well, team Booker have just announced the shortlist and I'm feeling a strange sense of deja vu. Just like last year, there seems to be one clearly deserving book and five underwhelming pieces of padding to fill the remaining spaces. Unlike last year, though, I don't have Stella Rimington to blame. What ever will I do?
For those who have yet to see the announcement, the six books in the running are:
Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel
Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil
Umbrella by Will Self
Swimming Home by Deborah Levy
The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng
The Lighthouse by Alison Moore
Yes, yes. I know what you're thinking. I was the first in to bat for the long list and now I've snubbed my nose at its distilled mutant cousin. I can't explain it either. I suppose the more time the list had to sink in, the more blasé I became about it. I never considered it exciting, just sufficiently literary to merit Booker consideration. Alas, I am going to eat my words and cross the floor. I'm with Stella. There's no point in making it 'literary' if it's just plain boring.
Needless to say the safe money would be on Mantel. She is a class (well, a good number of classes) above anyone else on this list. Also, given that Bring Up the Bodies is book two in a trilogy that began with the Booker-winning Wolf Hall, it'd be cool if she bagged it to set up the greatest cliffhanger in the history of the prize. Sure, we might have to wait a couple of years, but at least there's a chance it might get interesting again. Ah, who am I kidding?
Onto the rest of the list... Edgy tomes from subcontinental writers seem to have good Booker form so Narcopolis may well turn out to be this year's White Tiger. Plus, Jeet shares a surname with the dude from Soundgarden. That's got to count for something. Will Self is in the habit of bitching about Booker's relevance or lack thereof so maybe the panel will see the great comic potential in giving him the nod. It certainly won't hurt Self to eat his words; he's looking a bit thin these days. As for the others, I don't have much to say. I quite liked Eng's last book but am in no rush to read this one, Deborah Levy has never been on my radar and Alison Moore's book is a debut. Remember what happens when a debut wins the Booker? D.B.C. Pierre. That's what. I now use him as a verb. Pejoratively.
I'm not going to a hazard a guess this time round. I'm always wrong. But if they don't give it to ol' Hilary, so are they!
For those who have yet to see the announcement, the six books in the running are:
Bring Up The Bodies by Hilary Mantel
Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil
Umbrella by Will Self
Swimming Home by Deborah Levy
The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng
The Lighthouse by Alison Moore
Yes, yes. I know what you're thinking. I was the first in to bat for the long list and now I've snubbed my nose at its distilled mutant cousin. I can't explain it either. I suppose the more time the list had to sink in, the more blasé I became about it. I never considered it exciting, just sufficiently literary to merit Booker consideration. Alas, I am going to eat my words and cross the floor. I'm with Stella. There's no point in making it 'literary' if it's just plain boring.
Needless to say the safe money would be on Mantel. She is a class (well, a good number of classes) above anyone else on this list. Also, given that Bring Up the Bodies is book two in a trilogy that began with the Booker-winning Wolf Hall, it'd be cool if she bagged it to set up the greatest cliffhanger in the history of the prize. Sure, we might have to wait a couple of years, but at least there's a chance it might get interesting again. Ah, who am I kidding?
Onto the rest of the list... Edgy tomes from subcontinental writers seem to have good Booker form so Narcopolis may well turn out to be this year's White Tiger. Plus, Jeet shares a surname with the dude from Soundgarden. That's got to count for something. Will Self is in the habit of bitching about Booker's relevance or lack thereof so maybe the panel will see the great comic potential in giving him the nod. It certainly won't hurt Self to eat his words; he's looking a bit thin these days. As for the others, I don't have much to say. I quite liked Eng's last book but am in no rush to read this one, Deborah Levy has never been on my radar and Alison Moore's book is a debut. Remember what happens when a debut wins the Booker? D.B.C. Pierre. That's what. I now use him as a verb. Pejoratively.
I'm not going to a hazard a guess this time round. I'm always wrong. But if they don't give it to ol' Hilary, so are they!
Mea Culpa: In Drndic's Defence
on Wednesday, August 29, 2012
When I sit down to write a review, I don't for a second imagine that the authors of those books read or care about what I write. Indeed last weekend, at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival, I opined the vacuum in which we bloggers exist. We struggle to find readers at all, let alone people at the coal face of making literature. So it was both gratifying and, dare I say, awe inspiring to find among this morning's crop of emails one from Dasa Drndic, author of Trieste. You might recall that in my review I discussed the controversy regarding accusations of plagiarism that have been levelled against her. I tried to grapple with the question of whether (or how much) this lessened the value of what is, undoubtedly, an incredible book. After considerable consternation, I concluded that it didn't matter all that much. Trieste was just as glorious a novel whether or not some of it had been appropriated. Nevertheless, Dasa Drndic wanted to set me straight and I am very glad she did. I was wrong and failed to do her justice.
I won't attempt to paraphrase her. Rather you should read the email for yourself. In a world where online spats between reviewers and writers have become disturbingly commonplace, I think Drndic's email exemplifies the way in which an author who disagrees with a review ought to engage with its writer. I commend Dasa Drndic for her grace and, moreover, thank her for her interest.
Dasa Drndic calling. Thank you for understanding my book.
Before I say something about the supposed plagiarism of "Trieste", here is an excerpt from the Colombian newspaper El Tiempo on Gabriel García Márquez winning the lawsuit for a similar "accusation":
" While Márquez has long admitted his book was inspired by Palencia's family history and the murder of Chimento, the author argued that the names and the rest of the book's plot were the fruits of his own imagination." (Similar case with "Trieste", except that I use historical documents, photographs, parts from trials of accused WW II criminals, none of which have anything to do with THE FAMILY whose story I have allegedly "copied")
"In its ruling on Tuesday, the court agreed. 'Hundreds of literary, artistic, and cinematographic works have had as their central story facts from real life, which have been adapted to the creator's perspective, without this being an impediment to [the author's right] to claim economic rights over them.'(In "my case" no one demanded any economic rights, but rather moral satisfaction, which both pleased and distressed me.)
"The court also dismissed Palencia's demand to be credited as a co-author. 'Mr Miguel Reyes Palencia could never have told the story as the writer Gabriel García Márquez did, and could never have employed the literary language that was actually used. The work is characterised by its originality.'
Speaking to the Colombian newspaper El Tiempo, Márquez's lawyer, Alfonso Gómez Méndez, celebrated the verdict.
'This ruling is important, because it helps enhance the central thesis, which is valid for literature and art in general, that what matters is the way it presents an object of reality, not reality itself. It's like a woman who poses for a painter [but] then demands half the copyright. She owns her body but the work itself belongs to the painter,' he said."
Some of the facts on which my 480 page novel is based I found on the web in the form of a 16 page linear presentation of events connected to the experiences of a certain family during WW II. There was no copyright restriction to this material, which, by the way, this whole copyright business, will hopefully one day be transformed into a copyleft strategy. When the book went into print I did not think it necessary to mention this fact, but the following editions will carry an explanatory note which will hopefully make THE FAMILY feel better.
Palimpsests, fragments (remember Walter Benjamin), quotations - are the core of modern and post-modern literature. Or, shall we, perhaps, dive more fervently into the pond of flat, linear, saccharine prose and poetry, into shallow constructions called fiction, into fast and easy reading, so compatible with fast eating and fast sexing. And slower and slower thinking.
à la vôtre!
And so I now recommend Trieste without any reservation. It is, to my mind, the standard bearer for post-survivor Holocaust literature and deserves to be read by anyone who cares about humanity, history or reading.
I won't attempt to paraphrase her. Rather you should read the email for yourself. In a world where online spats between reviewers and writers have become disturbingly commonplace, I think Drndic's email exemplifies the way in which an author who disagrees with a review ought to engage with its writer. I commend Dasa Drndic for her grace and, moreover, thank her for her interest.
Dasa Drndic calling. Thank you for understanding my book.
Before I say something about the supposed plagiarism of "Trieste", here is an excerpt from the Colombian newspaper El Tiempo on Gabriel García Márquez winning the lawsuit for a similar "accusation":
" While Márquez has long admitted his book was inspired by Palencia's family history and the murder of Chimento, the author argued that the names and the rest of the book's plot were the fruits of his own imagination." (Similar case with "Trieste", except that I use historical documents, photographs, parts from trials of accused WW II criminals, none of which have anything to do with THE FAMILY whose story I have allegedly "copied")
"In its ruling on Tuesday, the court agreed. 'Hundreds of literary, artistic, and cinematographic works have had as their central story facts from real life, which have been adapted to the creator's perspective, without this being an impediment to [the author's right] to claim economic rights over them.'(In "my case" no one demanded any economic rights, but rather moral satisfaction, which both pleased and distressed me.)
"The court also dismissed Palencia's demand to be credited as a co-author. 'Mr Miguel Reyes Palencia could never have told the story as the writer Gabriel García Márquez did, and could never have employed the literary language that was actually used. The work is characterised by its originality.'
Speaking to the Colombian newspaper El Tiempo, Márquez's lawyer, Alfonso Gómez Méndez, celebrated the verdict.
'This ruling is important, because it helps enhance the central thesis, which is valid for literature and art in general, that what matters is the way it presents an object of reality, not reality itself. It's like a woman who poses for a painter [but] then demands half the copyright. She owns her body but the work itself belongs to the painter,' he said."
Some of the facts on which my 480 page novel is based I found on the web in the form of a 16 page linear presentation of events connected to the experiences of a certain family during WW II. There was no copyright restriction to this material, which, by the way, this whole copyright business, will hopefully one day be transformed into a copyleft strategy. When the book went into print I did not think it necessary to mention this fact, but the following editions will carry an explanatory note which will hopefully make THE FAMILY feel better.
Palimpsests, fragments (remember Walter Benjamin), quotations - are the core of modern and post-modern literature. Or, shall we, perhaps, dive more fervently into the pond of flat, linear, saccharine prose and poetry, into shallow constructions called fiction, into fast and easy reading, so compatible with fast eating and fast sexing. And slower and slower thinking.
à la vôtre!
And so I now recommend Trieste without any reservation. It is, to my mind, the standard bearer for post-survivor Holocaust literature and deserves to be read by anyone who cares about humanity, history or reading.
Booker 2012: Longshots and Hitlists
on Thursday, July 26, 2012
Well, I stayed up until two o'clock last night frantically refreshing the Booker Prize homepage in the hope that the judges would see fit to let me sleep before the sun reared its ugly head on the horizon. Needless to say they didn't and so I fell asleep and dreamed of Booker glory for any number of dead mid 19th Century authors before Louie roused me from my nonsensical slumber at four o'clock to alert me that the list was up. Well, actually, he just needed a poop, but I like to think he had me in mind as well.
Following last year's debacle, I'm glad to see that Booker chair Sir Peter Stothard has managed to wrangle some semblance of respectability back for the prize, putting forward a well-balanced list of high-lit and intelligent popular fiction, old stalwarts and young upstarts. I'm sure much will be made of the notable absences (Ian McEwan, Nadine Gordimer, Peter Carey, Zadie Smith and, of course, J. K. Rowling), but piffle to all that. It's a good bunch of books. I'm especially pleased to learn that Andre Brink has a new novel in the offing (it comes out in September) and that he might finally get himself a Booker gong. God knows he deserves one! Also quite pleased to see Will Self and Ned Beauman get a nod. Anyway, here's the list for those of you who live on Book Mars:
The Yips by Nicola Barker
The Teleportation Accident by Ned Beauman
Philida by André Brink
The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng
Skios by Michael Frayn
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce
Swimming Home by Deborah Levy
Bring up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel
The Lighthouse by Alison Moore
Umbrella by Will Self
Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil
Communion Town by Sam Thompson
It's probably too early to pick a winner, but the safe money would have to be on Mantel, Barker or Frayn. However, I'll keep flying the flag for Beauman and Brink. Whatever the outcome, it's looking like Booker is back on track.
Following last year's debacle, I'm glad to see that Booker chair Sir Peter Stothard has managed to wrangle some semblance of respectability back for the prize, putting forward a well-balanced list of high-lit and intelligent popular fiction, old stalwarts and young upstarts. I'm sure much will be made of the notable absences (Ian McEwan, Nadine Gordimer, Peter Carey, Zadie Smith and, of course, J. K. Rowling), but piffle to all that. It's a good bunch of books. I'm especially pleased to learn that Andre Brink has a new novel in the offing (it comes out in September) and that he might finally get himself a Booker gong. God knows he deserves one! Also quite pleased to see Will Self and Ned Beauman get a nod. Anyway, here's the list for those of you who live on Book Mars:
The Yips by Nicola Barker
The Teleportation Accident by Ned Beauman
Philida by André Brink
The Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng
Skios by Michael Frayn
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce
Swimming Home by Deborah Levy
Bring up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel
The Lighthouse by Alison Moore
Umbrella by Will Self
Narcopolis by Jeet Thayil
Communion Town by Sam Thompson
It's probably too early to pick a winner, but the safe money would have to be on Mantel, Barker or Frayn. However, I'll keep flying the flag for Beauman and Brink. Whatever the outcome, it's looking like Booker is back on track.
Begin the Booker Beguine (Again)
on Saturday, July 21, 2012
Time to slip on your dancing shoes for another year of prize picks and punch-ups. The folk at Man Booker have just released the 'key dates' for this year, which means it's the beginning of my favourite book season. In fact, we only have a few days to wait until the Longlist is announced. Come Wednseday the bickering can begin about who should be shortlisted, who should win, who was left off and whether Hilary Mantel can win back to back Bookers for two consecutive novels, the second being a sequel to the first.
The field of contenders is packed with heavy hitters this year: Peter Carey could be in line for his third, Ian McEwan, John Banville, Nadine Gordimer, Sebastian Faulks, Pat Barker or James Kelman could win a second, and Martin Amis, Zadie Smith or Will Self could finally bag their first. Also present is a slew of other almost-winners: John Lanchester, Lawrence Norfolk, Mark Haddon, Nicola Barker, Michele Roberts and Simon Mawer. And I'm glad to see Australia has fielded a number of viable options with Kate Grenville, Elliot Perlman, Alex Miller, Jon Bauer, Chris Womersley and Anna Funder. Personally, I'd love to see it go to one of the newer kids on the block, such as Ned Beauman, Will Wyles or Lloyd Shepherd though I'd also want to put a sentimental vote in for Dan Rhodes with his beautifully whimsical This is Life?
This all might be a moot point, overshadowed by the great behemoth on the horizon. Following seven Booker snubs J.K. Rowling, the Harry Potter squillionaire, is finally releasing her first book for adult readers which might just mean that the panel are ready to deem her sufficiently 'literary' for their consideration. Could this be the gold watch to end all gold watches?
Head to the recently refurbished Booker site on Wednesday to see the Longlist.
The shortlist will be announced on September 11.
The winner will be announced on October 16.
Reckon you can read the entire Booker Dozen by then?
The field of contenders is packed with heavy hitters this year: Peter Carey could be in line for his third, Ian McEwan, John Banville, Nadine Gordimer, Sebastian Faulks, Pat Barker or James Kelman could win a second, and Martin Amis, Zadie Smith or Will Self could finally bag their first. Also present is a slew of other almost-winners: John Lanchester, Lawrence Norfolk, Mark Haddon, Nicola Barker, Michele Roberts and Simon Mawer. And I'm glad to see Australia has fielded a number of viable options with Kate Grenville, Elliot Perlman, Alex Miller, Jon Bauer, Chris Womersley and Anna Funder. Personally, I'd love to see it go to one of the newer kids on the block, such as Ned Beauman, Will Wyles or Lloyd Shepherd though I'd also want to put a sentimental vote in for Dan Rhodes with his beautifully whimsical This is Life?
This all might be a moot point, overshadowed by the great behemoth on the horizon. Following seven Booker snubs J.K. Rowling, the Harry Potter squillionaire, is finally releasing her first book for adult readers which might just mean that the panel are ready to deem her sufficiently 'literary' for their consideration. Could this be the gold watch to end all gold watches?
Head to the recently refurbished Booker site on Wednesday to see the Longlist.
The shortlist will be announced on September 11.
The winner will be announced on October 16.
Reckon you can read the entire Booker Dozen by then?
2012: The Mid-Year Report
on Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Time, I have come to learn, is inversely proportional to productivity and, in that respect, Einstein's ghost has taken a massive dump on my head this year. July? Already? How did that happen? Guess I ought to look back at my New Year's Aspirations and see how I've fared. *gulp*
New Year Revisited
1. Write More Than I Read: Well it certainly has been a slow reading year. In fact, had it not been for two long haul flights and one crazy reading weekend, I'd have been lucky to crack the half ton. Six months saw me get through a measly 56 books; well below my yearly average. That said, I'm glad to report that I have spent a fair amount of my non-reading time writing, though you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise if you could see what's left of my manuscript. Having cut 60,000 words some time in April, I'm currently at a net loss but, hopefully, it's all for the better. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
2. Stop Being Such a Lit-Wanker: I set out to read less high brow literature this year and while there were a few brief moments of mass market enjoyment they were very much in the minority. Oh well. I'd hate for you to think I had stopped being a total knob.
3. Smell the Roses: Read slower? Me? No chance. I'm just reading less in the same furious bursts.
4. The Tangible Aspirations: Well this one is easy. War and Peace? Nope. Road To Freedom? Nope. Lev Grossman? Nope. American Gods? Nope.
5. Lose 95 Kilos and Exist in a Vacuum: Again, nope. Still here. And heavier than ever!
So far, not so good. *cough cough*
Moving right along...
Top 5 of 2012 (So far)
Hopefully this is just a function of my not having read enough this year, but I can't even scrape together five books that I would be willing to hold out as raveworthy. So, without further ado, here's my top 4:
1. Satantango by Laszlo Krasznahorkai. Another completely impenetrable work of intellectual gymnastics by the master. A downtrodden village somewhere in Hungary is turned upside down by the arrival of the devil. Petty rivalries flare, ruin looms. Satantango is horribly bleak but, as a work of literature, totally invigorating.
2. Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander. Woody Allen type moves to rural America to escape his Jewish neuroses only to discover Anne Frank hiding out out in his new attic. It is as hilarious as it sounds, and Auslander manages to sustain the dark comedy throughout. Elderly, mean-spiritied Frank - desperately trying to write a sequel to her first book - is a brilliantly realised creation.
3. This Is Life by Dan Rhodes. Another charming, quirky book from England's most underrated writer. Not unlike The Family Fang, it lampoons the idiocy of the art world, but in a way so gentle and warm-hearted that even the most strident defender of "art" will be willing to come along for the ride.
4. Melisande! What Are Dreams? by Hillel Halkin. A lifetime of translating the works of great Yiddish and Hebrew writers has clearly taught Halkin how fiction works. His debut is a measured, beautifully crafted and often poetic look at the failure of a marriage. In many ways it reminded me of the greatest love letter ever written, Andre Gorz's Letter to D. Indeed, after that book, it has the second best declaration of love I have ever read: "If I had a thousand lives to live, I'd want them all to be with you." Awwwwwww.
Top 5 Of Every Year But 2012
Now this I can do with a little more confidence.
The Devil All The Time by Donald Ray Pollack. Stark, brutal and sure-footed debut by another possible heir to the Cormac McCarthy throne.
Purgatory by Tomas Eloy Martinez: To my mind the best book on the Central American disappearances. A woman enters a cafe and is shocked to see the husband she thought killed thirty years earlier. Thus begins Martinez's final novel, a painful exploration of the schisms that still tear at his country's heart.
The Family Carnovsky by I. J. Singer. I was slightly disappointed with Yoshe Kalb, so was overjoyed to see Singer in top form on this one. Another intergenerational saga, it never quite reaches the lofty heights of The Brothers Ashkenazi but still towers above most novels written today.
My Life In CIA by Harry Matthews: As the only American member of the Oulipo group, Matthews' life was as absurd as his writing. This memoir of a single year in France, where everyone was convinced he was a CIA agent so he decided to play along is a short work of wacky genius. Well worth checking this guy out if you've never heard of him.
The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster: How did I miss this as a kid? With his rampant punning, mathematical hijinks and total capitulation to the ridiculous, Juster is the modern incarnation of Lewis Carroll (except he didn't write to mack on a twelve year old girl. But I digress...). If your parents also denied you this wonderful pleasure, drop everything now and go buy a copy. Then hide it from your kids. Balance will return to the universe.
Half A Crystal Ball
So what's left for 2012? Plenty of promising books are on the horizon, so hopefully there will be enough to fill out a top ten come December 31st. I'm still going to be writing more than I read - Goddammit I need to finish this frigging book - but I will crack the ton, and I still have a firm belief that I will find one book to add to my favourites of all time. So who will it be? Ian McEwan? Philippe Claudel? Michael Chabon? Or someone I've never even heard of? Pressure's on, folks!
New Year Revisited
1. Write More Than I Read: Well it certainly has been a slow reading year. In fact, had it not been for two long haul flights and one crazy reading weekend, I'd have been lucky to crack the half ton. Six months saw me get through a measly 56 books; well below my yearly average. That said, I'm glad to report that I have spent a fair amount of my non-reading time writing, though you'd be forgiven for thinking otherwise if you could see what's left of my manuscript. Having cut 60,000 words some time in April, I'm currently at a net loss but, hopefully, it's all for the better. At least that's what I keep telling myself.
2. Stop Being Such a Lit-Wanker: I set out to read less high brow literature this year and while there were a few brief moments of mass market enjoyment they were very much in the minority. Oh well. I'd hate for you to think I had stopped being a total knob.
3. Smell the Roses: Read slower? Me? No chance. I'm just reading less in the same furious bursts.
4. The Tangible Aspirations: Well this one is easy. War and Peace? Nope. Road To Freedom? Nope. Lev Grossman? Nope. American Gods? Nope.
5. Lose 95 Kilos and Exist in a Vacuum: Again, nope. Still here. And heavier than ever!
So far, not so good. *cough cough*
Moving right along...
Top 5 of 2012 (So far)
Hopefully this is just a function of my not having read enough this year, but I can't even scrape together five books that I would be willing to hold out as raveworthy. So, without further ado, here's my top 4:
1. Satantango by Laszlo Krasznahorkai. Another completely impenetrable work of intellectual gymnastics by the master. A downtrodden village somewhere in Hungary is turned upside down by the arrival of the devil. Petty rivalries flare, ruin looms. Satantango is horribly bleak but, as a work of literature, totally invigorating.
2. Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander. Woody Allen type moves to rural America to escape his Jewish neuroses only to discover Anne Frank hiding out out in his new attic. It is as hilarious as it sounds, and Auslander manages to sustain the dark comedy throughout. Elderly, mean-spiritied Frank - desperately trying to write a sequel to her first book - is a brilliantly realised creation.
3. This Is Life by Dan Rhodes. Another charming, quirky book from England's most underrated writer. Not unlike The Family Fang, it lampoons the idiocy of the art world, but in a way so gentle and warm-hearted that even the most strident defender of "art" will be willing to come along for the ride.
4. Melisande! What Are Dreams? by Hillel Halkin. A lifetime of translating the works of great Yiddish and Hebrew writers has clearly taught Halkin how fiction works. His debut is a measured, beautifully crafted and often poetic look at the failure of a marriage. In many ways it reminded me of the greatest love letter ever written, Andre Gorz's Letter to D. Indeed, after that book, it has the second best declaration of love I have ever read: "If I had a thousand lives to live, I'd want them all to be with you." Awwwwwww.
Top 5 Of Every Year But 2012
Now this I can do with a little more confidence.
The Devil All The Time by Donald Ray Pollack. Stark, brutal and sure-footed debut by another possible heir to the Cormac McCarthy throne.
Purgatory by Tomas Eloy Martinez: To my mind the best book on the Central American disappearances. A woman enters a cafe and is shocked to see the husband she thought killed thirty years earlier. Thus begins Martinez's final novel, a painful exploration of the schisms that still tear at his country's heart.
The Family Carnovsky by I. J. Singer. I was slightly disappointed with Yoshe Kalb, so was overjoyed to see Singer in top form on this one. Another intergenerational saga, it never quite reaches the lofty heights of The Brothers Ashkenazi but still towers above most novels written today.
My Life In CIA by Harry Matthews: As the only American member of the Oulipo group, Matthews' life was as absurd as his writing. This memoir of a single year in France, where everyone was convinced he was a CIA agent so he decided to play along is a short work of wacky genius. Well worth checking this guy out if you've never heard of him.
The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster: How did I miss this as a kid? With his rampant punning, mathematical hijinks and total capitulation to the ridiculous, Juster is the modern incarnation of Lewis Carroll (except he didn't write to mack on a twelve year old girl. But I digress...). If your parents also denied you this wonderful pleasure, drop everything now and go buy a copy. Then hide it from your kids. Balance will return to the universe.
Half A Crystal Ball
So what's left for 2012? Plenty of promising books are on the horizon, so hopefully there will be enough to fill out a top ten come December 31st. I'm still going to be writing more than I read - Goddammit I need to finish this frigging book - but I will crack the ton, and I still have a firm belief that I will find one book to add to my favourites of all time. So who will it be? Ian McEwan? Philippe Claudel? Michael Chabon? Or someone I've never even heard of? Pressure's on, folks!
Microviews 16: Amis, Morrison, Barry
on Sunday, June 10, 2012
Lionel Asbo by Martin Amis
There was a time when Martin Amis could do no wrong. Money. The Rachel Papers. Time's Arrow (yeah, go stuff yourself, haters!). The Information. And then came Yellow Dog. If ever a single book destroyed my love for a writer, it was that pile of steaming crap. Since then, Amis has struggled to get back on track, regularly putting out fair-to-middling shadows of his former brilliance.The bitterness remains, as does his linguistic mastery. But, in every other sense, age has not done him any favours. With Lionel Asbo, Amis is trying his level best to recapture the acerbic satirical stylings of his early years but he just ain't got the knack to pull it off anymore. Lionel Asbo is a lower class pommy hooligan who wins 140 million pounds in the national lottery. There was a time that this premise would have been perfect fodder for Amis's cannon but these days the old fuddy duddy doesn't seem to know what to do with it. There are some mildly amusing moments, but for the most part it just reads like an aristocratic prat taking cheap shots at the English working class.
Home by Toni Morrison
The Nobel curse is a weird beast. It either drops the laureate immediately back into obscurity (Elfriede Jelinek, Herta Muller), turns them into complete dicks (Gunter Grass, V.S. Naipaul - though to be fair he was already a complete dick) or allows them to continue on in slightly diluted form (Doris Lessing, J. M. Coetzee, as much as it pains me to say so). Very few actually rise above their earlier work to make even greater art. Toni Morrison is one of those few. Since being awarded literature's most prestigious prize, she has written three beautiful, if ever shorter, works that have not only done justice to her name but arguably added to its gravitas. She has also managed to cultivate the world's best set of dreadlocks. But I digress... Home is another small, powerful novel to add to the pile. The story of Frank Money, an African American veteran who returns from the non-segregated army in Korea to the still very much segregated "homeland" of America, it is searing in its indictment of the recent past. It is also a beautiful hymn to the downtrodden - Money's redemption is a wonderful thing to behold. I wonder whether there should be a special Nobel Prize for surviving the curse.
We All Fall Down by Peter Barry
I don't know whether it is a spectacular case of 'sophomore album slump' or whether We All Fall Down was the book left languishing in Peter Barry's bottom drawer only to be resurrected in the wake of his debut's success, but this has got to be one of the most disappointing follow ups to a literary bolt from the blue that I've ever had the displeasure of reading. I Hate Martin Amis Et Al was an absolute cracker. Hilarious, madcap, insightful and superbly original. In other words, everything that Barry's latest effort is not. Supposedly a skewering of the advertising world in times of financial collapse, it charts the downfall of a high-flyer who (surprise surprise) eventually finds dignity in poverty. Ho hum. Didn't Elliot Perlman do that over a decade ago? We all know how vacuous and demoralising the advertising industry can be. If Barry had intended to show us that it can also be incredibly boring, he didn't need to make us experience it first-hand. Turns out in this round, Amis gets the win.
There was a time when Martin Amis could do no wrong. Money. The Rachel Papers. Time's Arrow (yeah, go stuff yourself, haters!). The Information. And then came Yellow Dog. If ever a single book destroyed my love for a writer, it was that pile of steaming crap. Since then, Amis has struggled to get back on track, regularly putting out fair-to-middling shadows of his former brilliance.The bitterness remains, as does his linguistic mastery. But, in every other sense, age has not done him any favours. With Lionel Asbo, Amis is trying his level best to recapture the acerbic satirical stylings of his early years but he just ain't got the knack to pull it off anymore. Lionel Asbo is a lower class pommy hooligan who wins 140 million pounds in the national lottery. There was a time that this premise would have been perfect fodder for Amis's cannon but these days the old fuddy duddy doesn't seem to know what to do with it. There are some mildly amusing moments, but for the most part it just reads like an aristocratic prat taking cheap shots at the English working class.
Home by Toni Morrison
The Nobel curse is a weird beast. It either drops the laureate immediately back into obscurity (Elfriede Jelinek, Herta Muller), turns them into complete dicks (Gunter Grass, V.S. Naipaul - though to be fair he was already a complete dick) or allows them to continue on in slightly diluted form (Doris Lessing, J. M. Coetzee, as much as it pains me to say so). Very few actually rise above their earlier work to make even greater art. Toni Morrison is one of those few. Since being awarded literature's most prestigious prize, she has written three beautiful, if ever shorter, works that have not only done justice to her name but arguably added to its gravitas. She has also managed to cultivate the world's best set of dreadlocks. But I digress... Home is another small, powerful novel to add to the pile. The story of Frank Money, an African American veteran who returns from the non-segregated army in Korea to the still very much segregated "homeland" of America, it is searing in its indictment of the recent past. It is also a beautiful hymn to the downtrodden - Money's redemption is a wonderful thing to behold. I wonder whether there should be a special Nobel Prize for surviving the curse.
We All Fall Down by Peter Barry
I don't know whether it is a spectacular case of 'sophomore album slump' or whether We All Fall Down was the book left languishing in Peter Barry's bottom drawer only to be resurrected in the wake of his debut's success, but this has got to be one of the most disappointing follow ups to a literary bolt from the blue that I've ever had the displeasure of reading. I Hate Martin Amis Et Al was an absolute cracker. Hilarious, madcap, insightful and superbly original. In other words, everything that Barry's latest effort is not. Supposedly a skewering of the advertising world in times of financial collapse, it charts the downfall of a high-flyer who (surprise surprise) eventually finds dignity in poverty. Ho hum. Didn't Elliot Perlman do that over a decade ago? We all know how vacuous and demoralising the advertising industry can be. If Barry had intended to show us that it can also be incredibly boring, he didn't need to make us experience it first-hand. Turns out in this round, Amis gets the win.
The Cunning Conspiracy of Awesome: How My New Year's Resolution To Read Less Is About To Be Massively Thwarted (As Is My Preference for Pithy Post Titles)
on Thursday, May 24, 2012
Not that I think everything is about me, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the Gods of Literature have gathered on Mount Papyrus to punish me for deeming 2012 my Year of Lesser Reading. As I said back in January, I have set this year aside to write. That means no 250 books, no fast living, minimal socialising and a gradual slowdown of my legal work. Alas, while I have no problem with the majority of those sacrifices, 2012 is shaping up to be one of the best years for literature in recent memory and I am dying to throw my computer to the wind and curl up on the couch with a pile of good books. I have already enjoyed newies from Laszlo Krasznohorkai, Toni Morrison, Shalom Auslander, Laurent Binet and Dan Rhodes. Then there were the ones I just haven't got to yet (Joyce Carol Oates, Ben Marcus, John Burnham Schwartz and collections from Jose Saramago and Roberto Bolano) and a couple of disappointments (I'm looking at you Iain Banks!!!!).
If that wasn't enough already, a quick glance on the literary horizon sees:
- Charles Yu returning to the short form after his incredible debut novel How To Live Safely In A Science Fictional Universe. Early reports for Sorry. Please. Thank You have been glowing;
- Michael Chabon channeling his inner Nick Hornby and doing for music what he previously did for comics in the highly-anticipated Telegraph Avenue;
- Ian McEwan getting in touch with his feminine side in the spy-thriller Sweet Tooth;
- Martin Amis hoping to redeem his recent career slump with the seemingly crass state of the nation novel Lionel Asbo;
- Salman Rushdie finally giving his side of the fatwa story in his memoir Joseph Anton (expect annoying appearances from Bono);
- Enrique Vila-Matas nodding furiously at James Joyce in Dublinesque which, I hope, is more Montano's Malady than Never Any End To Paris;
- Junot Diaz, who has remained suspiciously silent since winning the Pulitzer for Oscar Wao, finally sticking his head above the water line in a new collection of short stories called This Is How You Lose Her.
- the publication of Jose Saramago's early rural novel Raised From The Ground (yep, that's two books from him in one year - pretty impressive output for a dead guy!);
- Last but most certainly not least the latest book from one of my absolute favourite living writers Philippe Claudel. If The Investigation is anywhere near as great as Brodeck's Report I can safely assume it will top my list at the end of the year.
Yes, I am being heavily tested and I already know that I am going to fail. The temptation is too great. Alas, I have no choice but to anger the Lit Gods. Prepare for paper cuts...
If that wasn't enough already, a quick glance on the literary horizon sees:
- Charles Yu returning to the short form after his incredible debut novel How To Live Safely In A Science Fictional Universe. Early reports for Sorry. Please. Thank You have been glowing;
- Michael Chabon channeling his inner Nick Hornby and doing for music what he previously did for comics in the highly-anticipated Telegraph Avenue;
- Ian McEwan getting in touch with his feminine side in the spy-thriller Sweet Tooth;
- Martin Amis hoping to redeem his recent career slump with the seemingly crass state of the nation novel Lionel Asbo;
- Salman Rushdie finally giving his side of the fatwa story in his memoir Joseph Anton (expect annoying appearances from Bono);
- Enrique Vila-Matas nodding furiously at James Joyce in Dublinesque which, I hope, is more Montano's Malady than Never Any End To Paris;
- Junot Diaz, who has remained suspiciously silent since winning the Pulitzer for Oscar Wao, finally sticking his head above the water line in a new collection of short stories called This Is How You Lose Her.
- the publication of Jose Saramago's early rural novel Raised From The Ground (yep, that's two books from him in one year - pretty impressive output for a dead guy!);
- Last but most certainly not least the latest book from one of my absolute favourite living writers Philippe Claudel. If The Investigation is anywhere near as great as Brodeck's Report I can safely assume it will top my list at the end of the year.
Yes, I am being heavily tested and I already know that I am going to fail. The temptation is too great. Alas, I have no choice but to anger the Lit Gods. Prepare for paper cuts...
The Pulitzer Pisstake!
on Sunday, April 22, 2012
And now for a hiatus from my hiatus...
As you may have noticed, I've been absent of late doing God-knows-what, who-the-hell-knows-where (well, writing in Prague actually). As such I've missed some pretty big events. The newly elected premiere of the banana state done gone and scrapped his literary awards, proving that the idiots up north just voted in some even bigger idiot who cannot read. Former Waffen SS lackey Gunter Grass went and pissed in the face of Israel (which was an interesting about turn for the once staunch supporter) and so the troubled state reciprocated by taking a diplomatic dump on his head. Needless to say, both came out looking rather mucky. And JK Rowling proved herself the most canny being in publishing by choosing to eschew the Hunger Games generation in favour of a book for "grown-ups" (aka the former little shits who got into reading thanks to her series about earthenware).
Meanwhile, prize season has kicked into high gear, with the shortlists for the IMPAC and the Orange (really, is that still going?) awards being released. Particular kudos must go to shunned Arthur C. Clark almost-was Christopher Priest for launching into an hilarious tirade about the authors who beat him to the quick. But all that pales in comparison with news that the Pulitzer committee wouldn't be awarding a prize for fiction this year, the first time it has failed to do so since 1977. To be fair they were served up a pretty ordinary shortlist - an incomplete (in every sense of the word) novel by David Foster Wallace, a novella by now two-time bridesmaid Denis Johnson (not that novellas are totally out of contention for major prizes - I'm looking at you Julian Barnes), and a mildly exciting debut by Karen Russell. Surely there were more deserving contenders. Surely the Pulitzer committee need not have passed over this year's prize for fiction. I mean they awarded it to Geraldine Brooks for Chrissakes (I still maintain they meant to give it to E. L. Doctorow for a book of the same name in the same year but were to embarrassed to admit their mistake). There must have been something worthy of the massive sales spike such an honour bestows. Think of the poor publishers!!! Who will put food on their paper plates?
If only I had finished my book in time. I coulda been a contender!
As you may have noticed, I've been absent of late doing God-knows-what, who-the-hell-knows-where (well, writing in Prague actually). As such I've missed some pretty big events. The newly elected premiere of the banana state done gone and scrapped his literary awards, proving that the idiots up north just voted in some even bigger idiot who cannot read. Former Waffen SS lackey Gunter Grass went and pissed in the face of Israel (which was an interesting about turn for the once staunch supporter) and so the troubled state reciprocated by taking a diplomatic dump on his head. Needless to say, both came out looking rather mucky. And JK Rowling proved herself the most canny being in publishing by choosing to eschew the Hunger Games generation in favour of a book for "grown-ups" (aka the former little shits who got into reading thanks to her series about earthenware).
Meanwhile, prize season has kicked into high gear, with the shortlists for the IMPAC and the Orange (really, is that still going?) awards being released. Particular kudos must go to shunned Arthur C. Clark almost-was Christopher Priest for launching into an hilarious tirade about the authors who beat him to the quick. But all that pales in comparison with news that the Pulitzer committee wouldn't be awarding a prize for fiction this year, the first time it has failed to do so since 1977. To be fair they were served up a pretty ordinary shortlist - an incomplete (in every sense of the word) novel by David Foster Wallace, a novella by now two-time bridesmaid Denis Johnson (not that novellas are totally out of contention for major prizes - I'm looking at you Julian Barnes), and a mildly exciting debut by Karen Russell. Surely there were more deserving contenders. Surely the Pulitzer committee need not have passed over this year's prize for fiction. I mean they awarded it to Geraldine Brooks for Chrissakes (I still maintain they meant to give it to E. L. Doctorow for a book of the same name in the same year but were to embarrassed to admit their mistake). There must have been something worthy of the massive sales spike such an honour bestows. Think of the poor publishers!!! Who will put food on their paper plates?
If only I had finished my book in time. I coulda been a contender!
Excoriation Blues (Or The Happy Hatchet)
on Monday, February 13, 2012
Those of you who, like me, keep tabs on the wackier margins of the litworld may have heard that the first ever Hatchet Job of The Year was recently awarded to Adam Mars-Jones for his nuclear pounding of After Nightfall by Michael Cunningham. Granted, I've not read the book but the review, originally published in The Observer, certainly was a lot of fun. Check it out here!
We faceless minions who like to crap on about books do relish the odd opportunity to really sharpen our knives. I'll never forget when Andrew O'Hagan flew an ink plane into the tower of Don Delillo's awful post-911 novel, Falling Man. Few people would have cojones to waltz up to God's throne and take a dump on His shoes, so full credit to O'Hagan on that one. (If your memory doesn't stretch back to 2007 click here for a refresher). If only Dellilo had been given the opportunity to repay the favour when it came to O'Hagan's equally embarrassing effort from last year, Maf The Dog. Remember that? Didn't think so. It was the 'memoir' of Marilyn Monroe's dog, and resembled something that might have slipped out of Maf's backside after a particularly disagreeable meal. Either way, it was thrown over the fence of literary attention and promptly forgotten about. Alack alack, God (i.e. Dellilo) was no doubt too busy creating some other great masterwork to bother re-igniting long-snuffed fires.
There is, of course, a particular art to the hatchet job, one that some reviewers ought try to learn. Complete excoriations seem mean spirited if the bile is not tempered with the sharpest of wit. One that has recently raised my ire was David Gates's review of The Street Sweeper by Elliot Perlman in The New York Times Sunday Book Review. Talk about claws-out nasty. Gates doesn't so much review it as demolish every leg on which the book seeks to stand, including ones that I actually think are rather commendable. Am I the only one who finds it weird to slam a book for a possessing a fierce moral conscience, even if that conscience sometimes taints the narrative? And surely convenient contrivances in plot are commonplace even in the best works of fiction?
Weirdly, Gates seems to be waving the flag alone in his detestation. I haven't read the book (I have a moratorium on Holocaust books until mine is finished), but by all accounts it is, at the very least decent and, according to many, very good. Popular consensus amongst readers and bloggers (as opposed to the denizens of literary palaces) swings strongly in Perlman's favour. I'll wait to read it myself before forming an opinion. But for now, suffice to say, Gates falls into the very trap he thinks has slammed shut on Perlman's foot. Wit is the essence of the effective hatchet job. Gates takes Perlman to task for the 'humourlessness' of The Street Sweeper (I'd hate to see him review Cormac McCarthy or David Vann!). And yet, as opposed to when I was reading Mars-Jones or O'Hagan, during both of which I laughed heartily, I didn't so much as smirk with Gates. If it hand't been published in so venerable a paper I'm sure the review would have disappeared without a trace. I suspect now it will be the highlight of Gates's otherwise unremarkable career. Here's hoping good hearts prevail over mean spirits.
We faceless minions who like to crap on about books do relish the odd opportunity to really sharpen our knives. I'll never forget when Andrew O'Hagan flew an ink plane into the tower of Don Delillo's awful post-911 novel, Falling Man. Few people would have cojones to waltz up to God's throne and take a dump on His shoes, so full credit to O'Hagan on that one. (If your memory doesn't stretch back to 2007 click here for a refresher). If only Dellilo had been given the opportunity to repay the favour when it came to O'Hagan's equally embarrassing effort from last year, Maf The Dog. Remember that? Didn't think so. It was the 'memoir' of Marilyn Monroe's dog, and resembled something that might have slipped out of Maf's backside after a particularly disagreeable meal. Either way, it was thrown over the fence of literary attention and promptly forgotten about. Alack alack, God (i.e. Dellilo) was no doubt too busy creating some other great masterwork to bother re-igniting long-snuffed fires.
There is, of course, a particular art to the hatchet job, one that some reviewers ought try to learn. Complete excoriations seem mean spirited if the bile is not tempered with the sharpest of wit. One that has recently raised my ire was David Gates's review of The Street Sweeper by Elliot Perlman in The New York Times Sunday Book Review. Talk about claws-out nasty. Gates doesn't so much review it as demolish every leg on which the book seeks to stand, including ones that I actually think are rather commendable. Am I the only one who finds it weird to slam a book for a possessing a fierce moral conscience, even if that conscience sometimes taints the narrative? And surely convenient contrivances in plot are commonplace even in the best works of fiction?
Weirdly, Gates seems to be waving the flag alone in his detestation. I haven't read the book (I have a moratorium on Holocaust books until mine is finished), but by all accounts it is, at the very least decent and, according to many, very good. Popular consensus amongst readers and bloggers (as opposed to the denizens of literary palaces) swings strongly in Perlman's favour. I'll wait to read it myself before forming an opinion. But for now, suffice to say, Gates falls into the very trap he thinks has slammed shut on Perlman's foot. Wit is the essence of the effective hatchet job. Gates takes Perlman to task for the 'humourlessness' of The Street Sweeper (I'd hate to see him review Cormac McCarthy or David Vann!). And yet, as opposed to when I was reading Mars-Jones or O'Hagan, during both of which I laughed heartily, I didn't so much as smirk with Gates. If it hand't been published in so venerable a paper I'm sure the review would have disappeared without a trace. I suspect now it will be the highlight of Gates's otherwise unremarkable career. Here's hoping good hearts prevail over mean spirits.
The Collapse of The World Banks (or Why I'm Giving Up On Love)
on Thursday, January 26, 2012
At what point is it okay to give up on your once favourite authors?
So I was catching up on my backlog of book podcasts yesterday afternoon when I heard that Iain Banks has a new novel called Stonemouth coming out in April. I should, in theory, be very excited. Back in my early university days a friend gave me a copy of The Bridge, promising that it would provide the adult version of the mindfuck experience I had felt with I Am The Cheese. Same sense of discomfort, he said. Same paranoia. Same need to question everything. He was right and to this day The Bridge remains one of my favorutie books. As soon as I had finished it I hunted down every other Banks novel I could find. The Wasp Factory, Walking On Glass, The Crow Road, Complicity. Loved them all. I even dabbled in his hard science fiction stuff, with particular props to the awesome Feersum Endjinn. That's not to say there weren't the odd misses too. Espedair Street is embarrassingly bad. Canal Dreams is only average.
Once I had ploughed through them all, I began to anticipate his next release. Which is about when he began to lose it. Whit was quirky but hardly satisfying. Song of Stone promised something of a return to form but didn't quite deliver. Ditto The Business. Then came the book that had to go down as his worst so far - Dead Air - but I forgave him because any number of great novelists were publishing confused crap, trying to grapple with the September 11 attacks. Like any good fanboy, I wrote off the loss and waited once again with baited breath. Five years later The Steep Approach To Garbadale appeared and proved not only unworthy of the wait, but even worse than its predecessor. Wow that book was awful. Transition, released fairly soon afterwards, was slightly better but, after three bad books in a row, I had to concede that Banks might finally have fallen off my DEAR list.
I'm not sure how to feel about Stonemouth. The conditioned response in me is to get excited. The rational reaction is indifference. Perhaps even annoyance. But then I think of Andrew Miller. Having loved his debut Ingenious Pain, I suffered through the next four books and was ready to give up on him when he pulled out last year's magnificent novel Pure. Maybe Banks will work a similar miracle. If Stonemouth turns out to be as awful as I'm expecting I think I will finally have to give up on him altogether. Until the next book, that is. Pavlov's dog folks. Pavlov's dog.
So I was catching up on my backlog of book podcasts yesterday afternoon when I heard that Iain Banks has a new novel called Stonemouth coming out in April. I should, in theory, be very excited. Back in my early university days a friend gave me a copy of The Bridge, promising that it would provide the adult version of the mindfuck experience I had felt with I Am The Cheese. Same sense of discomfort, he said. Same paranoia. Same need to question everything. He was right and to this day The Bridge remains one of my favorutie books. As soon as I had finished it I hunted down every other Banks novel I could find. The Wasp Factory, Walking On Glass, The Crow Road, Complicity. Loved them all. I even dabbled in his hard science fiction stuff, with particular props to the awesome Feersum Endjinn. That's not to say there weren't the odd misses too. Espedair Street is embarrassingly bad. Canal Dreams is only average.
Once I had ploughed through them all, I began to anticipate his next release. Which is about when he began to lose it. Whit was quirky but hardly satisfying. Song of Stone promised something of a return to form but didn't quite deliver. Ditto The Business. Then came the book that had to go down as his worst so far - Dead Air - but I forgave him because any number of great novelists were publishing confused crap, trying to grapple with the September 11 attacks. Like any good fanboy, I wrote off the loss and waited once again with baited breath. Five years later The Steep Approach To Garbadale appeared and proved not only unworthy of the wait, but even worse than its predecessor. Wow that book was awful. Transition, released fairly soon afterwards, was slightly better but, after three bad books in a row, I had to concede that Banks might finally have fallen off my DEAR list.
I'm not sure how to feel about Stonemouth. The conditioned response in me is to get excited. The rational reaction is indifference. Perhaps even annoyance. But then I think of Andrew Miller. Having loved his debut Ingenious Pain, I suffered through the next four books and was ready to give up on him when he pulled out last year's magnificent novel Pure. Maybe Banks will work a similar miracle. If Stonemouth turns out to be as awful as I'm expecting I think I will finally have to give up on him altogether. Until the next book, that is. Pavlov's dog folks. Pavlov's dog.
Hoorah For The Horizon: Five Books To Get Excited About in 2012
on Thursday, January 5, 2012
Brace yourselves litnerds. 2012 is going to be big! It's a year that will bring us newies from heavy hitters like Toni Morrison, Peter Carey, Mario Vargas Llosa, Hillary Mantel and John Banville. Slightly lower down in the pecking order, you can expect books from Aleksander Hemon, Hari Kunzru, William Boyd, Jess Walter, Shalom Auslander and Ben Marcus. Plus there are essay collections from William H. Gass, Geoff Dyer, Marilynne Robinson and Roberto Bolano. No announcements have been made but I'd be willing to bet there's also a new Phillip Roth on the horizon. Ditto Paul Auster. So all in all it's shaping up to be a good one.
Of all the books that have been announced thus far, five really stand out.
Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon. You might be waiting a while for this one, but hey, what's another few months in the interminable drag of time that is the space between Chabon novels. He has promised that it will be a departure from the speculative awesomeness that was The Yiddish Policeman's Union and the early guff has it as a straightforward novel of place (that place being San Francisco's Bay Area). But c'mon, it's Chabon which means it will most likely be spectacular!
Satantango by Laszlo Krasznahorkai. Granted Krasznahorkai is almost as difficult to read as his name is to pronounce, but I'm still absolutely gagging for this. The Melancholy of Resistance was probably the most dense, nigh impenetrable intellectual challenge I have ever found myself embarking upon (which is pretty cool for a novel about a circus) and I imagine Satantango won't be too different. In his native Hungary they made a seven hour film of the thing!
Lionel Asbo: The State of England by Martin Amis. He's been off his game for a while now, but I'm holding out hope that this will be a return for the once enfant terrible of English literature. The story of a skinhead who wins the big lotto jackpot while in jail, it promises to be funny, scathing and cynical. In other words, vintage Amis.
What We Talk About When We Talk About Ann Frank by Nathan Englander. Hands down the best title for a book we are likely to encounter all year, this one sees Englander return to the short form after his rather mediocre debut novel The Ministry of Special Cases. Given that his first story collection, For The Relief of Unbearable Urges rates as amongst my favourites, and contains what I consider to be the greatest short story of the modern era, I'm super excited to see what he does with this one.
Sorry Please Thank You by Charles Yu. One sentence. How To live Safely In A Science Fictional Universe. That books was incredible. Hilarious. Tragic. Thought-provoking. Absurd. The moment I put it down I tracked down Yu's first collection, Third Class Superhero, and was quite disappointed; he hadn't yet properly synthesised his comic, literary and scientific sides. But after How To Live... I think he ought to be in top form and I'm willing to forgive him that first collection if this one is as good as I'm guessing it will be.
Plus special mention to the Prix Goncourt winning HHhH by Laurent Binet which is being billed as a cross between Jonathan Littel's The Kindly Ones and William H. Gass's The Tunnel, two profoundly disturbing books about how art engages with the catastrophe of the Holocaust.
Here's to a very happy new year!
Of all the books that have been announced thus far, five really stand out.
Telegraph Avenue by Michael Chabon. You might be waiting a while for this one, but hey, what's another few months in the interminable drag of time that is the space between Chabon novels. He has promised that it will be a departure from the speculative awesomeness that was The Yiddish Policeman's Union and the early guff has it as a straightforward novel of place (that place being San Francisco's Bay Area). But c'mon, it's Chabon which means it will most likely be spectacular!
Satantango by Laszlo Krasznahorkai. Granted Krasznahorkai is almost as difficult to read as his name is to pronounce, but I'm still absolutely gagging for this. The Melancholy of Resistance was probably the most dense, nigh impenetrable intellectual challenge I have ever found myself embarking upon (which is pretty cool for a novel about a circus) and I imagine Satantango won't be too different. In his native Hungary they made a seven hour film of the thing!
Lionel Asbo: The State of England by Martin Amis. He's been off his game for a while now, but I'm holding out hope that this will be a return for the once enfant terrible of English literature. The story of a skinhead who wins the big lotto jackpot while in jail, it promises to be funny, scathing and cynical. In other words, vintage Amis.
What We Talk About When We Talk About Ann Frank by Nathan Englander. Hands down the best title for a book we are likely to encounter all year, this one sees Englander return to the short form after his rather mediocre debut novel The Ministry of Special Cases. Given that his first story collection, For The Relief of Unbearable Urges rates as amongst my favourites, and contains what I consider to be the greatest short story of the modern era, I'm super excited to see what he does with this one.
Sorry Please Thank You by Charles Yu. One sentence. How To live Safely In A Science Fictional Universe. That books was incredible. Hilarious. Tragic. Thought-provoking. Absurd. The moment I put it down I tracked down Yu's first collection, Third Class Superhero, and was quite disappointed; he hadn't yet properly synthesised his comic, literary and scientific sides. But after How To Live... I think he ought to be in top form and I'm willing to forgive him that first collection if this one is as good as I'm guessing it will be.
Plus special mention to the Prix Goncourt winning HHhH by Laurent Binet which is being billed as a cross between Jonathan Littel's The Kindly Ones and William H. Gass's The Tunnel, two profoundly disturbing books about how art engages with the catastrophe of the Holocaust.
Here's to a very happy new year!
Another Missive From The (Maybe) Future
on Sunday, January 1, 2012
Greetings again fellow travellers (for the Aussies) and Cro-Magnan humanoids (for most of the rest of the world).
I write to you from the land of 2012, which thus far is proving blissfully uneventful. Here's hoping it continues that way!
As is now customary on B4BW, I shall pander to the populist lunacy of jotting down a bunch of things I intend but am unlikely to accomplish this coming year. For 2012, they include:
Write More Than I Read: The one positive to come out of the awful year that was 2011 was having my own writing published. I would have been content to have just seen my story The Prisoner of Babel printed in The Sleepers Almanac. It's a damn good compendium that I have been reading for years and I felt honoured to be included. However, to then have Crumbs go on to win The Age Short Story Award was beyond anything I could have wished for. It was also the kick in the arse I needed to really knuckle down and finish the novel I've been tinkering with for the past four years. It's currently 82,000 words (about 300 pages), halfway done and getting ridiculous. As such, I've decided to pull back from all the distractions in my life - music, friends, eating out, work, community involvement and, yes, reading to just focus on writing. Every day. I'll be happy to get to 50 books this year, so long as I finish the damned thing. To make things a little bit more tricky I also want to get a good deal of the other book I'm working on done. At least that one is a little easier, being a pure imaginative work of speculative fiction, rather than forcing me to run to the history books or primary sources every five seconds like the big one does. Either way, I have a lot of work ahead of me, but I feel that 2012 is the year it will happen!
Stop Being Such A Lit-Wanker: I have always fancied myself quite the highbrow reader, snubbing my nose at those lesser mortals who read what I deemed to be 'trash'. Fuck that! I'm going to start reading the sorts of books I have long mocked. Writing is a difficult, mentally-taxing endeavour, so this year I want my reading to be more of an escape. Seeing that I've always enjoyed the odd bit of genre fiction whenever I've deigned to 'lower' myself to its level, and almost all the books I wished I'd read last year seem to be genre books, I think I'll spend the better part of the year reading the stuff. And feeling good about it. And probably realising that anyone who considers themselves at lofty literary heights just because they read the most obscure highbrow lit they can find is, when stripped of the force field of arrogance, just a massive douche! Bring on the crime/sci-fi/fantasy/horror/graphic fiction.
Smell The Roses: Contrary to the way I have conducted myself over the past few years, it has occurred to me that reading is not a competitive sport. Given that I will probably be reading far fewer books than usual, I figure that when I do open one up I ought to be sitting back and enjoying the ride, extracting as much pleasure as possible from each book. Sure, I might get swept up in the thrill of some of the genre reads, or bogged down in some of the research-related books, but whatever the case I won't be racing to some outlandish finish line.
Some Tangible Reading Aspirations: Tolstoy's War and Peace. Sartre's Road To Freedom trilogy (plus the recently published fourth instalment). The first two instalments of Lev Grossman's Magicians Trilogy. Neil Gaiman's American Gods.
The Obligatory Aspiration: The Immutable Law of New Year stipulates that we all must choose one of two stock resolutions. One involves quitting smoking. The other is losing weight. I've never touched a cigarette in my life (other than the one my great grandmother gave me in Prague when I was six) so that's kind of moot. Luckily I'm a little pudgy around the edges and could do with some trimming so I'm going to take Option B. But I don't intend to do it in half measures. This year, I'm resolving to lose more than my entire body weight so that I can know what it means to live in a vacuum (without trying to fold myself into ridiculous contortions to fit in my Hoover). So there you have it. Final New Year's Aspiration - lose more than 95 kilos. If only Oprah was still on air. I'd have been a shoe-in!
And in case you're wondering, the year is off to a good start. The first book of 2012 is Roseanna by Maj Sjowell and Per Wahloo. Classic Scandinavian crime fiction from the 1960s.
I write to you from the land of 2012, which thus far is proving blissfully uneventful. Here's hoping it continues that way!
As is now customary on B4BW, I shall pander to the populist lunacy of jotting down a bunch of things I intend but am unlikely to accomplish this coming year. For 2012, they include:
Write More Than I Read: The one positive to come out of the awful year that was 2011 was having my own writing published. I would have been content to have just seen my story The Prisoner of Babel printed in The Sleepers Almanac. It's a damn good compendium that I have been reading for years and I felt honoured to be included. However, to then have Crumbs go on to win The Age Short Story Award was beyond anything I could have wished for. It was also the kick in the arse I needed to really knuckle down and finish the novel I've been tinkering with for the past four years. It's currently 82,000 words (about 300 pages), halfway done and getting ridiculous. As such, I've decided to pull back from all the distractions in my life - music, friends, eating out, work, community involvement and, yes, reading to just focus on writing. Every day. I'll be happy to get to 50 books this year, so long as I finish the damned thing. To make things a little bit more tricky I also want to get a good deal of the other book I'm working on done. At least that one is a little easier, being a pure imaginative work of speculative fiction, rather than forcing me to run to the history books or primary sources every five seconds like the big one does. Either way, I have a lot of work ahead of me, but I feel that 2012 is the year it will happen!
Stop Being Such A Lit-Wanker: I have always fancied myself quite the highbrow reader, snubbing my nose at those lesser mortals who read what I deemed to be 'trash'. Fuck that! I'm going to start reading the sorts of books I have long mocked. Writing is a difficult, mentally-taxing endeavour, so this year I want my reading to be more of an escape. Seeing that I've always enjoyed the odd bit of genre fiction whenever I've deigned to 'lower' myself to its level, and almost all the books I wished I'd read last year seem to be genre books, I think I'll spend the better part of the year reading the stuff. And feeling good about it. And probably realising that anyone who considers themselves at lofty literary heights just because they read the most obscure highbrow lit they can find is, when stripped of the force field of arrogance, just a massive douche! Bring on the crime/sci-fi/fantasy/horror/graphic fiction.
Smell The Roses: Contrary to the way I have conducted myself over the past few years, it has occurred to me that reading is not a competitive sport. Given that I will probably be reading far fewer books than usual, I figure that when I do open one up I ought to be sitting back and enjoying the ride, extracting as much pleasure as possible from each book. Sure, I might get swept up in the thrill of some of the genre reads, or bogged down in some of the research-related books, but whatever the case I won't be racing to some outlandish finish line.
Some Tangible Reading Aspirations: Tolstoy's War and Peace. Sartre's Road To Freedom trilogy (plus the recently published fourth instalment). The first two instalments of Lev Grossman's Magicians Trilogy. Neil Gaiman's American Gods.
The Obligatory Aspiration: The Immutable Law of New Year stipulates that we all must choose one of two stock resolutions. One involves quitting smoking. The other is losing weight. I've never touched a cigarette in my life (other than the one my great grandmother gave me in Prague when I was six) so that's kind of moot. Luckily I'm a little pudgy around the edges and could do with some trimming so I'm going to take Option B. But I don't intend to do it in half measures. This year, I'm resolving to lose more than my entire body weight so that I can know what it means to live in a vacuum (without trying to fold myself into ridiculous contortions to fit in my Hoover). So there you have it. Final New Year's Aspiration - lose more than 95 kilos. If only Oprah was still on air. I'd have been a shoe-in!
And in case you're wondering, the year is off to a good start. The first book of 2012 is Roseanna by Maj Sjowell and Per Wahloo. Classic Scandinavian crime fiction from the 1960s.
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