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.
Free Books For All!
on Thursday, January 19, 2012
Seems everyone is hopping on the World Book Night bandwagon! Everyone, that is, except Australia. The idea behind WBN, according to its website is "to give books to new readers, to encourage reading, to share your passion for a great book. The entire publishing, bookstore, library, author, printing, and paper community is behind this effort with donated services and time." Brilliant! In America alone, one million books will be given away on April 23.
Even on a micro level, I love the idea of giving away good books to complete strangers. Indeed, it would solve my current dilemma of what to do with my mirror library. Having finally constructed a room to house my collection, thereby giving me cause to actually do a stock take, I've realised that I have multiple copies of a fair few of my favourite books. For now they're housed at my parents' place. They too were forced to build a room's worth of shelving just to store the overflow. But wouldn't it be great to whittle down the collection with a Book Crossing-style mass-giveaway?
I hope Australia gets on board with the whole World Book Night movement. I know the publishing industry is struggling but the joint investment by them and the government (who ought to heavily subsidise it) is worth it in terms of having people fall in love with books again (by which I mean those old-fashioned paper things, not the ones that fly through space and land on a piece of chip-filled plastic). I also hope individuals start sharing the books they love but don't feel the need to keep. I, for one, am going to start leaving books on park benches or tram stops or anywhere else that someone might happen upon them. Free books to good homes, I say. Much better than having them cloistered away, gathering dust, without ever being looked at (let alone read).
Even on a micro level, I love the idea of giving away good books to complete strangers. Indeed, it would solve my current dilemma of what to do with my mirror library. Having finally constructed a room to house my collection, thereby giving me cause to actually do a stock take, I've realised that I have multiple copies of a fair few of my favourite books. For now they're housed at my parents' place. They too were forced to build a room's worth of shelving just to store the overflow. But wouldn't it be great to whittle down the collection with a Book Crossing-style mass-giveaway?
I hope Australia gets on board with the whole World Book Night movement. I know the publishing industry is struggling but the joint investment by them and the government (who ought to heavily subsidise it) is worth it in terms of having people fall in love with books again (by which I mean those old-fashioned paper things, not the ones that fly through space and land on a piece of chip-filled plastic). I also hope individuals start sharing the books they love but don't feel the need to keep. I, for one, am going to start leaving books on park benches or tram stops or anywhere else that someone might happen upon them. Free books to good homes, I say. Much better than having them cloistered away, gathering dust, without ever being looked at (let alone read).
Big Fuss About Small Crumbs: The Age Short Story Award
on Saturday, January 7, 2012
For once I won't do the talking.
Read the article about my story Crumbs here.
Read Crumbs, the winner of The Age Short Story Award for 2011, here.
Hope you all enjoy it!
I'm open to discussing it here or by email at baitforbookworms@gmail.com and will post a few thoughts further down the track.
Read the article about my story Crumbs here.
Read Crumbs, the winner of The Age Short Story Award for 2011, here.
Hope you all enjoy it!
I'm open to discussing it here or by email at baitforbookworms@gmail.com and will post a few thoughts further down the track.
The Uncertain Precipice: Awaiting the Likely Publication of Crumbs
on Friday, January 6, 2012
Right now I feel like I've been stripped naked, shoved into a giant, curtain-covered glass box, wheeled into the city centre and left to sit there overnight, awaiting some great unveiling. Tomorrow, my story Crumbs, which won The Age Short Story Award, will (I am led to believe) be published in the Summer Reading Supplement of The Saturday Age, and will also be put online for hapless litnerds to stumble across forever more. It may well be something that every writer dreams will happen, but right now I'm a pathetic bundle of neuroses.
I've read over Crumbs several times and am certainly happy with it (notwithstanding the one annoying typo that I found and am really hoping the editors did too). But it's still a weird feeling, to think something you have made is going out into the world to be picked apart and judged by all manner of people you're never likely to meet. I had the same feeling whenever a Yidcore album was about to drop, but this has a much heavier weight of expectation. People will read it expecting it to prove itself worthy of having won.
If these nerves weren't enough, there's also an odd sense of uncertainty because, while I do recall the Books editor of the paper telling me it will be published on the first Saturday of January, I have yet to hear anything since and, the more I think about it, the more I suspect I could be wrong. I was pretty pepped up on adrenalin when I received the call. Yep, I have a sleepless night ahead of me (which will be ably assisted by little Louie), and tomorrow I'll either be posting a link to the story or returning here, tail between my legs, to sulk. Either way you're in for some high-end entertainment. See you tomorrow!
I've read over Crumbs several times and am certainly happy with it (notwithstanding the one annoying typo that I found and am really hoping the editors did too). But it's still a weird feeling, to think something you have made is going out into the world to be picked apart and judged by all manner of people you're never likely to meet. I had the same feeling whenever a Yidcore album was about to drop, but this has a much heavier weight of expectation. People will read it expecting it to prove itself worthy of having won.
If these nerves weren't enough, there's also an odd sense of uncertainty because, while I do recall the Books editor of the paper telling me it will be published on the first Saturday of January, I have yet to hear anything since and, the more I think about it, the more I suspect I could be wrong. I was pretty pepped up on adrenalin when I received the call. Yep, I have a sleepless night ahead of me (which will be ably assisted by little Louie), and tomorrow I'll either be posting a link to the story or returning here, tail between my legs, to sulk. Either way you're in for some high-end entertainment. See you tomorrow!
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.
2011: And The Winner Is...
on Saturday, December 31, 2011
Well this one is a no brainer!
Forget your Murakamis and Ecos. I knew from the moment I started Jesse Ball's latest novel The Curfew that I had happened upon something very, very special. Ball had already been on my radar for a few years, being one of the few writers yet to disappoint. Samedi The Deafness was brilliant, whacked-out noir. The Way Through Doors was a gloriously surreal riff on identity and memory. Then there is his poetry and short prose (much of it collected in the wonderful compendium The Village on Horseback). But it is this, his third novel, that really cements his place in my mind as one of the great writers of our times. For those not yet to treat themselves to his work, Jesse Ball is Calvino, Kafka, Orwell, Stoppard and Chandler, rolled into one. Yes, he is that good. Don't be fooled, however, by all the name-checking. There is nothing even slightly derivative about his writing. Indeed, Jesse Ball has the most original voice in contemporary literature.
The Curfew is Ball's foray into the world of totalitarian dystopia; a world in which music has been banned, and the government causes its less favoured citizens to disappear. There is so much to love about this book - the absurdist humour of William's vocation; the beautiful tenderness of his and Molly's relationship; William's heartbreaking longing for his disappeared wife Louisa; the brilliant parallel world of the puppet show; Ball's willingness to eschew the happy ending for something far more profound and disturbing . Really, I could go on forever. Suffice to say that The Curfew is a masterstroke from the most exciting young writer at work today. One day it will be considered a classic but, for now, it'll have to sit patiently content in the knowledge that for me, and quite a few other people I know, it is the book of the year.
Check out my full review of Jesse Ball's The Curfew here.
Forget your Murakamis and Ecos. I knew from the moment I started Jesse Ball's latest novel The Curfew that I had happened upon something very, very special. Ball had already been on my radar for a few years, being one of the few writers yet to disappoint. Samedi The Deafness was brilliant, whacked-out noir. The Way Through Doors was a gloriously surreal riff on identity and memory. Then there is his poetry and short prose (much of it collected in the wonderful compendium The Village on Horseback). But it is this, his third novel, that really cements his place in my mind as one of the great writers of our times. For those not yet to treat themselves to his work, Jesse Ball is Calvino, Kafka, Orwell, Stoppard and Chandler, rolled into one. Yes, he is that good. Don't be fooled, however, by all the name-checking. There is nothing even slightly derivative about his writing. Indeed, Jesse Ball has the most original voice in contemporary literature.
The Curfew is Ball's foray into the world of totalitarian dystopia; a world in which music has been banned, and the government causes its less favoured citizens to disappear. There is so much to love about this book - the absurdist humour of William's vocation; the beautiful tenderness of his and Molly's relationship; William's heartbreaking longing for his disappeared wife Louisa; the brilliant parallel world of the puppet show; Ball's willingness to eschew the happy ending for something far more profound and disturbing . Really, I could go on forever. Suffice to say that The Curfew is a masterstroke from the most exciting young writer at work today. One day it will be considered a classic but, for now, it'll have to sit patiently content in the knowledge that for me, and quite a few other people I know, it is the book of the year.
Check out my full review of Jesse Ball's The Curfew here.
2011: The Final Countdown
on Friday, December 30, 2011
In my life, 2011 will go down as the year of extremes. On the one hand I lost two amazing people in my life, one truly tragically, and had a close call with a third. On the other I had my first story published in an annual publication that I love and have been reading for years, and then saw another of my stories (that just happens to be the prologue to a book I've been working on forever) win The Age Short Story Award . Plus, just as the year was drawing to a close, I got Louie, my stupidly adorable, vicious, man-eating Toy Poodle puppy who will be keeping my toes company as I sit at my desk and write over the coming years.
Throughout it all I managed to get through 151 books, many of them quite exceptional. I probably could have made a Top 30, but I annoy you with my rambling as it is so I'm trying to keep it short. Tomorrow I will be revealing my book of the year, but for now here's my Top 10, books 10 through 2.
10. The Submission by Amy Waldman. Ten years after the fact, we finally have the first almost-great American post-911 novel. From the simplest of premises - a Muslim wins the competition to design the memorial at Ground Zero - Waldman weaves a startling examination of grief, fear and the complexities of healing. Although mired by a clunky ending, The Submission is a well-rounded, thought-provoking work from a debut novelist to watch.
9. Pure by Andrew Miller. I'd put Miller's debut, Ingenious Pain, amongst my favourite novels of all time. Its follow-up, Casanova In Love, was so appalling that it appeared to put Miller off historical fiction for good. Thankfully, after three mediocre contemporary tales, he's finally dipped his toe back in the historical pond, because this story of the late-19th century exhumation of an entire cemetery in the centre of Pairs was an absolute winner. Criminally overlooked by Dame Stella's Booker mob.
8. The Postmortal by Drew Magary. Debut novels really were the go this year and The Postmortal was easily the most absurd of the lot. Magary depicts an hilariously horrible future in which a cure has been found for ageing and death becomes a highly-prized niche product. Like The Submission it was hampered by an unremarkable denouement, but the complex totality of the future Magary imagines made any hiccups easily forgivable.
7. Cain by Jose Saramago. The late, great Portugeuese scoundrel went out with a bang thanks to this middle finger reinterpretation of The Bible. Often hilarious, always daring, Cain was Saramago at his very best.
6. The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson. Another debut, another winner. Deliciously twisted family tale of performance artists using their children as props. The stunts work (for the most part) and the consequent derailment of the children's lives make for a frighteningly funny read.
5. Caribou Island by David Vann. Unremittingly bleak family saga from Alaska's answer to Cormac McCarthy. Vann delivered on the promise of his debut linked story collection Legend of A Suicide with a novel as cold and unforgiving as the frozen wasteland in which it is set.
4. Eat Him If You Like by Jean Teule. The shortest book on this list, but still one of the best, Jean Teule draws upon the real life tale of a town whipped into murderous frenzy during the Napoleonic wars. Not too far a stretch to find parallels with the current state of the world this can be read as warning against nationalistic excess as much as a comedy of awful errors.
3. I Hate Martin Amis Et Al by Peter Barry. As I said in my review, you have to have serious cojones to give your book a title like this. A weird amalgamation of anti-publishing industry tirade and Balkan War adventure story, it's hard to believe that this could possibly work. It does. Spectacularly.
2. The Fates Will Find Their Way by Hannah Pittard. I'm not 100% certain that this isn't actually a 2010 book, but it came out in Australia this year so I'm going to let it go through to the keeper. A deeply moving exploration of the ongoing effects of childhood loss, The Fates Will Find Their Way resonates in much the same way as Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones, but is by far the more exceptional book. And did I mention that, once again, it's a debut!
Throughout it all I managed to get through 151 books, many of them quite exceptional. I probably could have made a Top 30, but I annoy you with my rambling as it is so I'm trying to keep it short. Tomorrow I will be revealing my book of the year, but for now here's my Top 10, books 10 through 2.
10. The Submission by Amy Waldman. Ten years after the fact, we finally have the first almost-great American post-911 novel. From the simplest of premises - a Muslim wins the competition to design the memorial at Ground Zero - Waldman weaves a startling examination of grief, fear and the complexities of healing. Although mired by a clunky ending, The Submission is a well-rounded, thought-provoking work from a debut novelist to watch.
9. Pure by Andrew Miller. I'd put Miller's debut, Ingenious Pain, amongst my favourite novels of all time. Its follow-up, Casanova In Love, was so appalling that it appeared to put Miller off historical fiction for good. Thankfully, after three mediocre contemporary tales, he's finally dipped his toe back in the historical pond, because this story of the late-19th century exhumation of an entire cemetery in the centre of Pairs was an absolute winner. Criminally overlooked by Dame Stella's Booker mob.
8. The Postmortal by Drew Magary. Debut novels really were the go this year and The Postmortal was easily the most absurd of the lot. Magary depicts an hilariously horrible future in which a cure has been found for ageing and death becomes a highly-prized niche product. Like The Submission it was hampered by an unremarkable denouement, but the complex totality of the future Magary imagines made any hiccups easily forgivable.
7. Cain by Jose Saramago. The late, great Portugeuese scoundrel went out with a bang thanks to this middle finger reinterpretation of The Bible. Often hilarious, always daring, Cain was Saramago at his very best.
6. The Family Fang by Kevin Wilson. Another debut, another winner. Deliciously twisted family tale of performance artists using their children as props. The stunts work (for the most part) and the consequent derailment of the children's lives make for a frighteningly funny read.
5. Caribou Island by David Vann. Unremittingly bleak family saga from Alaska's answer to Cormac McCarthy. Vann delivered on the promise of his debut linked story collection Legend of A Suicide with a novel as cold and unforgiving as the frozen wasteland in which it is set.
4. Eat Him If You Like by Jean Teule. The shortest book on this list, but still one of the best, Jean Teule draws upon the real life tale of a town whipped into murderous frenzy during the Napoleonic wars. Not too far a stretch to find parallels with the current state of the world this can be read as warning against nationalistic excess as much as a comedy of awful errors.
3. I Hate Martin Amis Et Al by Peter Barry. As I said in my review, you have to have serious cojones to give your book a title like this. A weird amalgamation of anti-publishing industry tirade and Balkan War adventure story, it's hard to believe that this could possibly work. It does. Spectacularly.
2. The Fates Will Find Their Way by Hannah Pittard. I'm not 100% certain that this isn't actually a 2010 book, but it came out in Australia this year so I'm going to let it go through to the keeper. A deeply moving exploration of the ongoing effects of childhood loss, The Fates Will Find Their Way resonates in much the same way as Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones, but is by far the more exceptional book. And did I mention that, once again, it's a debut!
The Barking Mad Bookworm: Sleep Deprivation and Samuel Beckett
on Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Round numbers are for chumps!
In true bookworm style, my ridiculous literary OCD has crushed my better sense (yet again), compelling me to edge my way over the 150 mark and, more importantly, finish what I started. With three days left of 2011, I intend to get through the remaining two books in Samuel Beckett's Molloy trilogy which, coincidentally, will also allow me to end the year on every obsessive's two favourite numerical phenomena, a palindrome and a prime number - 151. Oh, but hold your applause. There's more. In an act that would make any olympic diver shit in his budgie smugglers, I've gone and upped the degree of difficulty. Yes, I got a puppy to distract me. Little Louie is doing his level best to deprive of sleep at night and have me second guessing his every bowel movement during the day. I think I'm going a bit mad. He is damn cute though. Much cuter than that craggy bastard Samuel Beckett. Which reminds me, I really ought to get back to reading. The incessant yapping of a pining puppy is quite the appropriate soundtrack for this dense, intellectual mindfuck.
See you in a couple of days, when I unveil the Top 10.
In true bookworm style, my ridiculous literary OCD has crushed my better sense (yet again), compelling me to edge my way over the 150 mark and, more importantly, finish what I started. With three days left of 2011, I intend to get through the remaining two books in Samuel Beckett's Molloy trilogy which, coincidentally, will also allow me to end the year on every obsessive's two favourite numerical phenomena, a palindrome and a prime number - 151. Oh, but hold your applause. There's more. In an act that would make any olympic diver shit in his budgie smugglers, I've gone and upped the degree of difficulty. Yes, I got a puppy to distract me. Little Louie is doing his level best to deprive of sleep at night and have me second guessing his every bowel movement during the day. I think I'm going a bit mad. He is damn cute though. Much cuter than that craggy bastard Samuel Beckett. Which reminds me, I really ought to get back to reading. The incessant yapping of a pining puppy is quite the appropriate soundtrack for this dense, intellectual mindfuck.
See you in a couple of days, when I unveil the Top 10.
2011: The "Best Of" Bridesmaids
on Monday, December 26, 2011
Close But No Cigar
Of the 150 novels I read this year, 63 were published in 2011. Compiling a top ten has been rather difficult and so I feel it would be remiss of me not to give honourable mentions to the few books that just missed the cut. Really, any of these probably could have ended up in the final ten. The fickle finger of fate dictated that they weren't.
The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips: This was worth reading for the 'lost' Shakespeare play alone, but The Tragedy of Arthur was far more than just an act of literary ventriloquism. Phillips's explanation of how he came to find the play is one of the funniest unreliable faux-memoirs you are ever likely to encounter.
Monsieur Linh And His Child by Philippe Claudel: Another brilliant offering from Claudel, following the masterful Brodeck's Report. Claudel certainly isn't afraid to tackle the big issues, this time turning his mind to the refugee experience in France. That he does so with such subtlety and grace makes this book much more than a lecture from the pulpit.
The Wandering Falcon by Jamil Ahmad: It is somewhat disheartening to think that one of the finest debut novels of 2011 was penned by an octogenarian. It shows tremendous promise which time is likely to snuffle. On the flipside, Ahmad brings to these linked stories the weight of a life fully lived that most writers would kill for.
The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes: Barnes finally snared a Booker for this small but nonetheless affecting meditation on growing old, and questioning the idealistic assumptions of one's youth.
Ten Thousand Saints by Eleanor Henderson: Another exceptional debut novel, Ten Thousand Saints documents New York's burgeoning straight edge punk rock scene of the mid-80's through the lens of a bunch of seriously fucked up kids. Far from an indulgent nostalgia trip, Henderson exposes the hypocrisy, violence and passion of a counter culture that most wouldn't have the nous to touch. This was the book that Jennifer Egan's A Visit from The Goon Squad wished it had been. And there's not a Powerpoint presentation in sight!
The List I Swore I Wouldn't Write!
I've spent the last month frantically trying to get through as many 2011 novels as possible in the hope that I might not have to write this list. Alas, while I read fifteen, there was still a dozen I couldn't get to. I guess that's what January is for! (PS Let me know if any of these are must-reads. I know I won't get through them all, but would hate to miss out)
The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers by Thomas Mullen
The Revisionists also by Thomas Mullen (what amphetamines does this guy pop??)
Ready Player One by Ernest Cline
The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach
The Leftovers by Tom Perotta
There But For The... by Ali Smith
The Magician King by Lev Grossman
The Call by Yanick Murphy
When She Woke by Hilary Jordan
Charles Jessold, Considered As A Murderer by Wesley Stace
The Facility by Simon Lelic
Embassytown by China Mieville
Of the 150 novels I read this year, 63 were published in 2011. Compiling a top ten has been rather difficult and so I feel it would be remiss of me not to give honourable mentions to the few books that just missed the cut. Really, any of these probably could have ended up in the final ten. The fickle finger of fate dictated that they weren't.
The Tragedy of Arthur by Arthur Phillips: This was worth reading for the 'lost' Shakespeare play alone, but The Tragedy of Arthur was far more than just an act of literary ventriloquism. Phillips's explanation of how he came to find the play is one of the funniest unreliable faux-memoirs you are ever likely to encounter.
Monsieur Linh And His Child by Philippe Claudel: Another brilliant offering from Claudel, following the masterful Brodeck's Report. Claudel certainly isn't afraid to tackle the big issues, this time turning his mind to the refugee experience in France. That he does so with such subtlety and grace makes this book much more than a lecture from the pulpit.
The Wandering Falcon by Jamil Ahmad: It is somewhat disheartening to think that one of the finest debut novels of 2011 was penned by an octogenarian. It shows tremendous promise which time is likely to snuffle. On the flipside, Ahmad brings to these linked stories the weight of a life fully lived that most writers would kill for.
The Sense Of An Ending by Julian Barnes: Barnes finally snared a Booker for this small but nonetheless affecting meditation on growing old, and questioning the idealistic assumptions of one's youth.
Ten Thousand Saints by Eleanor Henderson: Another exceptional debut novel, Ten Thousand Saints documents New York's burgeoning straight edge punk rock scene of the mid-80's through the lens of a bunch of seriously fucked up kids. Far from an indulgent nostalgia trip, Henderson exposes the hypocrisy, violence and passion of a counter culture that most wouldn't have the nous to touch. This was the book that Jennifer Egan's A Visit from The Goon Squad wished it had been. And there's not a Powerpoint presentation in sight!
The List I Swore I Wouldn't Write!
I've spent the last month frantically trying to get through as many 2011 novels as possible in the hope that I might not have to write this list. Alas, while I read fifteen, there was still a dozen I couldn't get to. I guess that's what January is for! (PS Let me know if any of these are must-reads. I know I won't get through them all, but would hate to miss out)
The Many Deaths of the Firefly Brothers by Thomas Mullen
The Revisionists also by Thomas Mullen (what amphetamines does this guy pop??)
Ready Player One by Ernest Cline
The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach
The Leftovers by Tom Perotta
There But For The... by Ali Smith
The Magician King by Lev Grossman
The Call by Yanick Murphy
When She Woke by Hilary Jordan
Charles Jessold, Considered As A Murderer by Wesley Stace
The Facility by Simon Lelic
Embassytown by China Mieville
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