Microviews Vol. 21: Genre-ary Bonanza

And Hoban makes it eleven. Not a bad haul to start off the year. Keeping true to my resolution, here are a bunch more Microviews of what I've been reading.

A Handbook For Visitors From Outer Space by Kathryn Kramer
While the apocalyptic end war rages in the background (or so most people believe), one apple pie American family open the closet to let the skeletons out for a dance. It's an interesting, if slightly laboured, allegory for the Cold War with one clear message: The family that shags together, frags together.
3.5 out of 5 UFOs

The Redeemer by Jo Nesbo
Once again Nesbo rescues Nordic crime fiction from the Larsson abomination with this ripper of a tale that combines The Salvation Army, an assassin from the former Yugoslavia and the best porno-named detective in the business. I gulped down its 560-odd pages in one sitting and burped something better smelling than The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.
3.5 out of 5 Better Tattoos

Foundation by Isaac Asimov
Strip away the techno-hooplah from Asimov's canonical sci-fi space opera and you've got a damn fine novel of political intrigue, espionage, conquest and nation building. This would have made a way more sound basis for a religion than Hubbard's schlocky brain sludge.
4 out of 5 Jedi Councils

The Strangers In The House by Georges Simenon
Hector Loursat, a washed-up lawyer in self-imposed drunken exile, is unceremoniously ripped from his pitiful stupor when a notorious gangster is murdered in his house and his daughter is implicated in the crime. Simenon's great treatise on the reintegration of a recluse, couched around an intriguing murder mystery, is bleak but compelling. Perry Maison, if you will.
3.5 out of 5 Smoking Hermit Beards

Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
To paraphrase Samuel L. Jackson when asked about a certain movie involving reptiles and aircraft: "It's MotherF*&^n Brave New MotehrF*&^n World!" Need I say more?
4 Out Of 5 Human Hatcheries

Ridley Walker by Russell Hoban
Rapier head drowned the nirrem pentrubble slang proas and yer infra dam grate spear ants in the vane of Jayjee Ballud, Ants Knee Burchis and Will Yam Golding. Wanna the most fully real eyesed poster pokliptik worlds ever putter pay per with anon forget bull near ate her. Just one too full.
4 outer 5 Sharp Penned Conches

Aharon Appelfeld and the No-Bull Nobel

Forget the Nobel and its puffy politicised pandering. When it comes to international prizes that truly reward bodies of work it is the relative newcomer that truly interests me. Now only onto its fifth cycle, the Man Booker International Prize seems a more varied and considered effort. The inaugural winner was Ismail Kadare, a thus far staggering oversight by the Swedish Academy. He was followed two years later by another literary lion, Chinua Achebe. Then came Alice Munro and, most recently, Philip Roth. For those of us who cry foul every November, the international Booker seems to consistently be getting it right.

This year's shortlist is typically exciting. The ten contenders include such heavy hitters as Vladamir Sorokin, Marilynne Robinson, Peter Stamm and Yan Lianke. But it is the oldest and perhaps quietest name on the list that I really hope bags it. Aharon Appelfeld is, in my humble opinion, the greatest ever survivor-novelist. Don't get me wrong. I'm not dissing Elie Wiesel or Primo Levi or any of the other amazing writers who have turned their experience into literature. But Appelfeld is something different. He is quiet, yet fierce. His depth of humanity knows no bounds. Most importantly, he possesses an eerie ability to convey the Nazi horror without ever needing to situate any of his books in a concentration camp.

Such is my love for the guy that when I am in Jerusalem I make a beeline for Tmol Shilshom, the quiet coffee shop (with amazing shakshuka) in which he is known to hang and, if apocryphal tales are to be believed, write. I have yet to see him, but I have definitely encountered other Appelfeld sycophants clearly waiting around hoping to catch a glimpse of this great man.

If you have never read him before, step away from your screen right now and hunt down a copy of Baddenheim 1939. It is probably the most revelatory Holocaust novel of all time and doesn't directly involve the Holocaust at all. Once you devour that and are desperate for more, check out The Iron Tracks, Tzili, The Retreat and his most recent novel to be translated Until the Dawn's Light. Then give up your day job for a while and read the rest of his books. He is that good. Hopefully the judges of the Man Booker International Prize agree with me.

The Foot of The Goodreads Mountain...

Apparently I have a Goodreads author profile. It only has one of the three books in which I've appeared and I have no idea how to fix that, but hey... I can add it to my odd assortment of cyberhomes (wiki, imdb, B4BW) that the kids use these days to validate their existence. No existential crises for me, then. Hopefully Goodreads will still be around in a few years so that I can fill the page with a few more titles (including, I would hope, some of my own).

Resolution In Retrospect

Long-time readers of B4BW might have wondered about the absence of resolutions for 2013. I mean, I've always been the sort of guy who likes to set himself lofty goals and then revel in his failure to achieve most of them. So why not this year? I guess the answer is simple. I couldn't really think of any that were sufficiently different. Or fun. Or achievable.

I did have one half-decent idea: give every month a stupid pun name and read accordingly. Genre-ary!?! How good was that? I'm still strutting around my room with pride (it's worth noting that I could also have done Yan-uary, and only read books by the winner of last year's Nobel Prize, and the strutting would have been equally cocky). Unfortunately, that's where it ended. February... Hmmmm... Let's see. Feb-You-ary (where I only read books recommended by you guys)? Feb-brew-ary (where I read books by drunken Yiddish writers)? Even if I did one of those, what the heck rhymes with March?

Well, I'm glad to report that, almost a month too late, I've come up with what I hope will be an excellent challenge. I am going to review every single book I read in 2013. Yep. Whether it just be by way of a single line or whether I go the full hog, I'm doing them all. Just try to stop me!

(Meanwhile, inside my brain: March... Nope. Still nothing.)

Honey, I Shrunk The Microviews!

Halfway through Genre-ary and I'm having a whale of a time. Six books. A grant application. Even the odd bit of sun (shielded, of course, by my head-to-toe black get up). All this free brain time got me thinking about the old Mircorviews and how they seem, in the past three years, to have grown far too big for my liking. Time to rejig 'em. From now on, Microviews will be as originally conceived. Pithy chunks of glee or bile, with the added bonus of some sort of book-appropriate rating. And what better way to get it all going than with my first five books of 2013.

Seeking Whom He May Devour by Fred Vargas
Country bumpkins mistake serial killer for werewolf. No clues to piece together, so just sit back and watch it unfold. More goofin' than sleuthin', really.
3 out of 5 Fang Marks.

The Guard by Peter Terrin
Waiting For Godot with guns, as reimagined by Ridley Scott and directed by Quentin Tarantino. Paranoia and tedium do the tango in post-apocalyptic parking garage.
3 out of 5 Flux Capacitors.

The Thief by Fuminori Nakamura
Note to budding thieves. There's cash to be had in the short term, but you don't want in on the repayment plan. Uber-slick Japanese crime thriller let down only by a rather lame-o ending.
4 out of 5 Picked Pockets.

The Collini Case by Ferdinand Von Schirarch
Following two patchy truish-crime story collections, Von Schirarch finally goes for the long form and mostly succeeds. A murder mystery where the why-dunnit is all that counts and Germany's post-war criminal justice system is hanged, drawn and quartered.
4 out of 5 Panzer Tanks

In A Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes
A creepy peek into the mind of a misogynist serial killer with all the classic noir belles and whistles. Its no The Killer Inside Me but it slays most of the other dick swingers from the 50s.
3.5 out of 5 Shell Casings.

2013: Hoorah For The New Horizon

Much indulgent fun is being had here in the land of the Bookworm during Genre-ary (as, it appears, are an overabundance of "hurrahs") but it's what's in store for the following months that really has me excited. I challenge you not to choke on your own drool when contemplating the potential excellence of these ten forthcoming releases:

Harvest - Jim Crace (February)
House of Earth - Woodie Guthrie (February)

Middle C - William H. Gass (March)
The Childhood of Jesus - J. M. Coetzee (March)
The Infatuations - Javier Marias (March)
The Enchanted Wanderer - Nikolai Leskov (March)

Americanah - Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche (April)
Odds Against Tomorrow - Nathaniel Rich(April)

Seiobo There Below - Laszlo Krasznahorkai (May)
The Unknown University: Poems - Roberto Bolano (May)

Hooray for GENRE-ary!!!

January is a strange time in book world. Publishers and authors go into a thirty one day hibernation cycle, leaving the crazy vampire bookworms among us with very little new blood on which to feast. Thankfully it also means we don't spend a month frantically buying up as many books from the given year as we can in an attempt to plough through the ones we're ashamed not to have read when we compile our best of lists (I'm looking at you, December).

In previous years I have used January to catch up on those books that I just couldn't get to by New Year's Eve. However, with apologies once again to Telegraph Avenue, I have decided to declare the first month of 2013 Genre-ary, during which I will only read genre fiction. I have accumulated a nice little pile of crime, fantasy and sic-fi books on my desk that, if it weren't for this month, I probably would never read. First up: Seeking Whom He May Devour by Fred Vargas.

And so begins Genre-ary, a month to sit back, relax and just enjoy myself while pretending that I am not absolutely salivating in anticipation of the newies from JM Coetzee (coming in March), Javier Marias (also March) and Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche (coming in April).

2012: And The Winner Is...

I'd never heard of the author. The cover design was drab. I had sworn off reading Holocaust-related fiction. Why, then, did I pick up Trieste by Dasa Drndic?

In a year that delivered some pretty great books, none were quite as brilliant as this. Drawing on photographs, biographical snippets, documentary evidence and a multiplicity of innovative narrative techniques, Trieste tells the harrowing story of Haya Tedeschi, an Italian woman caught up in the Nazi machinery as it overruns her country and crushes all that she hold dear. At the start we meet Haya in her twilight years, waiting anxiously for the arrival of a son she long thought dead. It is to be a bittersweet reunion; he is, after all, her son, product of the Lebensborn program, but his very existence reminds her of the horrors of her youth and the man who, despite moments of kindness and decency, was an outright monster. The novel then unfurls into a sprawling account of Haya's desperate struggle to save herself against overwhelming odds.

The emotional and moral complexity of Haya's story demands a great deal from the reader but the effort is well rewarded. Daring in its ambition, ingenious in its structure, Trieste breathes new life into a fairly stagnant genre. One of the Israeli greats (I think it was David Grossman or Amos Oz) once said that the great Holocaust novel has yet to be written. He might still be right, but this is about as close as it we've seen. To my mind, Trieste will now be the benchmark against which all such novels will be judged.

So there you have it. Trieste by Dasa Drndic. A truly worthy winner of Bait For Bookworm's Book of The Year.

2012: A Brief Statistical Interlude

And now for something completely different...

Before announcing my favourite book of 2012 later this afternoon, I thought I'd take a quick statistical look at my year of reading. Needless to say I know nothing about maths or statistics so the more numerically inclined among you will probably laugh at my ineptitude. Oh well, here goes nothing (being neither a number nor a constant so far as I am aware):

Number of Pages Read: 29,087

Longest Book: Wolf Hall - Hilary Mantel (650 pages)

Shortest Book: Blind Man's Bluff - Aidan Higgins (60 pages)

Average Length of Book: 255 pages

Time Spent Reading (Based on Average Reading Speed of 90 pages an hour): 323 hours or 13.5 days which, in the scheme of things, isn't very long.

So there you go maths nerds. My year in review. Now stay tuned for the 2012 winner of The Bookworm's Book of the Year.

2012: The Final Countdown

Let me start with a confession. Try as I might, I just couldn't bring myself to read Telegraph Avenue. I say that because I figure you would be expecting to see it somewhere on my list. It isn't. Maybe someday I will read it. Michael Chabon still is one of my favourite writers of all time. And it is about my other great love. Alas...

Other books I ought to have read but didn't (and perhaps would have loved if I actually did) include: Hostage by Elie Wiesel, Accelerated by Bronwen Hruska, Mountains Of The Moon by IJ Kay, Hologram For The King by Dave Eggars, Joseph Anton by Salman Rushdie and The Round House by Louise Erdich. Shame on me, I know.

But enough of the jibber jabber. Here are the first nine of my Top 10 for 2012:

10. The Flame Alphabet - Ben Marcus. Why Ben Marcus? Why? After kicking off with the most exciting, mind-bending and straight up breathtaking opening few chapters of the past two decades you went and ruined it all with an expedition up your own sphincter. But I digress. The Flame Alphabet has the best post-apocalyptic set-up of all time. The language of children as a life-threatening disease? Genius. Parents fleeing their own kids, rejecting the societal norm of protection and nurture to save their own arses? Spectacular. A rip roaring adventure that manages to channel both JG Ballard and Cormac McCarthy, yet told in a perfectly unique voice? I bow at your feet. And, just when you think you've found the best book ever, it all falls apart? Oh why, Ben Marcus. Seriously, why? (But you still make my Top 10)

9. The Sound of Things Falling - Juan Gabriel Vasquez. With this, his third novel, Columbian Vasquez firmly stakes his claim as one of South America's most important writers. Once again he mines the dark edges of his country's history in a tale of a young couple swept up in Escobar's emerging drug cartel. A novel about naivety, sacrifice, betrayal and the violence that sometimes puts paid to even the most innocent of intentions. Moving, yet brutal.

8. Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk - Ben Fountain. I'm not quite as convinced as everyone else that this is Catch-22 of the Iraq War, but it is undoubtedly an exuberant satirical roast of all that gung-ho, celebrity-obsessed, politically-absurd America holds dear. Just the image of a bunch of befuddled Marines being whisked back home and made to parade around the country at football matches and ticker tape parades before being plonked back in the war zone was enough to bring on a smirk. The absurdity of it all would have me splitting my sides if it weren't so damn tragic.

7. A tie. This Is Life - Dan Rhodes and What In God's Name - Simon Rich. I was juggling which of these would go higher on my list before taking the easy way out (and allowing myself to crib an extra book into my top 10) and declaring a tie. Rhodes continues to dish out the quirky charm in this ode to serendipity and the pretentiousness of the art world. Never before has a naked man shitting in front of an audience seemed so funny. Equally enjoyable was Simon Rich's novel about the almost-destruction of mankind. God has lost faith in his creations and decides to wipe out the world (he wants to concentrate on opening an asian fusion restaurant in heaven instead) but two lowly angels make it their mission to prove there is hope for humanity. The only problem - they must make the two most socially awkward people you have ever seen fall in love. It's cheesy and kind of loopy, but the gags work, making What In God's Name the most pleasurable read of the year for me.

6. Hope: A Tragedy - Shalom Auslander. Speaking of funny, this one takes the cake. A completely batshit crazy story of a neurotic city Jew escaping to the country only to find Anne Frank alive, old, cranky and living in his attic. She pisses in the heating ducts, bangs on the ceiling, does her level best to drive him nuts... That is when she isn't desperately trying to write a sequel to her worldwide bestselling first book. You know the one. Auslander skewers so many of contemporary Jewry's holy cows that he might as well open his own Kosher abbatoir. Insanely hilarious!

5. The Fall of The Stone City - Ismail Kadare. I thought he was dead. Or at least I thought his talent had dried up. Whatever, Kadare's latest is among his best (and that's really saying something). When Hitler's army rolls into Albania, the first town it hits is Gjirokaster. The invaders expect the red carpet treatment. Instead they get bullets. The city looks set for destruction but a mysterious meeting between the local doctor and the German commander changes its fate. For years afterwards the locals debate what happened that night. In saving the city did the good doctor betray its people? Told in whispers and spurts of rumour, this amazing novel challenges concepts of loyalty, friendship and national identity.

4. We Are What We Pretend To Be - Kurt Vonnegut. For a bloke who carked it half a decade ago, Vonnegut sure is prolific. Six books in five years, two of them in 2012. Most living writers would be jealous. Just to rub salt into the wound, We Are What We Pretend To Be is the best thing he's done since he died. Consisting of two previously unpublished novellas, one from the very beginning of his career and one from the very end, it just proves that Vonnegut was a bloody genius from go to woe. And don't worry if you're not a fan of his usual whacky hijinks - the first novella owes more to John Steinbeck than Spike Milligan. As for the second... Holy crap that guy was nuts.

3. Melisande! What Are Dreams? - Hillel Halkin. You don't spend a lifetime translating the great Yiddish and Hebrew masters without having some of their brilliance rub off on you. And sure, it might take you seventy three years, but when you do put out that first novel it's probably going to be a killer. This melencholic story of a marriage in decline is one of the most tender meditations on the nature of human relations that I have ever read. Sad yet uplifting, perceptive yet innocent, Halkin's belated debut is one that will linger in your heart as much as your mind.

2. The Yellow Birds - Kevin Powers. I should put it out there that any of my top four books could have been number one, so close was the competition. I toyed with putting Kevin Powers's stunning debut at the very top but for reasons that will become clear tomorrow it was just pipped at the post. The Yellow Birds is the kind of literary revelation that heralds a new messiah. Powers draws on his own life as a poet and active soldier to craft a riveting tale of one man's struggle to come to terms with the death of his friend during service in Iraq. Not a single war cliche pollutes the perfect prose. The emotion is raw, the anger palpable, the depth of humanity staggering. If you are not torn apart by this novel, you have no soul.

Check back tomorrow for my Oh So Surprising Number One.