The General Returns To His Labyrinth: Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1927 - 2014)
on Friday, April 18, 2014
I suppose the writing was on the wall once doctors released Gabriel Garcia Marquez from hospital last week, but even so I was saddened to read that he died today. A pioneer, a poet and, for me, a personal hero, Marquez will be missed in the physical sense but, thanks to an almost unparalleled body of work (not to mention his gifting of magical realism to the literary world) he will always be with us in spirit. No doubt his death will cause a flurry of interest so if you're looking for a place to start, might I suggest his novellas, particularly No One Writes To The Colonel and Leaf Storm. They will change your world. When you're ready, move on to the incredibly complex but truly amazing General In His Labyrinth and Autumn of The Patriarch. Then read the rest. A fitting tribute to one of the true greats.
The Sci-Fi Author, Blessed Be He (Step Aside JK Rowling!)
on Thursday, April 17, 2014
Three cheers for the authorial bait-and-switch. Dickens writing as Boz, Stephen King as Richard Bachman, Dean Koontz as about three hundred different people, John Banville as Benjamin Black, JK Rowling as Robert Gailbraith... the list could go on forever. But given the time of year, here's one that I couldn't possibly... err... pass over.
Now, I doubt many of you are particularly au fait with the contemporary Czech science fiction movement so let me get you up to speed. For the past couple of months there's been only one book that matters - Altchulova Metoda (Altchul's Method) by Chaim Cigan. The first in a four book series it (according to Radio Praha) mixes "politics, prison cells and the secret police with the Middle Ages, Moses and Jewish history – a science fiction thriller told across continents and epochs." All pretty standard sci-fi stuff, I suppose (notwithstanding the heavy Jewish motifs).
So why the big fuss? It's not the book itself that's set tongues wagging so much as the identity of its author. The jacket guff claims Cigan to be a Czech emigre who now lives in Canada. Geography allayed suspicion in the absence of face-to-face interviews. Sure, the book was a success, but the Czech press weren't exactly about to to send hordes of reporters across the sea just to interview a genre writer. The phone works just fine, thank you.
However, within weeks of its release rumours began to circulate. This Cigan fellow... he just wasn't ringing true. Something was fishy... might I say, gefilte fishy. A bit of scratching around revealed Prague's best kept secret. No, not the location of the legendary Golem but, in literary terms, not that far off. Chaim Cigan was none other than the Chief Rabbi of Prague, Karol Sidon. Turns out he has a slightly unconventional idea of what makes a... sorry for this... "good book". As he said:
"Before I began writing this I couldn't read anything but what is considered lowbrow sci-fi literature, which I really love… The story almost unraveled by itself; it was fascinating for me to watch what kind of stuff was going on in my head."
Altchul's Method has yet to be translated into English and my Czech is, to use the vernacular, neupotřebitelný (work it out for yourselves). No doubt it's just a matter of time. Thankfully I still have lox of books to read in the meantime.
*Disclaimer: Yes, I am ashamed of almost very pun in this post.
** Double Disclaimer: I'm still a bit proud of the "gefilte fishy" one.
Now, I doubt many of you are particularly au fait with the contemporary Czech science fiction movement so let me get you up to speed. For the past couple of months there's been only one book that matters - Altchulova Metoda (Altchul's Method) by Chaim Cigan. The first in a four book series it (according to Radio Praha) mixes "politics, prison cells and the secret police with the Middle Ages, Moses and Jewish history – a science fiction thriller told across continents and epochs." All pretty standard sci-fi stuff, I suppose (notwithstanding the heavy Jewish motifs).
So why the big fuss? It's not the book itself that's set tongues wagging so much as the identity of its author. The jacket guff claims Cigan to be a Czech emigre who now lives in Canada. Geography allayed suspicion in the absence of face-to-face interviews. Sure, the book was a success, but the Czech press weren't exactly about to to send hordes of reporters across the sea just to interview a genre writer. The phone works just fine, thank you.
However, within weeks of its release rumours began to circulate. This Cigan fellow... he just wasn't ringing true. Something was fishy... might I say, gefilte fishy. A bit of scratching around revealed Prague's best kept secret. No, not the location of the legendary Golem but, in literary terms, not that far off. Chaim Cigan was none other than the Chief Rabbi of Prague, Karol Sidon. Turns out he has a slightly unconventional idea of what makes a... sorry for this... "good book". As he said:
"Before I began writing this I couldn't read anything but what is considered lowbrow sci-fi literature, which I really love… The story almost unraveled by itself; it was fascinating for me to watch what kind of stuff was going on in my head."
Altchul's Method has yet to be translated into English and my Czech is, to use the vernacular, neupotřebitelný (work it out for yourselves). No doubt it's just a matter of time. Thankfully I still have lox of books to read in the meantime.
*Disclaimer: Yes, I am ashamed of almost very pun in this post.
** Double Disclaimer: I'm still a bit proud of the "gefilte fishy" one.
It Started With a Word: The Inaugural Melbourne Jewish Writers' Festival
on Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Well, I've been sitting on the details of this for a while now but FINALLY I can let it out: having spent the past year on the organising committee of the first ever Melbourne Jewish Writers' Festival we've finally unveiled our full program. And holy crap is it awesome (if I may say so myself). To be honest, I'm still kind of blown away by what our little team of incredibly hard working lit lovers has managed to put together. In addition to all the phenomenal Aussie writers on the bill (Elliot Perlman, Arnold Zable, John Safran, Michael Gawenda, Peter Singer, Kerri Sackville, Linda Jaivin and heaps more) we've managed to rope in Israel's Zeruya Shalev, New Yorkers Dara Horn and Matthue Roth as well as live link ups to superstars David Grossman and Irvin Yalom. Oh, and there's an opening gala of readings and original performances hosted by the inimitable Rachel Burger.
But wait there's more.
Put away your free steak knives, because I'll be making one of my increasingly rare public appearances to participate in three panels and I don't like sharp pointy things. The first, surprise surprise is about blogging. I'll be sitting alongside Australian journalism God Michael Gawenda and slam poet, novelist and zany video game programmer Matthue Roth riffing on life in the cloud. Next up is a gabfest with our two Yanks during which I expect not to get a word in edgewise. And, finally, I'll be sharing my favourite "forgotten gem" - an unrecognised Jewish classic - along with Arnold Zable and Renata Singer. If only I could choose between the veritable chest of such gems in my library. Best I can guess at the moment: it'll probably be Czech.
Early bird tickets went on sale today from the festival website. If you're in Melbourne or can head down at the end of May, get online and buy yours now.
And now a sexy picture:
But wait there's more.
Put away your free steak knives, because I'll be making one of my increasingly rare public appearances to participate in three panels and I don't like sharp pointy things. The first, surprise surprise is about blogging. I'll be sitting alongside Australian journalism God Michael Gawenda and slam poet, novelist and zany video game programmer Matthue Roth riffing on life in the cloud. Next up is a gabfest with our two Yanks during which I expect not to get a word in edgewise. And, finally, I'll be sharing my favourite "forgotten gem" - an unrecognised Jewish classic - along with Arnold Zable and Renata Singer. If only I could choose between the veritable chest of such gems in my library. Best I can guess at the moment: it'll probably be Czech.
Early bird tickets went on sale today from the festival website. If you're in Melbourne or can head down at the end of May, get online and buy yours now.
And now a sexy picture:
Springtime For Hitler (Again): Look Who's Back by Timur Vermes
on Tuesday, April 1, 2014
A spoiler for those of you who have yet to see the near-perfect jacket design of Timur Vermes's gutsy novel: Adolf Hitler. That's who's back. Without any attempt to explain the intervening sixty years, Vermes plops the most hated man in history into a field on the outskirts of modern day Berlin. At first, poor old Adolf thinks the war is still on and can't understand why the kids playing soccer (obviously Hitler Youth, though how dare they not wear their uniforms) not only don't show him the proper respect but don't even seem to know who he is. Then it dawns on him; there is no war, Eva's dead, his cronies are gone and, well, Germany has gone to shit. Adolf is angry. Batshit crazy ranting angry. Yep, Adolf is right at home.
Wandering back into the big city, Hitler is taken in by a kindly newspaper vendor who thinks he must be a method actor; the best he has ever seen. As luck would have it, the newspaper stand is in the entertainment district and the vendor knows some people who know some people and, before you can say Mein Golly Gott, Adolf finds himself as the political commentator on a popular comedy show. His rants bring the house down, making him (much to his confused delight) the most popular entertainer in Germany. Hitler is well and truly back!
Needless to say, Look Who's Back could have been a tasteless, vulgar exercise in cheap comedy (or worse). Yet, in Adolf Hitler Vermes has the perfect vehicle for "big idea" political and cultural satire. It is scary to admit, but it doesn't take too much tinkering to make the evil despot's diatribes disturbingly relevant. There are some hilariously light touches - Hitler trying to understand computers (especially U-tube, as he calls it) or getting his head around Goth culture - but Vermes really digs his claws in when it comes to Angela Merkel (Adolf does not approve), the modern German political system and the very difficult relationship the country has with its past. Some of the best laughs come from the deepest cuts. When Hitler visits the fascist party headquarters he is horrified to find it peopled by pimply kids and reprobates. He takes them to task on camera, completely eviscerating the movement. It is considered his best skit yet. Meanwhile, his greatest opposition comes from right wing thugs who think he is mocking their great hero. Hilariously (at least in terms of irony), he is bashed by a couple of skinheads and almost killed. Thereafter, every left wing party tries to co-opt him as their own - a hero for the anti-violence, anti-fascist movement. You can't help but laugh.
Look Who's Back is a very funny book. It is also frightening. The idea that contemporary culture's obsession with celebrity could bring Hitler back to power might seem somewhat hysterical but it provides serious food for thought. As I finished the novel I was reminded of that line in The Clash's White Man In Hammersmith Palais: "If Adolf Hitler flew in today/ They'd send a limousine anyway." Scary but, I fear, quite true.
4.5 Out Of 5 Unfashionable Moustaches
Ah, heck - I just have to post the cover. Pure design genius!
Wandering back into the big city, Hitler is taken in by a kindly newspaper vendor who thinks he must be a method actor; the best he has ever seen. As luck would have it, the newspaper stand is in the entertainment district and the vendor knows some people who know some people and, before you can say Mein Golly Gott, Adolf finds himself as the political commentator on a popular comedy show. His rants bring the house down, making him (much to his confused delight) the most popular entertainer in Germany. Hitler is well and truly back!
Needless to say, Look Who's Back could have been a tasteless, vulgar exercise in cheap comedy (or worse). Yet, in Adolf Hitler Vermes has the perfect vehicle for "big idea" political and cultural satire. It is scary to admit, but it doesn't take too much tinkering to make the evil despot's diatribes disturbingly relevant. There are some hilariously light touches - Hitler trying to understand computers (especially U-tube, as he calls it) or getting his head around Goth culture - but Vermes really digs his claws in when it comes to Angela Merkel (Adolf does not approve), the modern German political system and the very difficult relationship the country has with its past. Some of the best laughs come from the deepest cuts. When Hitler visits the fascist party headquarters he is horrified to find it peopled by pimply kids and reprobates. He takes them to task on camera, completely eviscerating the movement. It is considered his best skit yet. Meanwhile, his greatest opposition comes from right wing thugs who think he is mocking their great hero. Hilariously (at least in terms of irony), he is bashed by a couple of skinheads and almost killed. Thereafter, every left wing party tries to co-opt him as their own - a hero for the anti-violence, anti-fascist movement. You can't help but laugh.
Look Who's Back is a very funny book. It is also frightening. The idea that contemporary culture's obsession with celebrity could bring Hitler back to power might seem somewhat hysterical but it provides serious food for thought. As I finished the novel I was reminded of that line in The Clash's White Man In Hammersmith Palais: "If Adolf Hitler flew in today/ They'd send a limousine anyway." Scary but, I fear, quite true.
4.5 Out Of 5 Unfashionable Moustaches
Ah, heck - I just have to post the cover. Pure design genius!
All's Well That Ends Well: Tales From The Arse End of a Novel
on Friday, March 28, 2014
A recent feature in The Independent got me thinking - why do we always fixate on literature's best opening lines? Yes, there is an incredible art to crafting the perfect hook. And a couple of obvious ones immediately jump to mind:
"All happy families are alike. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
"When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed right there in his bed into some sort of monstrous insect." Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis. (Obviously using the Bernofsky translation here).
Heck, I could rattle them off all day. I even know the beginnings to a bunch of books I've never read thanks, in part, to the constant deluge of articles about the best first lines in literature. The general agreement that seems to surround a certain few seem to suggest that they are self-perpetuating creatures much like The Most Photographed Barn In America from Delillo's White Noise. It's like a bloody mantra. For what it's worth, you might want to resist the intense gravity of consensus and branch out because there are some rather excellent openings that just don't get the recognition they deserve:
I'm Brodeck and I had nothing to do with it. Philippe Claudel, Brodeck's Report.
Looking back on it later it could only have happened because Budai had gone through the wrong door in the confusion at the transit lounge and, having mistaken an exit sign, found himself on a plane bound elsewhere without the airport staff having noticed the change. Ferenc Karinthy, Metropole
At the end of the twentieth century, the young Montano, who had just published his dangerous novel about the curious case of writers who gave up writing, got caught in the net of his own fiction and, despite his compulsive tendency towards writing, suffered a complete block, paralysis, a tragic inability to write. Enrique Vila-Matas, Montano's Malady.
Great. Now I've gone and got myself caught up in the very thing I'd come here to slag off. But it's so much fun!
I digress.
While the merits of a punchy opening are self-evident, spare a thought for the poor arse-end of a novel. Too often overlooked, a great last line can ensure the novel stays with the reader long after it is shelved/given to the Salvos/sold at your grandma's garage sale. You can blame Karl Marlantes for this latest obsession of mine. As I finally reached the end of his uneven but rather brilliant brick, Matterhorn, I was so blown away by the last line that I forgave all the book's imperfections. Spoiler alert: This will not spoil the book for you. Check it out:
"He knew that all of them were shadows: the chanters, the dead, the living. All shadows, moving across the landscape of mountains and valleys, changing the pattern of things as they moved but leaving nothing changed when they left. Only the shadows themselves could change."
Sublime. Those three sentences have haunted me for two weeks now. What then of other last lines? To me there is a clear frontrunner. Nothing has punched me in the gut quite so hard as Jospeh K.'s cry of existential resignation at the end of The Trial.
"“Like a dog!” he said, it was as if the shame of it should outlive him."
Among the classics, a few others stand out:
"For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of hate." Albert Camus, The Stranger.
"He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die." Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian.
"The creatures outside looked from pig to man; and from man to pig; and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which." George Orwell, Animal Farm.
Not that I'm offering anything new here. You can readily find all those with a basic Google search for "best last lines". I want to start a new mantra. Reload the canon, so to speak. So here are a few of my favourite closers from off the beaten track:
"And now, as he turned and joined in on the kicking and screaming, and the paddywagon had begun to pull away from the cemetery-in-shambles which would be the final installment in a ten week media blitz, he knew for certain that nothing was finished, that John was not in a better place, and that an object in motion tends to stay in motion. A lord at rest tends to roll in his grave." Tristan Egolf, Lord of the Barnyard
"A new legend will arise of a great flood sent by God upon a sinful humanity. And there will be stories of drowned mythical lands said to have been the cradle of human culture; there will perhaps be legends about some country called England or France or Germany...'
'And then?'
'... I don't know how it goes on.'" Karel Capek, War With The Newts
"And the mouse took her own life." Jesse Ball, The Curfew.
"With a quick gesture he tosses back his straight greying hair, dragging his feet a bit, as if each step raised clouds of ashes, although there are no ashes in sight." Harry Mulisch, The Assault
"When he turned to look up for the last time at Ephraim, all he saw was a six pointed star turning slowly against the black sky." Michel Tournier, The Erl King (Also published as The Ogre)
"It all works out just right, and it turns out that you can get shot in the stomach and live, if you do it just right, and it turns out that I'm okay, it just happens to be the most excruciating pain I have ever felt in my life, and it feels really good." Charles Yu, How To Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe
That'll do me for now. Can't think of a punchy way to end this. (Insert best ever closing line to a blog post here)
"All happy families are alike. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
"When Gregor Samsa woke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed right there in his bed into some sort of monstrous insect." Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis. (Obviously using the Bernofsky translation here).
Heck, I could rattle them off all day. I even know the beginnings to a bunch of books I've never read thanks, in part, to the constant deluge of articles about the best first lines in literature. The general agreement that seems to surround a certain few seem to suggest that they are self-perpetuating creatures much like The Most Photographed Barn In America from Delillo's White Noise. It's like a bloody mantra. For what it's worth, you might want to resist the intense gravity of consensus and branch out because there are some rather excellent openings that just don't get the recognition they deserve:
I'm Brodeck and I had nothing to do with it. Philippe Claudel, Brodeck's Report.
Looking back on it later it could only have happened because Budai had gone through the wrong door in the confusion at the transit lounge and, having mistaken an exit sign, found himself on a plane bound elsewhere without the airport staff having noticed the change. Ferenc Karinthy, Metropole
At the end of the twentieth century, the young Montano, who had just published his dangerous novel about the curious case of writers who gave up writing, got caught in the net of his own fiction and, despite his compulsive tendency towards writing, suffered a complete block, paralysis, a tragic inability to write. Enrique Vila-Matas, Montano's Malady.
Great. Now I've gone and got myself caught up in the very thing I'd come here to slag off. But it's so much fun!
I digress.
While the merits of a punchy opening are self-evident, spare a thought for the poor arse-end of a novel. Too often overlooked, a great last line can ensure the novel stays with the reader long after it is shelved/given to the Salvos/sold at your grandma's garage sale. You can blame Karl Marlantes for this latest obsession of mine. As I finally reached the end of his uneven but rather brilliant brick, Matterhorn, I was so blown away by the last line that I forgave all the book's imperfections. Spoiler alert: This will not spoil the book for you. Check it out:
"He knew that all of them were shadows: the chanters, the dead, the living. All shadows, moving across the landscape of mountains and valleys, changing the pattern of things as they moved but leaving nothing changed when they left. Only the shadows themselves could change."
Sublime. Those three sentences have haunted me for two weeks now. What then of other last lines? To me there is a clear frontrunner. Nothing has punched me in the gut quite so hard as Jospeh K.'s cry of existential resignation at the end of The Trial.
"“Like a dog!” he said, it was as if the shame of it should outlive him."
Among the classics, a few others stand out:
"For all to be accomplished, for me to feel less lonely, all that remained to hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of hate." Albert Camus, The Stranger.
"He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die." Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian.
"The creatures outside looked from pig to man; and from man to pig; and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which." George Orwell, Animal Farm.
Not that I'm offering anything new here. You can readily find all those with a basic Google search for "best last lines". I want to start a new mantra. Reload the canon, so to speak. So here are a few of my favourite closers from off the beaten track:
"And now, as he turned and joined in on the kicking and screaming, and the paddywagon had begun to pull away from the cemetery-in-shambles which would be the final installment in a ten week media blitz, he knew for certain that nothing was finished, that John was not in a better place, and that an object in motion tends to stay in motion. A lord at rest tends to roll in his grave." Tristan Egolf, Lord of the Barnyard
"A new legend will arise of a great flood sent by God upon a sinful humanity. And there will be stories of drowned mythical lands said to have been the cradle of human culture; there will perhaps be legends about some country called England or France or Germany...'
'And then?'
'... I don't know how it goes on.'" Karel Capek, War With The Newts
"And the mouse took her own life." Jesse Ball, The Curfew.
"With a quick gesture he tosses back his straight greying hair, dragging his feet a bit, as if each step raised clouds of ashes, although there are no ashes in sight." Harry Mulisch, The Assault
"When he turned to look up for the last time at Ephraim, all he saw was a six pointed star turning slowly against the black sky." Michel Tournier, The Erl King (Also published as The Ogre)
"It all works out just right, and it turns out that you can get shot in the stomach and live, if you do it just right, and it turns out that I'm okay, it just happens to be the most excruciating pain I have ever felt in my life, and it feels really good." Charles Yu, How To Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe
That'll do me for now. Can't think of a punchy way to end this. (Insert best ever closing line to a blog post here)
Kafka's Metamorphosis: A Classic Transformed
on Tuesday, March 25, 2014
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka (Tr: Susan Bernofsky)
When it comes to the cult of Franz Kafka, I have always been a lonely island miles off the coast of the greater archipelago. Sure, I love the usual suspects - The Trial is my favourite novel of all time. In The Penal Settlement is one third of my holy trinity of short stories (Peretz's Bontshe The Silent and Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart make up the rest), though it sometimes vies for position with The Hunger Artist. But when it comes to the one story that everyone seems to fall over themselves to love, The Metamorphosis, I am, at best tepid. Conceptually it is a work of genius but I have always thought it a little stale in execution. It was with some hesitation, then, that I picked up Susan Bernofsky's new translation of this "classic" tale and, colour me off-grey indistinguishable insect colour, I am a convert. I probably need not proselytise too much; I get that I am the guy who is turning up late to the party. But holy mother of Joseph K., Bernofsky has breathed so much new life into it that it was like reading the book afresh (her choice not to name the insect is itself a great start). I am reminded of Breon Mitchell's astounding translation of The Trial which managed to inject Kafka's humour back into the text and restore its timeless tone. So too Bernofsky has made The Metamorphosis something that might well have been written last week by a funny yet tortured writer struggling to make sense of a world spun out of control. It's current and exciting, yet entirely faithful. No matter what you think of The Metamorphosis - and I'm guessing that most of you love it - I urge you to go out and read this latest translation. I dare say it will transform before your eyes!
5 Out Of 5 Crushed Carapaces
When it comes to the cult of Franz Kafka, I have always been a lonely island miles off the coast of the greater archipelago. Sure, I love the usual suspects - The Trial is my favourite novel of all time. In The Penal Settlement is one third of my holy trinity of short stories (Peretz's Bontshe The Silent and Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart make up the rest), though it sometimes vies for position with The Hunger Artist. But when it comes to the one story that everyone seems to fall over themselves to love, The Metamorphosis, I am, at best tepid. Conceptually it is a work of genius but I have always thought it a little stale in execution. It was with some hesitation, then, that I picked up Susan Bernofsky's new translation of this "classic" tale and, colour me off-grey indistinguishable insect colour, I am a convert. I probably need not proselytise too much; I get that I am the guy who is turning up late to the party. But holy mother of Joseph K., Bernofsky has breathed so much new life into it that it was like reading the book afresh (her choice not to name the insect is itself a great start). I am reminded of Breon Mitchell's astounding translation of The Trial which managed to inject Kafka's humour back into the text and restore its timeless tone. So too Bernofsky has made The Metamorphosis something that might well have been written last week by a funny yet tortured writer struggling to make sense of a world spun out of control. It's current and exciting, yet entirely faithful. No matter what you think of The Metamorphosis - and I'm guessing that most of you love it - I urge you to go out and read this latest translation. I dare say it will transform before your eyes!
5 Out Of 5 Crushed Carapaces
Our Man In Hanoi: A Brief Encounter With Graham Greene
on Wednesday, March 19, 2014
It's funny how fate sometimes lands you in the lap of literary history.
There I was, happily traipsing through the streets of Hanoi, taking happy snaps of my grandmother and me eating all sorts of unidentifiable creatures, when a friend commented on one of my Facebook pics that I was at the hotel in which Graham Greene wrote The Quiet American. That's right, no expense has been spared for this holiday extravaganza with 90-year-old gran; we're shacking up at the Hotel Metropole, the only building here that is older than she is. A few quick chats with the manager and I tee up a visit to the Greene suite (which, I find out, is still used as a regular room).
Fast forward a couple of hours. The concierge leads us through the narrow corridors, swipes his key card and presto... we're in the room. Well, not that room. Turns out there was a slight miscommunication. I am in W. Somerset Maugham's room, the place he worked on The Gentleman In The Parlour. I plonk myself down at his desk, feeling thoroughly British. See:
It's cool but it is not THE room. Rumours abound that Graham's place is the showpiece, left intact from his days writing what is arguably his most celebrated work. Heck, I can make believe, if only for this experience, that I actually like The Quiet American. There's even word that his typewriter is still on the desk. I am practically plutzing to see it. I ask the concierge who says that unfortunately he doesn't think it's available to see. I become a petulant child... "But... But... But the manager promised!" A few quick calls and he comes back. The room is ready for me to see. I feel like a total dick but one who is about to play with Graham Greene's typewriter.
A gold plaque announces room 228 as The Graham Greene Suite. There's a second plaque telling me it's also the room where Australian Governor General Quentin Bryce had her headquarters while in Hanoi, but I don't really care. I am a proud aussie and all but seriously this room is about one person and one person only. And maybe his typewriter. The door opens to... just another opulent Metropole suite. Yes, any remnant of Greene's stay has been swept aside to make way for the ugly intrusion of modern technology. Large flatscreen TV. Fancy iPod dock with garish speakers above the sacred desk. It's a travesty. I compose myself, let the disappointment wash away. Graham Greene may well and truly have left the building but HOLY CRAP I'm at the desk. I'll just pretend there's a typewriter. Clackety-clack.
I suspect the concierge thinks I'm insane. I ask him to take a photo of me with the great man. Now we're besties and everything. Say "existential Catholic angst".
There I was, happily traipsing through the streets of Hanoi, taking happy snaps of my grandmother and me eating all sorts of unidentifiable creatures, when a friend commented on one of my Facebook pics that I was at the hotel in which Graham Greene wrote The Quiet American. That's right, no expense has been spared for this holiday extravaganza with 90-year-old gran; we're shacking up at the Hotel Metropole, the only building here that is older than she is. A few quick chats with the manager and I tee up a visit to the Greene suite (which, I find out, is still used as a regular room).
Fast forward a couple of hours. The concierge leads us through the narrow corridors, swipes his key card and presto... we're in the room. Well, not that room. Turns out there was a slight miscommunication. I am in W. Somerset Maugham's room, the place he worked on The Gentleman In The Parlour. I plonk myself down at his desk, feeling thoroughly British. See:
It's cool but it is not THE room. Rumours abound that Graham's place is the showpiece, left intact from his days writing what is arguably his most celebrated work. Heck, I can make believe, if only for this experience, that I actually like The Quiet American. There's even word that his typewriter is still on the desk. I am practically plutzing to see it. I ask the concierge who says that unfortunately he doesn't think it's available to see. I become a petulant child... "But... But... But the manager promised!" A few quick calls and he comes back. The room is ready for me to see. I feel like a total dick but one who is about to play with Graham Greene's typewriter.
A gold plaque announces room 228 as The Graham Greene Suite. There's a second plaque telling me it's also the room where Australian Governor General Quentin Bryce had her headquarters while in Hanoi, but I don't really care. I am a proud aussie and all but seriously this room is about one person and one person only. And maybe his typewriter. The door opens to... just another opulent Metropole suite. Yes, any remnant of Greene's stay has been swept aside to make way for the ugly intrusion of modern technology. Large flatscreen TV. Fancy iPod dock with garish speakers above the sacred desk. It's a travesty. I compose myself, let the disappointment wash away. Graham Greene may well and truly have left the building but HOLY CRAP I'm at the desk. I'll just pretend there's a typewriter. Clackety-clack.
I suspect the concierge thinks I'm insane. I ask him to take a photo of me with the great man. Now we're besties and everything. Say "existential Catholic angst".
The Folio Prize: From The Jaws of Victory...
on Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Well, I should have seen this coming...
After months of overblown hoopla, they've finally announced the inaugural winner of the Folio Prize. You know, the one that was supposed to knock the Booker off its perch... It all got off to a promising start - a shortlist that, while not exactly groundbreaking, was sufficiently interesting to hint at something special. Breaths were baited. Then held. And then they go give it to the most overrated book of the past 18 months. Yes, the 2014 Folio Prize was awarded this morning to none other than George Saunders for Tenth of December. Cue mass exhalation. I'm not saying it's a bad book by any stretch of the imagination. It has a couple of amazing stories. And, while on the topic, it chalks up another major literary win for the short story; ain't no doubt they can play with the big boys now. But a more worthy recipient that Rachel Kushner, Sergio De La Pava, Anne Carson or Kent Haruf? Methinks not.
If there's a form of high culture hipsterism, this has got to be it. Yes, from the jaws of victory the Folio committee has snatched defeat. Which leaves Team Booker with one year's grace to get it right. Mark the 14th of October in your diaries right now. Potentially a far more important date than the Tenth of December.
After months of overblown hoopla, they've finally announced the inaugural winner of the Folio Prize. You know, the one that was supposed to knock the Booker off its perch... It all got off to a promising start - a shortlist that, while not exactly groundbreaking, was sufficiently interesting to hint at something special. Breaths were baited. Then held. And then they go give it to the most overrated book of the past 18 months. Yes, the 2014 Folio Prize was awarded this morning to none other than George Saunders for Tenth of December. Cue mass exhalation. I'm not saying it's a bad book by any stretch of the imagination. It has a couple of amazing stories. And, while on the topic, it chalks up another major literary win for the short story; ain't no doubt they can play with the big boys now. But a more worthy recipient that Rachel Kushner, Sergio De La Pava, Anne Carson or Kent Haruf? Methinks not.
If there's a form of high culture hipsterism, this has got to be it. Yes, from the jaws of victory the Folio committee has snatched defeat. Which leaves Team Booker with one year's grace to get it right. Mark the 14th of October in your diaries right now. Potentially a far more important date than the Tenth of December.
Reading On A Jet Plane (Vietnam Edition)
on Monday, March 10, 2014
I'm off to Vietnam next week, taking my 90 year old grandmother on what I hope will be an amazing holiday. She's super ace, adventure hungry and great fun to hang around with. Much crazy food experimentation shall ensue. And cultural immersion. And just awesomeness.
Vietnam is one of those places I've always wanted to go but never had the chance. In fact, now I think about it, I know almost nothing about the place other than its cuisine (probably my favourite) and... well... to borrow from Fawlty Towers, don't mention the war. Grandma's been (obvious joke redacted) so she's set. I, on the other hand, risk turning up and sounding like an American tourist (apologies to my American friends but, seriously, you are really annoying when you travel).
Fourteen hours. That's how long I have to fix the problem. Yep, I'm gonna learn as much as I possibly can on the plane from Melbourne. I suppose a more normal fellow would be hitting the Lonely Planet guide, studying it in great detail, planning every minute of the holiday. Screw that. I want novels. Excellent novels. That's how I'm gonna learn! Now, before you jump down my throat, yes I've read The Quiet American. Didn't love it (oh god, crucify me now!) but did read it. Alas, that pretty much completes my entire Vietnam reading experience to date. Flicking through the various lists on Goodreads and Amazon, I can't help but notice that almost every novel about the country focuses on one thing and one thing only. To that end, I've already stocked up on a few must reads: Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes (which I've been wanting to read since it came out), Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien, Dispatches by Michael Herr (yes I realise it's not a novel) and The Last Supper by Charles McCarry.
That about gets me to Singapore. I still have another three and a half hours to get to Hanoi and I want some non-war books - preferably by Vietnamese writers. Which is where you come in. Hit me up with suggestions ASAP so Grandma doesn't spend the whole week rolling her eyes at my absolute ignorance.
Please, do it pho her! (sorry)
Vietnam is one of those places I've always wanted to go but never had the chance. In fact, now I think about it, I know almost nothing about the place other than its cuisine (probably my favourite) and... well... to borrow from Fawlty Towers, don't mention the war. Grandma's been (obvious joke redacted) so she's set. I, on the other hand, risk turning up and sounding like an American tourist (apologies to my American friends but, seriously, you are really annoying when you travel).
Fourteen hours. That's how long I have to fix the problem. Yep, I'm gonna learn as much as I possibly can on the plane from Melbourne. I suppose a more normal fellow would be hitting the Lonely Planet guide, studying it in great detail, planning every minute of the holiday. Screw that. I want novels. Excellent novels. That's how I'm gonna learn! Now, before you jump down my throat, yes I've read The Quiet American. Didn't love it (oh god, crucify me now!) but did read it. Alas, that pretty much completes my entire Vietnam reading experience to date. Flicking through the various lists on Goodreads and Amazon, I can't help but notice that almost every novel about the country focuses on one thing and one thing only. To that end, I've already stocked up on a few must reads: Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes (which I've been wanting to read since it came out), Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien, Dispatches by Michael Herr (yes I realise it's not a novel) and The Last Supper by Charles McCarry.
That about gets me to Singapore. I still have another three and a half hours to get to Hanoi and I want some non-war books - preferably by Vietnamese writers. Which is where you come in. Hit me up with suggestions ASAP so Grandma doesn't spend the whole week rolling her eyes at my absolute ignorance.
Please, do it pho her! (sorry)
Microviews Vol. 50: Hell Is Popular Fiction
on Thursday, February 27, 2014
Seven Terrors by Selvedin Avdic
It is a rare book that can engage meaningfully with genocide. Conflict often begets cliche or, worse, trivialisation. Selvedin Avdic's masterful debut, Seven Terrors, avoids such pitfalls with a unique blend of magical realism, gritty crime and something strangely comtemplative that recalls Beckett and Walser but is still very much his own. The conflict in question here is the collapse of the former Yugoslavia, particularly the central battleground of Bosnia. Avdic doesn't take us to the front, though. We witness the war through allusion and fleeting glimpse, as if in a fable. Spectres slip through cracks, haunted by the living memory of war. Marquez gets a serious nod here - particularly novels such as Autumn of The Patriarch and The General and His Labyrinth. Avdic's narrator is the prism through which we come to understand what has happened and how it has impacted on the people of his country. As the book opens, he has just dragged himself from almost a year's isolation following the death of his wife. He is roused, more than anything else, by the daughter of his old friend Aleksa. The girl is desperate. Her father has disappeared. The only clue - Aleksa's war diary, found in a library in Sweden. What follows is a descent into a harrowing underworld (both real and mythical) that will seem immediately familiar but wholly disorientating. All roads lead to Rome, or hell, or, in this case the Pegasus brothers - two heartless thugs who rule with iron fists. They hold answers that are genuinely horrific but which must be overcome for there to be any sense of closure. Seven Terrors is quite possibly the most important novel to come from the war in Bosnia thus far. I feel like I've been waiting fifteen years for its arrival.
4.5 Out of 5 Coal Mines
Ed The Happy Clown by Chester Brown
Those seduced by Brown's autobiographical works (I Never Liked You, Paying For It, some of The Little Man comics) might well be taken aback by this crazily surreal, confronting and, at times, offensive (in a good way) story of what might best be described as the Job of the clown world. Bad shit happens to Ed. Every time we meet him he is in a deeper state of degradation. But his decline is merely the springboard for one of the wildest brainfizzes I've had the pleasure of reading. I don't want to give away too much but, suffice to say, it involves the president's head being transported through a wormhole to a parallel dimension and winding up on the tip of our hapless hero's penis. The only way back - through the arse of the guy who shat him out. You do the math.
3.5 Out of 5 Blocked Toilets
The Farm by Tom Robb Smith
Whatever he writes in the future - hell, it could even be the next War & Peace or Great Expectations - Tom Robb Smith will, to literary minds at least, always be the dude at the centre of Stellagate. His novel, Child 44, came to represent everything that was going sour with the Booker Prize under the stewardship of Stella Rimmington. Sure, it was a passable thriller, but a contender for one of the literary world's most prestigious prizes? Oh no he di'n't! Needless to say, The Farm is no Tolstoy or Dickens. Unfortunately, it isn't even a Child 44. True to its genre, the book sucks you in with an excellent opening chapter. Daniel's parents, Tilde and Chris, have moved to the Swedish countryside to live out their twilight years farming the land. Daniel, for his part, has kept his distance, making the most of life in London. One day he receives a panicked call from Chris to say that Tilde has had a psychotic episode and disappeared. Soon afterwards, she too calls. She is in London, having escaped Sweden and the terrible conspiracy that threatens to have her put away. What's worse, Chris is a key player. Who to believe? For the most part, The Farm is the mother's recounting of what happened in the lead up to her escape. Social exclusion, bullying, land grabbing, child trafficking and, ultimately, murder. It is all terribly plausible until you recall Chris's initial warning. What if he is right? What if it is all in Tilde's head? Smith mines Daniel's torturous schism to full effect. He wants to believe his mother but that means accepting his father is a monster (or, at least, beholden to one). It all comes to a head when Chris arrives in London and then, well... I'm not going to spoil it. Apparently based on Smith's own experience, The Farm is a great premise gone awry. The device of story-telling through a journal (read in Daniel's presence) is tiresome and unrealistic. The denouement is sad, it is something we fear happening to our own parents, but by the time Smith gets there you are likely to have stopped caring. I suppose he ought to be commended for tackling the very sensitive issue of mental health. Alas, the book does very little to shed light or encourage empathy. Perhaps it just cut too close to home.
2 Out of 5 Dancing Queens
Shovel Ready by Adam Sternbergh
Here's a pleasant surprise. Adam Sternbergh, he of the high lit pedigree (GQ, The New York Times Magazine, New York), throws it all to the wind in this raucous mash-up of hardboiled noir and cyberpunk. Both elegy and satire of the city he clearly loves, Shovel Ready is the story of Spademan, a ruthless killer-for-hire who finds his soft side when hired by big time evangelist TK Harrow to find and kill his daughter. Sounds pretty straightforward noir, right? Sternbergh's real clincher is the city he imagines - it's New York, but not as we know. What we get instead is a wasteland metropolis brought down by a dirty bomb and a wave of terrorist attacks where the rich plug into a virtual world and the poor do their best to survive in what's left of the city. Skirting the fine line between the virtual and real worlds, it doesn't take long for Spademan to find the girl. Only problem - she's pregnant and even he won't stoop that low. The two form a bond and, as her story unfolds, Spademan realises he'd set out to kill the wrong Harrow. How the tables turn. Shovel Ready reads like a post apocalyptic computer game penned by James Ellroy. It's fast, gritty and funny. Heck, it even has end level boss fights. Just play it... I mean, read it.
3.5 Out of 5 Shallow Graves
A Pleasure And A Calling by Phil Hogan
If you've ever had any dealings whatsoever with a real estate agent, be it buying, selling, renting or line dancing, prepare to be creeped the hell out. Okay, so you probably won't bother reading this book once I'm done, but know that the idea - a real estate agent who keeps the keys of every house he has ever sold and has a nasty habit of letting himself in whenever he feels like it - is so poop-inducing that I'm considering going right now and changing the locks on my place (though Sam, if you're reading this, I think you're a nice guy and am assuming you don't still have my keys). Now the downside. A Pleasure And A Calling is a waste of a brilliant concept. It plods along at glacial pace, touching on every serial killer cliche, not to mention the one in which cops are dumbasses who can't solve their way out of a plastic bag. The fact that William Hemming's success at his creepy endeavours seems to owe a lot more to luck than design doesn't exactly add to the book's plausibility. Put it next to The Killer Inside Me - a book that is what, 60 years old? - and it just pales into insignificance. I'm still changing my locks, though.
2.5 Out of 5 Skeleton Keys
It is a rare book that can engage meaningfully with genocide. Conflict often begets cliche or, worse, trivialisation. Selvedin Avdic's masterful debut, Seven Terrors, avoids such pitfalls with a unique blend of magical realism, gritty crime and something strangely comtemplative that recalls Beckett and Walser but is still very much his own. The conflict in question here is the collapse of the former Yugoslavia, particularly the central battleground of Bosnia. Avdic doesn't take us to the front, though. We witness the war through allusion and fleeting glimpse, as if in a fable. Spectres slip through cracks, haunted by the living memory of war. Marquez gets a serious nod here - particularly novels such as Autumn of The Patriarch and The General and His Labyrinth. Avdic's narrator is the prism through which we come to understand what has happened and how it has impacted on the people of his country. As the book opens, he has just dragged himself from almost a year's isolation following the death of his wife. He is roused, more than anything else, by the daughter of his old friend Aleksa. The girl is desperate. Her father has disappeared. The only clue - Aleksa's war diary, found in a library in Sweden. What follows is a descent into a harrowing underworld (both real and mythical) that will seem immediately familiar but wholly disorientating. All roads lead to Rome, or hell, or, in this case the Pegasus brothers - two heartless thugs who rule with iron fists. They hold answers that are genuinely horrific but which must be overcome for there to be any sense of closure. Seven Terrors is quite possibly the most important novel to come from the war in Bosnia thus far. I feel like I've been waiting fifteen years for its arrival.
4.5 Out of 5 Coal Mines
Ed The Happy Clown by Chester Brown
Those seduced by Brown's autobiographical works (I Never Liked You, Paying For It, some of The Little Man comics) might well be taken aback by this crazily surreal, confronting and, at times, offensive (in a good way) story of what might best be described as the Job of the clown world. Bad shit happens to Ed. Every time we meet him he is in a deeper state of degradation. But his decline is merely the springboard for one of the wildest brainfizzes I've had the pleasure of reading. I don't want to give away too much but, suffice to say, it involves the president's head being transported through a wormhole to a parallel dimension and winding up on the tip of our hapless hero's penis. The only way back - through the arse of the guy who shat him out. You do the math.
3.5 Out of 5 Blocked Toilets
The Farm by Tom Robb Smith
Whatever he writes in the future - hell, it could even be the next War & Peace or Great Expectations - Tom Robb Smith will, to literary minds at least, always be the dude at the centre of Stellagate. His novel, Child 44, came to represent everything that was going sour with the Booker Prize under the stewardship of Stella Rimmington. Sure, it was a passable thriller, but a contender for one of the literary world's most prestigious prizes? Oh no he di'n't! Needless to say, The Farm is no Tolstoy or Dickens. Unfortunately, it isn't even a Child 44. True to its genre, the book sucks you in with an excellent opening chapter. Daniel's parents, Tilde and Chris, have moved to the Swedish countryside to live out their twilight years farming the land. Daniel, for his part, has kept his distance, making the most of life in London. One day he receives a panicked call from Chris to say that Tilde has had a psychotic episode and disappeared. Soon afterwards, she too calls. She is in London, having escaped Sweden and the terrible conspiracy that threatens to have her put away. What's worse, Chris is a key player. Who to believe? For the most part, The Farm is the mother's recounting of what happened in the lead up to her escape. Social exclusion, bullying, land grabbing, child trafficking and, ultimately, murder. It is all terribly plausible until you recall Chris's initial warning. What if he is right? What if it is all in Tilde's head? Smith mines Daniel's torturous schism to full effect. He wants to believe his mother but that means accepting his father is a monster (or, at least, beholden to one). It all comes to a head when Chris arrives in London and then, well... I'm not going to spoil it. Apparently based on Smith's own experience, The Farm is a great premise gone awry. The device of story-telling through a journal (read in Daniel's presence) is tiresome and unrealistic. The denouement is sad, it is something we fear happening to our own parents, but by the time Smith gets there you are likely to have stopped caring. I suppose he ought to be commended for tackling the very sensitive issue of mental health. Alas, the book does very little to shed light or encourage empathy. Perhaps it just cut too close to home.
2 Out of 5 Dancing Queens
Shovel Ready by Adam Sternbergh
Here's a pleasant surprise. Adam Sternbergh, he of the high lit pedigree (GQ, The New York Times Magazine, New York), throws it all to the wind in this raucous mash-up of hardboiled noir and cyberpunk. Both elegy and satire of the city he clearly loves, Shovel Ready is the story of Spademan, a ruthless killer-for-hire who finds his soft side when hired by big time evangelist TK Harrow to find and kill his daughter. Sounds pretty straightforward noir, right? Sternbergh's real clincher is the city he imagines - it's New York, but not as we know. What we get instead is a wasteland metropolis brought down by a dirty bomb and a wave of terrorist attacks where the rich plug into a virtual world and the poor do their best to survive in what's left of the city. Skirting the fine line between the virtual and real worlds, it doesn't take long for Spademan to find the girl. Only problem - she's pregnant and even he won't stoop that low. The two form a bond and, as her story unfolds, Spademan realises he'd set out to kill the wrong Harrow. How the tables turn. Shovel Ready reads like a post apocalyptic computer game penned by James Ellroy. It's fast, gritty and funny. Heck, it even has end level boss fights. Just play it... I mean, read it.
3.5 Out of 5 Shallow Graves
A Pleasure And A Calling by Phil Hogan
If you've ever had any dealings whatsoever with a real estate agent, be it buying, selling, renting or line dancing, prepare to be creeped the hell out. Okay, so you probably won't bother reading this book once I'm done, but know that the idea - a real estate agent who keeps the keys of every house he has ever sold and has a nasty habit of letting himself in whenever he feels like it - is so poop-inducing that I'm considering going right now and changing the locks on my place (though Sam, if you're reading this, I think you're a nice guy and am assuming you don't still have my keys). Now the downside. A Pleasure And A Calling is a waste of a brilliant concept. It plods along at glacial pace, touching on every serial killer cliche, not to mention the one in which cops are dumbasses who can't solve their way out of a plastic bag. The fact that William Hemming's success at his creepy endeavours seems to owe a lot more to luck than design doesn't exactly add to the book's plausibility. Put it next to The Killer Inside Me - a book that is what, 60 years old? - and it just pales into insignificance. I'm still changing my locks, though.
2.5 Out of 5 Skeleton Keys
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