TransAtlantic by Colum McCann
So here's a fantastic idea. Write the Great Post 9/11 American Novel, work out what made it so good and then try to recreate it it with another story using exactly the same tricks. At first I was excited; TransAtlantic opens pretty well with Alcock and Brown's flight from Newfoundland to West Ireland in 1919. Jump back eighty years and we get Frederick Douglas, the free American slave, visiting Ireland to spread the word of democracy. Now jump forward another one hundred and fifty years to a tense retelling of the diplomatic acrobatics that would ultimately bring about the Good Friday Agreement. The book continues to jump around time and space, slowly revealing the common thread: the unsung role of women in each of these great moments. By the time I realised what it was really about, I had stopped caring.
2.5 Out Of 5 Stumbling Trapeze Artists
Viennese Romance by David Vogel
Not since Hermann Ungar's perverted, claustrophobic masterpiece The Maimed, have I been so throughly enthralled by something so ghastly. Indeed, this long lost novel by David Vogel shares much with Ungar's book - a young man takes lodgings with a family and soon becomes entangled in a lust triangle with both mother and daughter. It is creepy and unsettling, with fairly graphic descriptions of illicit underage sex and all sorts of other dirty underworld dealings, but don't let any of that put you off. Viennese Romance is like watching the most spectacular train wreck. You simply cannot look away.
4 Out Of 5 Salacious Speakeasies
The Woman Upstairs by Claire Messud
Who doesn't enjoy a bitter crone ranting against the world? And while 42 might be a little young to qualify as a crone, Nora Eldridge is most certainly a bitter, bitter woman. Her youthful aspirations to artistic greatness have long ago given way to an ordinary life as a primary school teacher. But the arrival of an exotic new student, Reza, in her third grade class offers Nora the chance of redemption. The boy is quiet and fragile, his parents boho archetypes. A chance accident sees Nora insinuate herself in their lives, eventually renting a studio with Reza's mum, Sirena, an artist on the cusp of big things. Friendship develops into obsession and, ultimately betrayal (though Messud deftly forces the reader to reconsider the user/used dynamic), all recounted in Nora's thoroughly pitiful drone.
3.5 Out Of 5 Nancy Ganzes
The Ocean At The End Of The Lane by Neil Gaiman
Gaiman fans will no doubt lap up this not-quite-for-kids but not-quite-for-adults fable, ignoring the fact that it follows a pretty standard formula. Think every book ever where a child protagonist must fight the evil monster (in human babysitter form) and you'll have a pretty good idea what's going on here. Apparently, this was a labour of love inspired by Gaiman's newish wife, the creative succubus, Amanda Palmer. What can I say? Rilke he ain't.
2.5 Out Of 5 Pockets Full of Kryptonite
Pink Mist by Owen Sheers
Tales of modern war, it seems, are best left in the hands of poets. Last year it was Kevin Powers, who strayed from his usual medium to gift us with the amazing novel Yellow Birds. This year it is Owen Sheers, whose devastatingly brilliant prose poem does for the war in Afghanistan what Powers did for Iraq. Very few books drive home the reality of war like this - the fear, the anger, the stupidity and, ultimately, the regret. The language is stunning, the imagery shimmering with brutal clarity. Absolutely unmissable.
4.5 Out Of 5 Angry Amputees
Dead Men Do Tell Tales: The Quarry by Iain Banks
on Thursday, June 20, 2013
Grief is a pretty crappy basis for a book review. Iain Banks's untimely death earlier this month was sad - especially for those of us who worshipped his early work - but we must be careful not to lionise his final novel without bothering to properly read it. Try tell that to other reviewers, who have called The Quarry a return to form, classic Banks catching his second wind or any number of similar platitudes. Put simply, it isn't. Thankfully, it also is not the sort of abomination that saw him demoted from my DEAR list three books ago. So while you had better not approach it expecting The Bridge, Complicity or The Wasp Factory, you can also safely pick it up without catching syphilis from another The Steep Approach To Garbadale.
By now you all would have heard the plot - Kit, an Aspergers teen (apparently Banks wasn't hip to the new DSM-5), lives in a house with his cancer stricken dad when a bunch of the latter's old friends come for one last weekend hoorah. They talk, they reminisce, they fight, they search for the home made porno they made as uni students. When he's not playing computer games, Kit tries to figure out who his mum is. Then, of course, there is the quarry itself, ever-expanding, soon to consume the land on which Kit's house stands. Hello thinly-veiled metaphor.
It is a strange beast, this book, almost a crucible of Banks's earlier works. It's got the slightly off-kilter narrator (although Kit is extremely reliable given he cannot lie whereas Frank in The Wasp Factory was the polar opposite - even he didn't know the truth). It takes place in a typically Banksian environment; hostile, menacing, yet strangely familiar. There's a science fiction thread, weak though it is, with occasional narrative forays into HeroSpace, a World of Warcraft-like online game. Heck, one of the climactic scenes even takes place on a friggin' bridge. Unfortunately, it also has a lot of what I didn't like about late era Iain Banks. That guy liked to grab a bunch of mostly annoying characters, all of whom had long ago fled their home towns, and plonk them right back where they started. There's always a 'big' reason, in this case Guy's cancer. There's always a lot of waxing lyrical, a settling of scores, a lot of boring chatter. The Quarry is no different. Guy's friends can talk. A lot. Of shit. Banks pretends there's a plot to be found - the porno, the mum, the quarry - but even the most generous reader would struggle to credit them with any substance.
The novel's real saving grace is Guy himself, a truly wonderful Banksian creation. The bloke is bitter, cantankerous and full of hilariously jaded opinions on just about everything. It is the luxury of the dying, I suppose. Obviously, many people will read Guy's opinions as those of Banks himself. The two have (had) a lot in common. Yet, according to the author's wife, Banks had finished the novel well before being told of his diagnosis. If that's true, it certainly is a strange coincidence. Either way, Guy gives Banks a fantastic platform to air a whole bunch of home truths about our shitty world.
Going purely on recent form (The Steep Approach To Garbadale, Transition, Stonemouth... well, pretty much everything post-Complicity), The Quarry ought to have sucked wasp factories. It doesn't. That said, it is nowhere near the calibre of his early works. Neither whimper, nor bang, Iain Banks has gone out with a moderate pop. At least I'll always have The Bridge.
3 Out Of 5 Crow Roads
By now you all would have heard the plot - Kit, an Aspergers teen (apparently Banks wasn't hip to the new DSM-5), lives in a house with his cancer stricken dad when a bunch of the latter's old friends come for one last weekend hoorah. They talk, they reminisce, they fight, they search for the home made porno they made as uni students. When he's not playing computer games, Kit tries to figure out who his mum is. Then, of course, there is the quarry itself, ever-expanding, soon to consume the land on which Kit's house stands. Hello thinly-veiled metaphor.
It is a strange beast, this book, almost a crucible of Banks's earlier works. It's got the slightly off-kilter narrator (although Kit is extremely reliable given he cannot lie whereas Frank in The Wasp Factory was the polar opposite - even he didn't know the truth). It takes place in a typically Banksian environment; hostile, menacing, yet strangely familiar. There's a science fiction thread, weak though it is, with occasional narrative forays into HeroSpace, a World of Warcraft-like online game. Heck, one of the climactic scenes even takes place on a friggin' bridge. Unfortunately, it also has a lot of what I didn't like about late era Iain Banks. That guy liked to grab a bunch of mostly annoying characters, all of whom had long ago fled their home towns, and plonk them right back where they started. There's always a 'big' reason, in this case Guy's cancer. There's always a lot of waxing lyrical, a settling of scores, a lot of boring chatter. The Quarry is no different. Guy's friends can talk. A lot. Of shit. Banks pretends there's a plot to be found - the porno, the mum, the quarry - but even the most generous reader would struggle to credit them with any substance.
The novel's real saving grace is Guy himself, a truly wonderful Banksian creation. The bloke is bitter, cantankerous and full of hilariously jaded opinions on just about everything. It is the luxury of the dying, I suppose. Obviously, many people will read Guy's opinions as those of Banks himself. The two have (had) a lot in common. Yet, according to the author's wife, Banks had finished the novel well before being told of his diagnosis. If that's true, it certainly is a strange coincidence. Either way, Guy gives Banks a fantastic platform to air a whole bunch of home truths about our shitty world.
Going purely on recent form (The Steep Approach To Garbadale, Transition, Stonemouth... well, pretty much everything post-Complicity), The Quarry ought to have sucked wasp factories. It doesn't. That said, it is nowhere near the calibre of his early works. Neither whimper, nor bang, Iain Banks has gone out with a moderate pop. At least I'll always have The Bridge.
3 Out Of 5 Crow Roads
Holy Horizons! Doctorow's Back (But Don't Hold Your Breath)
on Monday, June 10, 2013
Well, this might be looking forward a little too much, but I just got word that there will be a new E.L. Doctorow book, Andrew's Brain, coming out in January 2014. Looks weird and fascinating. Pretty great way to kick off the year. Could it be that we will have two amazing literary years in a row? Tell me there's also another Cormac McCarthy and my year will be complete six months before it's even started. Oh the joy!
Vale Banks and Banks 2.0
A great loss today to my personal literary universe with the death of two great authors in one, Iain Banks and Iain M. Banks. Although his literary incarnation kind of died five books ago, sci-fi Banks was still alive and kicking, adding another worthwhile volume to the Culture series last year with The Hydrogen Sonata. Think what you will of him, but I will always credit The Bridge as the single most important book of my young adult life, teaching me that 'literary fiction' need not be limited, that emotion can defy logic, so long as imagination is given free reign on the page. Now I await The Quarry, due for release next month and hope against hope that it isn't crap.
Self-Sourcing Literary Pudding
on Thursday, May 30, 2013
Some time down the track we will be able to pinpoint the very moment artistic enterprise fundamentally changed. I'm willing to suggest it was when Amanda Palmer managed to raise 400 bazillion dollars on Kickstarter to fund her spectacularly mediocre new album. Having listened to it, I'm guessing she spent about seventy bucks recording and the rest building an underground torture kingdom for her and hubby Neil Gaiman to frolic in with their manufactured gold robot minions. Not gold plated. Or gold leaf. Solid effing gold!
Whatever the future common consensus, there is no doubt that crowd sourcing has become a viable model for cutting out the old world gatekeepers and giving people what they want. It doesn't matter how shitty your band/film/interpretive dance project is; if people are dumb enough to want it they can now pay to make it a reality. That's not to say there hasn't already been some great crowd funded art. There's just been much, much more crap.
The idea has yet to properly take root in book land, though I imagine it is only a matter of time. And while my natural inclination is to mock it in advance - I can already see all the Stephenie Meyer/E.L. James/J.K. Rowling wannabes pitching tacky clones to the gullible masses and retiring to the Bahamas on the proceeds - I can't help but feel a small tinge of excitement. Writer, comedian and hardcore Yiddishist Michael Wex recently launched an Indiegogo campaign to fund the translation and publication of a lost classic, Joseph Opatoshu's In Poylishe Velde. That is a good thing. Whereas such works would never have been brought to the English speaking world and, let's face it, would have been consigned to the dustbins of history, people like Wex will be able to breathe new life into them, making our cultural environment far richer.
Crowd sourcing might just be publishing's white knight. For years we've heard about the shrinking advances, the decline in royalties, authors forced to survived on mulched paper and sour milk to survive. Moreover, many good books struggle to find a publisher willing to take a risk in these dire times. With sites like Kickstarter and Pozible, I dare say it will not be impossible for authors to raise more than they might otherwise have received as an advance in the off chance they could even convince a publisher to take the book in the first place. Crowd sourcing might also force more equitable contracts between authors and publishers, lest those that already have a name jump ship and just put their hands out to fans to fund their next project. I don't know. My head is in a bit of a spin at the prospect. It scares me to think that the industry will be overrun by Justin Biebers (or James Pattersons or Dan Browns) but Wex's project gives me hope that technology might yet be used for good. It certainly gives self-publishing the potential for a much more credible future in that it allows for those who choose (or are forced to choose) that path to finally afford editors and designers and layout people so their books won't be so darn shit. The again, a part of me longs for the old days of literary gatekeepers; those who are discerning enough to sift through the dross and present me with the cream of the crop. If a balance can't be struck, what will be left with? More American Idol rip offs? More bloody cooking shows? Another album from Amanda Palmer and Her Solid Gold Robot Orchestra?
Spare me...
Whatever the future common consensus, there is no doubt that crowd sourcing has become a viable model for cutting out the old world gatekeepers and giving people what they want. It doesn't matter how shitty your band/film/interpretive dance project is; if people are dumb enough to want it they can now pay to make it a reality. That's not to say there hasn't already been some great crowd funded art. There's just been much, much more crap.
The idea has yet to properly take root in book land, though I imagine it is only a matter of time. And while my natural inclination is to mock it in advance - I can already see all the Stephenie Meyer/E.L. James/J.K. Rowling wannabes pitching tacky clones to the gullible masses and retiring to the Bahamas on the proceeds - I can't help but feel a small tinge of excitement. Writer, comedian and hardcore Yiddishist Michael Wex recently launched an Indiegogo campaign to fund the translation and publication of a lost classic, Joseph Opatoshu's In Poylishe Velde. That is a good thing. Whereas such works would never have been brought to the English speaking world and, let's face it, would have been consigned to the dustbins of history, people like Wex will be able to breathe new life into them, making our cultural environment far richer.
Crowd sourcing might just be publishing's white knight. For years we've heard about the shrinking advances, the decline in royalties, authors forced to survived on mulched paper and sour milk to survive. Moreover, many good books struggle to find a publisher willing to take a risk in these dire times. With sites like Kickstarter and Pozible, I dare say it will not be impossible for authors to raise more than they might otherwise have received as an advance in the off chance they could even convince a publisher to take the book in the first place. Crowd sourcing might also force more equitable contracts between authors and publishers, lest those that already have a name jump ship and just put their hands out to fans to fund their next project. I don't know. My head is in a bit of a spin at the prospect. It scares me to think that the industry will be overrun by Justin Biebers (or James Pattersons or Dan Browns) but Wex's project gives me hope that technology might yet be used for good. It certainly gives self-publishing the potential for a much more credible future in that it allows for those who choose (or are forced to choose) that path to finally afford editors and designers and layout people so their books won't be so darn shit. The again, a part of me longs for the old days of literary gatekeepers; those who are discerning enough to sift through the dross and present me with the cream of the crop. If a balance can't be struck, what will be left with? More American Idol rip offs? More bloody cooking shows? Another album from Amanda Palmer and Her Solid Gold Robot Orchestra?
Spare me...
Microviews Vol. 32: E.T. Goes To Zanzibar
on Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Paradise by Abdulrazak Gurnah
I'm a sucker for post-colonial lit, and this richly textured novel was a great introduction to the world of Zanzibarian (is that a word?) writing. Naive young Yusuf is sold into slavery to pay his father's debts, but dreams big as he is dragged from town to town by his merchant owner. The biblical allusions are laid on thick, and anyone familiar with the Potiphar story can see what's going to happen a mile away. Didn't stop me rooting for the poor kid. A marvellous work from a greatly underrepresented corner of the world.
4 Out Of 5 Coats of Many Colours
The Humans by Matt Haig
Haig maintains his quirky edge with this entertaining tale of an alien inhabiting the body of a mathematical genius and wreaking destruction on other puny humans. Sure, we're sitting ducks, and some of Haig's gags are as old as Pythagoras, but it's still fun to have the disintegration ray pointed at our crotches every now and then. Even the slightly cringeworthy Jeff Bridges in Starman ending doesn't ruin the ride.
3.5 Out Of 5 Sonic Transducers
The Gigantic Beard That Was Evil by Stephen Collins
There are many ways to read this beautifully drawn graphic novel: surreal black comedy, new twist on classic horror, satire on the terrorist paranoia, a poke in the eye to those who fear the mysterious "other", a middle finger response to bald people (and those with alopecia). I chose to read it as an indictment on the awful beard rock that has taken over my beloved punk world. Probably wasn't intended that way but, hey, it worked for me!
4 Out Of 5 Safety Razors
Dossier K. by Imre Kertesz
Nobel laureate Kertesz built his reputation on heavily autobiographical novels. This time round, he throws the fiction thing out the window in favour of an intriguing piece of straight up self-interrogation. Basically, it's a book-long interview with himself, in conversational question/answer format. As he shades in between the lines of his previous work, we are given not only a greater understanding of his life, but also an excellent treatise on the relationship between fact and fiction. It's an odd endeavour, but fascinating nonetheless.
3.5 Out Of 5 Pierced Veils
The Shock of The Fall by Nathan Filer
At first I thought I was back in the warm embrace of a Mark Haddon-esque confection but, as this fantastic debut unfolded, I felt my chest tighten and throat close in the presence of a seriously disturbed mind. The Shock Of The Fall is the strongest first-person schizophrenia narrative I've ever read. The narrator, Matt, is a marvellously well-rounded creation, both loveable and infuriating on his path to self-destruction (and possible redemption). It's like have ringside seats at a wrestling match of the brain. Devastating, humane and well worth checking out.
4 Out Of 5 Little White Pills
I'm a sucker for post-colonial lit, and this richly textured novel was a great introduction to the world of Zanzibarian (is that a word?) writing. Naive young Yusuf is sold into slavery to pay his father's debts, but dreams big as he is dragged from town to town by his merchant owner. The biblical allusions are laid on thick, and anyone familiar with the Potiphar story can see what's going to happen a mile away. Didn't stop me rooting for the poor kid. A marvellous work from a greatly underrepresented corner of the world.
4 Out Of 5 Coats of Many Colours
The Humans by Matt Haig
Haig maintains his quirky edge with this entertaining tale of an alien inhabiting the body of a mathematical genius and wreaking destruction on other puny humans. Sure, we're sitting ducks, and some of Haig's gags are as old as Pythagoras, but it's still fun to have the disintegration ray pointed at our crotches every now and then. Even the slightly cringeworthy Jeff Bridges in Starman ending doesn't ruin the ride.
3.5 Out Of 5 Sonic Transducers
The Gigantic Beard That Was Evil by Stephen Collins
There are many ways to read this beautifully drawn graphic novel: surreal black comedy, new twist on classic horror, satire on the terrorist paranoia, a poke in the eye to those who fear the mysterious "other", a middle finger response to bald people (and those with alopecia). I chose to read it as an indictment on the awful beard rock that has taken over my beloved punk world. Probably wasn't intended that way but, hey, it worked for me!
4 Out Of 5 Safety Razors
Dossier K. by Imre Kertesz
Nobel laureate Kertesz built his reputation on heavily autobiographical novels. This time round, he throws the fiction thing out the window in favour of an intriguing piece of straight up self-interrogation. Basically, it's a book-long interview with himself, in conversational question/answer format. As he shades in between the lines of his previous work, we are given not only a greater understanding of his life, but also an excellent treatise on the relationship between fact and fiction. It's an odd endeavour, but fascinating nonetheless.
3.5 Out Of 5 Pierced Veils
The Shock of The Fall by Nathan Filer
At first I thought I was back in the warm embrace of a Mark Haddon-esque confection but, as this fantastic debut unfolded, I felt my chest tighten and throat close in the presence of a seriously disturbed mind. The Shock Of The Fall is the strongest first-person schizophrenia narrative I've ever read. The narrator, Matt, is a marvellously well-rounded creation, both loveable and infuriating on his path to self-destruction (and possible redemption). It's like have ringside seats at a wrestling match of the brain. Devastating, humane and well worth checking out.
4 Out Of 5 Little White Pills
Oops I Did It Again!
on Thursday, May 23, 2013
I really am the kiss of death.
Lydia Davis has just been named the winner of The Man Booker International Prize for 2013. Now, she is certainly a fine writer and I suspect Team Booker are trying to correct the anti-American Nobel bias in major literary award world (last time it was Philip Roth), but let's face it, she ain't no Aharon Appelfeld.
Perhaps I should have done my cheer routine for Yan Lianke. That would have bolstered the old Israeli's chances!
Lydia Davis has just been named the winner of The Man Booker International Prize for 2013. Now, she is certainly a fine writer and I suspect Team Booker are trying to correct the anti-American Nobel bias in major literary award world (last time it was Philip Roth), but let's face it, she ain't no Aharon Appelfeld.
Perhaps I should have done my cheer routine for Yan Lianke. That would have bolstered the old Israeli's chances!
Independent Foreign Fiction Flop
on Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Lucky I'm no longer a betting man. Having lost on previous Bookers (and stupidly not betting on ones that I picked back at longlist stage), I was half tempted to drop a few dollars on Dasa Drndic or Ismail Kadare to win the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. I couldn't fault my logic - if they wanted to be daring, they'd pick Drndic. I've made my feelings about Trieste abundantly clear on this blog before, so no need to rehash. If, on the other hand, they wanted a more traditional narrative work, Kadare is the go-to guy on the list. The Fall Of The Stone City was a great return to form and would have been a very deserving winner. Either way, my puppy can thank me that I can still afford his dinner because I would have lost big time. The prize was announced this morning and it went to Gerbrand Bakker for his novel, The Detour.
Personally, I think Drndic, Kadare and Enrique Vila-Matas were robbed. I don't mean to imply that The Detour is a bad book. Far from it. Bakker is a wonderful writer and this is one of his strongest novels. It's just that giving him the award seemed the easy option, the 'populist' choice. People who pay attention to prizes (are there many of us left these days?) would pick up The Detour and almost certainly enjoy it. They won't be challenged in the way they would have had they been directed to Trieste or Dublinesque. In the sense of lifting the prize's profile, and making sure people come back next year in the hope of finding another book to enjoy, it all makes perfect sense. It's just a shame that none of the more challenging novels on the shortlist got the ultimate gong.
There is some consolation to be had. The five that were passed over still beat superstars like Knausgaard, Pamuk and Binet to the final heat. That's got to count for something. Meanwhile, let's hope my love of, and support for, Aharon Appelfeld doesn't prove the kiss of death for him with the Man Booker International Prize.
Personally, I think Drndic, Kadare and Enrique Vila-Matas were robbed. I don't mean to imply that The Detour is a bad book. Far from it. Bakker is a wonderful writer and this is one of his strongest novels. It's just that giving him the award seemed the easy option, the 'populist' choice. People who pay attention to prizes (are there many of us left these days?) would pick up The Detour and almost certainly enjoy it. They won't be challenged in the way they would have had they been directed to Trieste or Dublinesque. In the sense of lifting the prize's profile, and making sure people come back next year in the hope of finding another book to enjoy, it all makes perfect sense. It's just a shame that none of the more challenging novels on the shortlist got the ultimate gong.
There is some consolation to be had. The five that were passed over still beat superstars like Knausgaard, Pamuk and Binet to the final heat. That's got to count for something. Meanwhile, let's hope my love of, and support for, Aharon Appelfeld doesn't prove the kiss of death for him with the Man Booker International Prize.
Microviews Vol. 31: Just The Fax, Ma'am
on Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Last Girlfriend on Earth by Simon Rich
When a story collection kicks off with an unused condom reminiscing about the time it spent in a teenager's wallet, you know you're in for a fun ride (so to speak). Simon Rich continues his domination of all things chuckleworthy with this quick follow-up to last year's arse-kicking, What In God's Name. The stories are many and varied, taking in that essential human concern - love - and skewering it from all angles. There's the imaginary friend (a goat) that totally misunderstands the nature of his friendship and tries to bust a move. There's the scared-straight program for schmucks at risk of falling into a long term relationship. And I am still smirking at the scientist who turns to time travel in his desperate quest to figure out what would constitute a meaningful, personal present for his girlfriend. They're quick. They're punchy. They're a barrel of laughs. Or monkeys. Or monkeys laughing. On barrels. Just read it.
4 Out Of 5 Banana Peels
Arcadia by Lauren Groff
It's easy to look back on the hippy movement with smoke-tinged, rose coloured glasses. Free love, great music, lots and lots of drugs. If you weren't on board, man, you were either a prude or a nerd. In her debut novel, Lauren Groff picks apart the hippy mythos to reveal its sad, almost pathetic heart in this tale of one particular commune (read: cult) and the fractured lives of those who lived within it. Arcadia has much to offer - beautiful prose, a sober outlook, mild excoriation - and yet I couldn't quite lose myself in its pages. Not sure why. Bloody hippies.
3.5 Our Of 5 Calming Sutras
All That Is by James Salter
Believe the hype, and you'll think that Slater's first novel in 30 years is THE publishing event of 2013, the one that will save literature from all these hipster upstarts currently polluting the landscape. Using a returned veteran of the US's Pacific campaign in WW2 as a prism, All That Is charts the evolution (or is that devolution?) of American society in the post-war years. In many ways, the novel resembles a glacier - you are carried along by its slow power, but sit down with it too long and your nuts are likely to freeze.
3.5 Out of 5 Middle Americans
Here And Now by Paul Auster and J.M. Coetzee
Remember that old cartoon where the little yappy dog bounces around the older, cooler dog hoping to be his best friend? Yes? Then you'll pretty much know what to expect when you read this bushel of letters between the intermittently excellent Paul Auster and as-close-to-God-as-we're-likely-to-find, Nobel laureate J. M. Coetzee. It's a scattergun smorgasbord touching on all sorts of blokey stuff (friendship, sport, ageing), literary stuff (the art of writing, criticism, James Wood and his hatred of all things Auster), political stuff (American, South African, Israeli, marital) and technological stuff (the cutting edge use of fax machines). As you might expect, it is a somewhat lopsided affair; for the most part we watch Auster playing straight man to Coetzee's sermons from the mount. A bigger problem is the flimsiness of the contrivance in the first place. I never really felt the depth of their friendship. Moreover, there was an ever-present sense of self-consciousness, as if they knew their correspondence would be published. Still worth a read, though
3.5 Out Of 5 David Schwimmers
Trieste by Dasa Drndic
Since The Infatuations, I have been languishing in a literary swamp of mediocrity, unable to find anything that even remotely excites me. Desperate times call for desperate measures and so I decided to do something I almost never do. Reread the last book I remember truly loving. I need not rabbit on about how great a novel Trieste is. If I haven't convinced you to read it yet, nothing I can do now will change your mind. You are dead inside. If you ever had a soul (which I seriously doubt), it is gone. Thankfully, others have joined in the fandom since my first reading. Indeed, much greater literary figures than me have been trumpeting its brilliance and now it is in the running for this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. There is, however, one downside: now I'm in a post-Trieste slump. Damn it.
5 Out Of 5 Books Of The Year
When a story collection kicks off with an unused condom reminiscing about the time it spent in a teenager's wallet, you know you're in for a fun ride (so to speak). Simon Rich continues his domination of all things chuckleworthy with this quick follow-up to last year's arse-kicking, What In God's Name. The stories are many and varied, taking in that essential human concern - love - and skewering it from all angles. There's the imaginary friend (a goat) that totally misunderstands the nature of his friendship and tries to bust a move. There's the scared-straight program for schmucks at risk of falling into a long term relationship. And I am still smirking at the scientist who turns to time travel in his desperate quest to figure out what would constitute a meaningful, personal present for his girlfriend. They're quick. They're punchy. They're a barrel of laughs. Or monkeys. Or monkeys laughing. On barrels. Just read it.
4 Out Of 5 Banana Peels
Arcadia by Lauren Groff
It's easy to look back on the hippy movement with smoke-tinged, rose coloured glasses. Free love, great music, lots and lots of drugs. If you weren't on board, man, you were either a prude or a nerd. In her debut novel, Lauren Groff picks apart the hippy mythos to reveal its sad, almost pathetic heart in this tale of one particular commune (read: cult) and the fractured lives of those who lived within it. Arcadia has much to offer - beautiful prose, a sober outlook, mild excoriation - and yet I couldn't quite lose myself in its pages. Not sure why. Bloody hippies.
3.5 Our Of 5 Calming Sutras
All That Is by James Salter
Believe the hype, and you'll think that Slater's first novel in 30 years is THE publishing event of 2013, the one that will save literature from all these hipster upstarts currently polluting the landscape. Using a returned veteran of the US's Pacific campaign in WW2 as a prism, All That Is charts the evolution (or is that devolution?) of American society in the post-war years. In many ways, the novel resembles a glacier - you are carried along by its slow power, but sit down with it too long and your nuts are likely to freeze.
3.5 Out of 5 Middle Americans
Here And Now by Paul Auster and J.M. Coetzee
Remember that old cartoon where the little yappy dog bounces around the older, cooler dog hoping to be his best friend? Yes? Then you'll pretty much know what to expect when you read this bushel of letters between the intermittently excellent Paul Auster and as-close-to-God-as-we're-likely-to-find, Nobel laureate J. M. Coetzee. It's a scattergun smorgasbord touching on all sorts of blokey stuff (friendship, sport, ageing), literary stuff (the art of writing, criticism, James Wood and his hatred of all things Auster), political stuff (American, South African, Israeli, marital) and technological stuff (the cutting edge use of fax machines). As you might expect, it is a somewhat lopsided affair; for the most part we watch Auster playing straight man to Coetzee's sermons from the mount. A bigger problem is the flimsiness of the contrivance in the first place. I never really felt the depth of their friendship. Moreover, there was an ever-present sense of self-consciousness, as if they knew their correspondence would be published. Still worth a read, though
3.5 Out Of 5 David Schwimmers
Trieste by Dasa Drndic
Since The Infatuations, I have been languishing in a literary swamp of mediocrity, unable to find anything that even remotely excites me. Desperate times call for desperate measures and so I decided to do something I almost never do. Reread the last book I remember truly loving. I need not rabbit on about how great a novel Trieste is. If I haven't convinced you to read it yet, nothing I can do now will change your mind. You are dead inside. If you ever had a soul (which I seriously doubt), it is gone. Thankfully, others have joined in the fandom since my first reading. Indeed, much greater literary figures than me have been trumpeting its brilliance and now it is in the running for this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. There is, however, one downside: now I'm in a post-Trieste slump. Damn it.
5 Out Of 5 Books Of The Year
The Siren Song of Science: Laborastory Melbourne
on Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Back in my university days, I was forced to be a guinea pig in some weird science experiments. It was a prerequisite to passing first year psychology. Although I don't think that they had any seriously deleterious effects, I do still cringe anytime someone says the word "science" within a three metre radius of wherever I'm standing. So it was with a certain degree of healthy scepticism that I ventured out last night to partake in a peculiar scientific endeavour that was not quite lecture, not quite story slam and not quite cocktail evening. Heck, I'm still not quite sure what it was.
To be fair, I was lured out under false pretences. I was told it would be an evening of storytelling. By scientists. Intriguing. I, of course, assumed that meant fictional tales. Nope. Melbourne's very first Laborastory was a gathering of off-the-scale brainiacs who had come together to watch five of their own rattle off sycophantic tributes to their scientific heroes. Just as I look to Kafka, Coetzee and Capek, these people of the petri dish worshipped at the shrines of Alan Turing, Marie Curie, George Papanicolaou, Bud Craig and Evariste Galois. On paper, kind of boring. However, Laborastory was a raging success, in as much as serious scientists can rage or, for that matter, have success without a controlled experiment from which to gauge it. To be fair, I was slightly won over by the halo of glitz brought to the event by the nerd world celebrity status of a couple of the presenters. One young woman had won a Fringe Festival award for reducing a Shakespeare play (I think it was Hamlet) to fifteen freeze frame moments. Then there was the guy who won Letters and Numbers. The queue for autographs was out the door (by which I mean if there was a queue, it wasn't inside*)! As for the storytelling itself, for the most part it was roll-on-the-floor funny. These guys and gals were naturals. Or, perhaps, they have inhaled, imbibed or injected so many weird chemicals that they are actually cracked. Either way, it was a great night.
I'm told the organisers intend Laborastory to become a regular event. The next one is planned for June 3 at The Uptown Jazz Cafe in Brunswick St, Fitzroy. Get there if you can. It will make you see serious scientists in a whole new light. Come to think of it, it is probably the only time you'll ever see them in anything other than cold, stark fluoresent light. You'll also get bragging rights. Some time in the future, you'll be able to say, "I knew them before they won a Nobel".
* Okay, so I was very tempted to get his autograph, but you'll never get me to admit it, let alone commit it to writing
To be fair, I was lured out under false pretences. I was told it would be an evening of storytelling. By scientists. Intriguing. I, of course, assumed that meant fictional tales. Nope. Melbourne's very first Laborastory was a gathering of off-the-scale brainiacs who had come together to watch five of their own rattle off sycophantic tributes to their scientific heroes. Just as I look to Kafka, Coetzee and Capek, these people of the petri dish worshipped at the shrines of Alan Turing, Marie Curie, George Papanicolaou, Bud Craig and Evariste Galois. On paper, kind of boring. However, Laborastory was a raging success, in as much as serious scientists can rage or, for that matter, have success without a controlled experiment from which to gauge it. To be fair, I was slightly won over by the halo of glitz brought to the event by the nerd world celebrity status of a couple of the presenters. One young woman had won a Fringe Festival award for reducing a Shakespeare play (I think it was Hamlet) to fifteen freeze frame moments. Then there was the guy who won Letters and Numbers. The queue for autographs was out the door (by which I mean if there was a queue, it wasn't inside*)! As for the storytelling itself, for the most part it was roll-on-the-floor funny. These guys and gals were naturals. Or, perhaps, they have inhaled, imbibed or injected so many weird chemicals that they are actually cracked. Either way, it was a great night.
I'm told the organisers intend Laborastory to become a regular event. The next one is planned for June 3 at The Uptown Jazz Cafe in Brunswick St, Fitzroy. Get there if you can. It will make you see serious scientists in a whole new light. Come to think of it, it is probably the only time you'll ever see them in anything other than cold, stark fluoresent light. You'll also get bragging rights. Some time in the future, you'll be able to say, "I knew them before they won a Nobel".
* Okay, so I was very tempted to get his autograph, but you'll never get me to admit it, let alone commit it to writing
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