Self-Sourcing Literary Pudding

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...

Microviews Vol. 32: E.T. Goes To Zanzibar

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

Oops I Did It Again!

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!

Independent Foreign Fiction Flop

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.

Microviews Vol. 31: Just The Fax, Ma'am

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

The Siren Song of Science: Laborastory Melbourne

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}

First World Reading Problems Vol. 1: Translation Constipation

Translation Constipation (n): The anxious but seemingly fruitless wait for newly translated works by your favourite authors to be released into the swishing toilet of public consumption.

Without a doubt, my reading discovery of 2013 has been Goncalo M. Tavares. The guy is everything I look for in an author; funny, intelligent and mind-meltingly original. After the braingasm that was The Neighbourhood, I jumped headfirst into his Kingdom series, starting with Jerusalem and then moving straight on to Joseph Walser's Machine. It seemed each book I read was better than the last. But then something awful happened. I came to the end of the trail. As I reached for Learning To Pray In The Age of Technology, I realised that it was the last of Tavares's books available in translation.

Cue the neuroses, the night sweats.

I put the book back down, afraid to find myself bereft of such literary gold. Ever the resourceful guy, I went straight to the website for Dalkey Archives to investigate. The Kingdom series is made up of four books; the three I mentioned and another called Klaus Klump: A Man. Leaving aside how absolutely awesome a book called Klaus Klump just has to be, I thought it logical that Dalkey would be set to release it any day now. I mean, who would leave a brother hanging like that? I'll tell you who. Dalkey Archives. Clicking through the forthcoming titles page I saw a whole lot of hullabaloo being made of Desmond Hogan and Alvaro Enrigue but there's sweet nada about Tavares. It's an outrage, I tell you!

I vaguely recall feeling similar frustration with Hans Fallada and Irene Nemirovsky but, for as long as I was loving their work, there always seemed to be another title in the offing. I also know that a number of other non-English-speaking authors that I love have works yet to be translated: Enrique Vila-Matas, Laszlo Krasznahorkai, even Saramago. So why such an extreme reaction when it comes to Tavares? Because the guy is literary crack cocaine and I'm damn well addicted, that's why. Not just Pepsi Max 1.25 litres a day addicted, either. I'm talking beat up a nun, mug a girl scout, rub myself against broken glass addicted.

Please Dalkey Archive... Just Klaus Klump. Then I won't annoy you again. Until the bats come calling again in my poor empty warehouse of a brain... We all know there's another 13 instalments of The Neighbourhood you have yet to release. Don't do it for me. Do it for that sweet, innocent nun.

Microviews Vol. 30: Kids Under Water

Sorry for the delay, peeps, but this time I have a cracker excuse. With a deadline looming and absolutely no progress to speak of, I decided to shut out the world and write the young adult novel I'd been contracted to finish by May. That meant no reading, no blogging (but still a fair amount of procrastination). It all paid off in the end. I managed to churn the darn thing out in five days. If you notice a slight skewing of these reviews towards children's or YA lit (50% in fact), let's just say I was required to do some research because holy mother of crap, writing for kids is hard!

So Much To Tell You by John Marsden
Marsden may be the God of Australian kids' lit, but these were some pretty humble beginnings. Yeah, yeah, I get that it was a sensation at the time but this tale of a girl scarred and made mute by an acid attack has not aged particularly well. Or maybe I'm just not a 12 year old girl. Wait, nope... Definitely am a 12 year old girl.
3 Out Of 5 Lesser Cormiers

The Invention of Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick
Granted I'm no expert, but this may well be the greatest children's book ever written. A magnificent triumph of storytelling through words and image it is part graphic novel (the charcoal sketches are simply stunning), part classic fable and all jaw-droppingly brilliant. Hugo's journey from petty thief to cinematic saviour is touching without being twee. Even the kids' lit conventions, many of which Selznick happily adopts, seem fresh and fitting in the context of the story. It also doesn't hurt that this book is one of the most beautiful physical objects I now own.
5 Out Of 5 Trips To The Moon

Parvana by Deborah Ellis
Still on the kids' lit train, this one is about a young girl in Afghanistan under the Taliban. When her father is arrested, Parvana is forced to dress as a boy and head to the market to keep food on her family's table. I have no doubt that, as a teaching tool, this book is quite powerful. Ellis does not shy away from the more brutal aspects of life under a repressive regime. However, there's a certain hollowness to it all when one considers what has become of the country since the book was first published.
3 Out Of 5 Dusty Chadors

The President's Hat by Antoine Laurain
Francois Mitterand's hat changes hands (well, heads) and changes the lives of those who wear it. Essentially, it's Tibor Fischer's The Collector Collector but with a black, felt Homburg instead of a vase. Note to authors: You might want to wait a little longer before trying to rip off a minor classic, even if you have that good ole je ne sais quoi French charm!
2.5 Out Of 5 Flakes of Dandruff

Odds Against Tomorrow by Nathaniel Rich
There's something about Nathaniel Rich that really appeals to me. Both his debut, The Mayor's Tongue, and this, his sophomore effort, have oozed quirk and good humour but still hit hard. This time round a slick opportunist builds a killer operation around selling catastrophe insurance to big New York business. This is the ultimate in used-car salesmanship. Unfortunately for him, he isn't quite prepared for catastrophe when it actually hits - a massive storm that completely floods the city, biblical style. Rich's rendering of a city submerged is brilliant, and the misfortune of our unlucky catastrophist grows increasingly absurd and hilarious as survivors come to see him as some sort of messiah-like prophet. A smart, satirical wet-willy for the climate change generation.
4 Out Of 5 Noah's Arks

Problemski Hotel by Dimitri Verhulst
Problemski Hotel is the nickname given to a Belgian asylum centre by its desperate, eternally hopefully but ultimately defeated denizens. Running the gamut of degradations, some humorous (one guy's attempts to find a Belgian wife) to horrific (the murder of a baby conceived by rape), Verhulst has crafted a fine, prescient and important novel for our troubled times. This ought to be required reading for every cold-hearted politician hoping to use human misery for political capital.
4 Out Of 5 Abbot Proof Fences (Sorry, that probably doesn't make much sense outside of Australia)

Pulitzer's Play For The Nobel Peace Prize

In what I can only guess is a valiant attempt to avert nuclear war on the Korean peninsula, the Pulitzer Prize in fiction has gone to Adam Johnson for The Orphan Master's Son, an epic novel about life under Kim Jong Il's rule. Given they didn't see fit to even give the gong in 2012, it is only fitting that this year it should come with such noble intentions. I mean, after slapping David Foster Wallace in his cold, hard face and teasing Denis Johnson about the size of his... um... novella, you better do the literary equivalent of resurrecting Mother Teresa if you don't want to be chased down the street with pitchforks and torches.

The shortlist of three was rounded out by Eowyn Ivey for The Snow Child and Nathan Englander for What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank, meaning it is the second time in as many days that the great Holocaust diarist was sullied by popular culture (that is, of course, if you could call Justin Bieber culture).

The big question now is whether Kim Jong-Un will take the bait. Daddy isn't exactly painted in soft pastel in The Orphan Master's Son, but North Korean censorship laws prohibit any criticism of the Great Leader^TM so chances are the version he sees will be greatly abridged and nothing like the original. Now we just have to hope that Dennis Bloody Rodman doesn't swan in to the country again to read the unedited version to Un at bedtime. Come to think of it, can Dennis Rodman even read? Crisis averted!

Microviews Vol. 29: Grumplestiltskin Strikes Again

It's probably just the post-Infatuations slump, but nothing really seems to be grabbing me at the moment. In fact, had it not been for my new DEAR author, Goncalo Tavares, I'd have put this down as one of the least inspiring reading weeks in recent memory. Yep, Tavares aside, it was pretty ordinary. Ho hum. At least I cracked the half ton for the year. April 14 and I've knocked over (not to mention reviewed) fifty-three books!

My Name Was Judas by CK Stead
Between Jose Saramago, Colm Toibin, Jim Crace and CK Stead, we could almost construct a Third Testament. Here the most maligned bloke in history gets to put in his two cents (or should that be silver coins?) and while it is generally compelling and challenges some troubling theological assumptions, it ain't a patch on Toibin's Mary. For addicts of apocrypha only...
3 Out Of 5 Traitor's Kisses

Julia by Otto De Kat
I am throwing down the gauntlet and calling shenanigans on the endless deluge of Holocaust fiction that follows the same narrative trajectory: guy falls for girl, evil Nazi regime drives guy and girl apart, guy looks back as an old man wondering what happened, guy finds out by some strange coincidence that girl was actually spy/resistance fighter/heroine and had to sacrifice her true love for the greater good. Sure, Julia is a lovely example of this story, but seriously folks...
3 Out Of 5 Coded Letters

Donnybrook by Frank Bill
If you can get through the depraved brutality of the first three pages of this novel, you're doing well. Persevere and you're in for one hell of a bourbon-fuelled clusterfuck of violence. Set in the lead-up to a three-day bare knuckle tournament, Donnybrook follows a cast of the most insane, unlikeable, desperate gutter dwellers as they double, triple and quadruple cross one another for the love of drugs and money. It ain't subtle, but it's pretty darn fun.
3.5 Out Of 5 Speedballs

Joseph Walser's Machine by Goncalo M. Tavares
I'm not sure of the order in which Tavares's Kingdom series is supposed to be read, but this is my second of the four (of which only three are available in translation). Jerusalem was a great spin on noir, not to mention a cool iteration of Soul Asylum's best song, String Of Pearls, but it pales next to the brilliance of Joseph Walser's Machine. The more I read of him, the more Tavares reminds me of Georges Perec with his constant innovation and experimentation, albeit without the wacky impenetrability. JSM is a perplexing riff on the concept of routine, with Tavares throwing slight changes to the perfectly ordered world that Walser - an archetypal pathetic functionary - has constructed for himself. Tavares's point is clear - routine destroys the human soul. Having experienced this wonderful little novel, I'm inclined to agree.
4.5 Out Of 5 Closely Watched Clocks

The Middlesteins by Jami Attenberg
Is it just me or are we drowning in heavily workshopped, MFA-spawned, middle-American, slice of Jewish family life novels? At the risk of being sniped from crystal palaces, I'm just going to go ahead and say that I've stopped caring about these semi-dysfunctional families and their first world problems. Attenberg brings an interesting structural spin to The Middlesteins - the chapters follow the weight gain of the morbidly obese matriarch Edie and the resulting familial disintegration - but this could be any of a number of recent works from the Critically Approved Literature factory. It is a lovely book, to be sure, but at some point even the best attended circle jerk must come to an end.
3.5 Out of 5 Gilbert Grapes