New posts will join all previous posts at my new website.
http://adamesmith.wordpress.com/book-reviews/
Friday, May 28, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Going nowhere
Neverwhere
By Neil Gaiman
Almost every person who lives in or visits London must imagine what goes on in the tunnels underneath that great city. Its history is so long and complicated; remnants are scattered all over the town, so surely the networks of secret tunnels must be crammed with history’s waste. The potential for exploring this idea in fiction is massive, and Neil Gaiman has admirably taken on the task.
In Neverwhere, he has created London Below, an entire world underneath the London most people are familiar with. London Below is populated with unique and memorable characters (the eccentric earl of Earl’s Court, a swashbuckling adventurer, ghoulish Burke and Hare-inspired murderers) and a great deal of wacky scenarios. London Below is a bizarre place to the outsider – but probably no more so than London Above – and it certainly functions as a living city.
And so it is a great shame that after having created this exciting, wonderful world, Gaiman disappoints the reader with a weak plot and poor storytelling. Inventive settings and fun characters are not nearly enough. A good novel needs a strong theme, something the writer wants to say about the world, or a way of viewing the world at least, and to persuade us of this the writer can call on his characters and setting. Gaiman simply gets too wrapped up in injecting more and more originality into the text and forgets that he’s supposed to tell a story too.
The plot is shockingly weak – once Richard, the Alice of this Wonderland, is installed in the Underside, as it is sometimes called, the main thrust of the story becomes his companion’s quest to investigate the death of her family. But potential twists and turns in this adventure are vague; it becomes increasingly frustrating that plot development is continually sacrificed so Gaiman can introduce another creature or custom of his underworld. To this end, the reader never feels like a local. Middle Earth is much more complex than London Below, and yet Tolkien ensures that the reader feels instantly a part of it. In Neverwhere, we’re never more than a guest.
By Neil Gaiman
Almost every person who lives in or visits London must imagine what goes on in the tunnels underneath that great city. Its history is so long and complicated; remnants are scattered all over the town, so surely the networks of secret tunnels must be crammed with history’s waste. The potential for exploring this idea in fiction is massive, and Neil Gaiman has admirably taken on the task.
In Neverwhere, he has created London Below, an entire world underneath the London most people are familiar with. London Below is populated with unique and memorable characters (the eccentric earl of Earl’s Court, a swashbuckling adventurer, ghoulish Burke and Hare-inspired murderers) and a great deal of wacky scenarios. London Below is a bizarre place to the outsider – but probably no more so than London Above – and it certainly functions as a living city.
And so it is a great shame that after having created this exciting, wonderful world, Gaiman disappoints the reader with a weak plot and poor storytelling. Inventive settings and fun characters are not nearly enough. A good novel needs a strong theme, something the writer wants to say about the world, or a way of viewing the world at least, and to persuade us of this the writer can call on his characters and setting. Gaiman simply gets too wrapped up in injecting more and more originality into the text and forgets that he’s supposed to tell a story too.
The plot is shockingly weak – once Richard, the Alice of this Wonderland, is installed in the Underside, as it is sometimes called, the main thrust of the story becomes his companion’s quest to investigate the death of her family. But potential twists and turns in this adventure are vague; it becomes increasingly frustrating that plot development is continually sacrificed so Gaiman can introduce another creature or custom of his underworld. To this end, the reader never feels like a local. Middle Earth is much more complex than London Below, and yet Tolkien ensures that the reader feels instantly a part of it. In Neverwhere, we’re never more than a guest.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Dangerously good
Dangerous Love
By Ben Okri
Okri has written the perfect elegy of a doomed love affair. In Dangerous Love, the star-crossed lovers are not only battling with the tensions of a problematic relationship but also their own very difficult personal circumstances and confusions.
This enables Okri to paint a very complex portrait of his characters, to elevate Dangerous Love from a simple love story along the lines of Romeo and Juliet, which has already been retold plenty, to a book that tackles identity and modernity. His hero Omovo is a beautiful character. He is sensitive and naïve but never once irritating for it: Omovo questions, probes, retaliates – and is forever caught between a difficult reality and an even more sticky mental disposition. Okri is not content with having readers merely connect with Omovo, and through his careful characterisation, Okri ensures that readers breathe simultaneously with the enchanting, living creature he has created. The precision of Okri’s prose – his most realistic I have read – makes this an absolute certainty.
The same goes for Ifewiya. She could easily have been painted flatly as the object of affection who cannot escape her marriage as much as she cannot escape her society’s customs. In Okri’s hands, Ifewiya’s portrait is smooth and three-dimensional: her circumstances are the subject of countless books and films and yet Okri tells her story anew. What a deeply moving character she becomes!
An absorbing read from the first page to the last, Dangerous Love is filled with fine imagery, delicate prose and classic characters.
By Ben Okri
Okri has written the perfect elegy of a doomed love affair. In Dangerous Love, the star-crossed lovers are not only battling with the tensions of a problematic relationship but also their own very difficult personal circumstances and confusions.
This enables Okri to paint a very complex portrait of his characters, to elevate Dangerous Love from a simple love story along the lines of Romeo and Juliet, which has already been retold plenty, to a book that tackles identity and modernity. His hero Omovo is a beautiful character. He is sensitive and naïve but never once irritating for it: Omovo questions, probes, retaliates – and is forever caught between a difficult reality and an even more sticky mental disposition. Okri is not content with having readers merely connect with Omovo, and through his careful characterisation, Okri ensures that readers breathe simultaneously with the enchanting, living creature he has created. The precision of Okri’s prose – his most realistic I have read – makes this an absolute certainty.
The same goes for Ifewiya. She could easily have been painted flatly as the object of affection who cannot escape her marriage as much as she cannot escape her society’s customs. In Okri’s hands, Ifewiya’s portrait is smooth and three-dimensional: her circumstances are the subject of countless books and films and yet Okri tells her story anew. What a deeply moving character she becomes!
An absorbing read from the first page to the last, Dangerous Love is filled with fine imagery, delicate prose and classic characters.
Larsson is on fire
The Girl Who Played With Fire
By Stieg Larsson
Every bit as gripping and provocative as the first book in the Millennium trilogy, Larsson’s second novel is a resounding success. The story picks up two years after the events depicted in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. We’re brought back into Larsson’s world again by another long, slow opening that carefully sets up the characters and provides just enough intrigue. Then we’re introduced to new and exciting players who are perfect for these books. It’s not long before the page-turning shocks start to emerge.
The development of central character Lisbeth Salander – one of crime fiction’s most startlingly original protagonists ever – is deep, complex and utterly absorbing. She is as layered as the first book led us to believe; Larsson’s intricate knitting of this with his overall plot in this installment is breathtaking.
Nevertheless, this is far from a perfect book. Again, as with the first, this novel suffers from a lack of editing. It is somewhat refreshing to see this in a crime book (which have to be tight) – and it may even be the secret to Larsson’s success – but it is very irritating. Larsson often resorts to cliché to prop up poor character introduction. Too many peripheral players are described forensically the first time they appear when it’s just not necessary. Furthermore, the descriptions are often laboured lists.
The text is also plagued by far too many poor constructions, characteristic of an amateur crime writer (which Larsson was). It’s disconcerting that his editors or publishers didn’t weed these out, and I’d certainly like to have been a fly on the wall in editorial discussions. It’s surprising that this oversight hasn’t tempered the books’ success.
For critics, the public and this reader, there are far too may positives not to rebalance Fire back into favour. It really is a lot of fun reading these books – I’m already looking forward to part three.
By Stieg Larsson
Every bit as gripping and provocative as the first book in the Millennium trilogy, Larsson’s second novel is a resounding success. The story picks up two years after the events depicted in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. We’re brought back into Larsson’s world again by another long, slow opening that carefully sets up the characters and provides just enough intrigue. Then we’re introduced to new and exciting players who are perfect for these books. It’s not long before the page-turning shocks start to emerge.
The development of central character Lisbeth Salander – one of crime fiction’s most startlingly original protagonists ever – is deep, complex and utterly absorbing. She is as layered as the first book led us to believe; Larsson’s intricate knitting of this with his overall plot in this installment is breathtaking.
Nevertheless, this is far from a perfect book. Again, as with the first, this novel suffers from a lack of editing. It is somewhat refreshing to see this in a crime book (which have to be tight) – and it may even be the secret to Larsson’s success – but it is very irritating. Larsson often resorts to cliché to prop up poor character introduction. Too many peripheral players are described forensically the first time they appear when it’s just not necessary. Furthermore, the descriptions are often laboured lists.
The text is also plagued by far too many poor constructions, characteristic of an amateur crime writer (which Larsson was). It’s disconcerting that his editors or publishers didn’t weed these out, and I’d certainly like to have been a fly on the wall in editorial discussions. It’s surprising that this oversight hasn’t tempered the books’ success.
For critics, the public and this reader, there are far too may positives not to rebalance Fire back into favour. It really is a lot of fun reading these books – I’m already looking forward to part three.
A most needed novel
A Most Wanted Man
By John le Carré
Many authors have published responses to the war on terror. Every day seems to offer new opportunities for writers seeking inspiration from the events in Iraq, Afghanistan and on the streets in the Western world where plots are hatched and executed. Some authors even dribble all over the fascinating topic and manage to write absolute tosh.
Le Carré has also accepted the challenge, but his perspective is so original, so cleverly woven then unspooled, that it rises above all others. At times I found le Carré’s style too obfuscating and his cast of characters too complex for what is essentially a simple story. But now, having finished the novel, everything is clear. And that clarity stretches beyond plot turns to the book’s ingenuity itself.
There is just something so credible about a le Carré novel – it seems that all other spy books are just schoolboy fantasies in comparison. Le Carré crafts a story that feels real, as complex as one expects espionage and international terror plots would be, without explosions or training camps. In A Most Wanted Man the characters are part of a secretive and sensitive transaction involving money and people. Although it would not make headlines the deal captures so succinctly the mood of the this moment and – I assume – represents the type of activity that is going on across Europe and the world as security forces hone in on suspected terrorists.
Surprising, provocative and constantly enlightening, A Most Wanted Man is highly recommended.
By John le Carré
Many authors have published responses to the war on terror. Every day seems to offer new opportunities for writers seeking inspiration from the events in Iraq, Afghanistan and on the streets in the Western world where plots are hatched and executed. Some authors even dribble all over the fascinating topic and manage to write absolute tosh.
Le Carré has also accepted the challenge, but his perspective is so original, so cleverly woven then unspooled, that it rises above all others. At times I found le Carré’s style too obfuscating and his cast of characters too complex for what is essentially a simple story. But now, having finished the novel, everything is clear. And that clarity stretches beyond plot turns to the book’s ingenuity itself.
There is just something so credible about a le Carré novel – it seems that all other spy books are just schoolboy fantasies in comparison. Le Carré crafts a story that feels real, as complex as one expects espionage and international terror plots would be, without explosions or training camps. In A Most Wanted Man the characters are part of a secretive and sensitive transaction involving money and people. Although it would not make headlines the deal captures so succinctly the mood of the this moment and – I assume – represents the type of activity that is going on across Europe and the world as security forces hone in on suspected terrorists.
Surprising, provocative and constantly enlightening, A Most Wanted Man is highly recommended.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Life affirming
The Death of Bunny Munro
By Nick Cave
Like a sexually transmitted infection, Bunny Munro is one of those characters that you come across rarely but nevertheless somehow stays with you forever.
He is a talented salesman, an abominable father, a deplorable husband and a despicable human being. He drives around sleeping with housewives while his son waits patiently in the car. He wears zebra-print pants. He doesn’t light his cigarettes; he torches them with a Zippo. In Bunny Munro, Nick Cave has created a monster – every bit as loveable as he is awful.
Cave’s magnetic rock-star style is woven into every fibre of Bunny’s being. And it is spread across every page in this hilarious, original novel. The descriptions bring this book to life like electricity to Frankenstein’s monster: they are raucous, filthy and startlingly precise. For example, when he’s exasperated after too much sex, Bunny’s forelock hangs down over his face like a used condom. It is an expertly observed image, full of character and nuance. Cave spurts four or five of these on every page.
Buoyed by this fantastic imagery, the novel roars along as we follow Bunny Munro and his nine-year-old son travelling around Brighton and its suburbs to “shake the money tree”, that is, selling beauty products to vulnerable women who don’t need them. Bunny himself is having much more than a mid-life crisis, while Bunny Junior is enduring a pre-pubescent awakening. Their dialogue is superb, nailing each character perfectly. A riot of a book: it glistens with sweat, substances and old-fashioned rock and roll.
By Nick Cave
Like a sexually transmitted infection, Bunny Munro is one of those characters that you come across rarely but nevertheless somehow stays with you forever.
He is a talented salesman, an abominable father, a deplorable husband and a despicable human being. He drives around sleeping with housewives while his son waits patiently in the car. He wears zebra-print pants. He doesn’t light his cigarettes; he torches them with a Zippo. In Bunny Munro, Nick Cave has created a monster – every bit as loveable as he is awful.
Cave’s magnetic rock-star style is woven into every fibre of Bunny’s being. And it is spread across every page in this hilarious, original novel. The descriptions bring this book to life like electricity to Frankenstein’s monster: they are raucous, filthy and startlingly precise. For example, when he’s exasperated after too much sex, Bunny’s forelock hangs down over his face like a used condom. It is an expertly observed image, full of character and nuance. Cave spurts four or five of these on every page.
Buoyed by this fantastic imagery, the novel roars along as we follow Bunny Munro and his nine-year-old son travelling around Brighton and its suburbs to “shake the money tree”, that is, selling beauty products to vulnerable women who don’t need them. Bunny himself is having much more than a mid-life crisis, while Bunny Junior is enduring a pre-pubescent awakening. Their dialogue is superb, nailing each character perfectly. A riot of a book: it glistens with sweat, substances and old-fashioned rock and roll.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Gebbie bubble
Words From A Glass Bubble
By Vanessa Gebbie
Hailed by short story competition judges and critics alike, Vanessa Gebbie has certainly made a name for herself over the past few years. Anyone on the short story scene, so to speak, will have heard of her: she is the short story lovey, graduating to a gig as editor on Salt Publishing’s recent collection of essays on how to write short fiction.
Gebbie’s stories should be top-class. But I’m afraid to say that after reading her debut collection, I was not as impressed as the judges or critics (which include Maggie Gee, Zadie Smith and Alex Keegan). I fear for my own writing career: if I can’t understand what’s so supernova about Gebbie, I’ve no chance of learning from her.
That is not to say that the stories in Words are poor or unmoving. They are original, delicate and illuminating. But they are also clinical and, occasionally, even contrived. Take “Closed Doors”: a story that details the observations of a shoe shiner on the guests in the hotel where he works. Each room has a different guest, a different story, an alternate glimpse at life and how people live it. This premise is so incredibly contrived that I began to think Gebbie had employed it for some greater purpose. When the story ended, I was very disappointed: it felt like an exercise a creative writing lecturer would pull to pieces. (This is made all the more tragic by the fact that Gebbie herself is one of the most respected creative writing teachers in the UK.)
I didn’t like the working-class voices that feature prominently in some stories. To me, they sounded inauthentic and even patronising: the characters sounded stupid and inarticulate just because of their class.
The protagonist in “Cactus Man”, an adoptee who is trying to find out details of his birth parents, knows a lot about botany. The Latin names for houseplants trip off his tongue easily, but Gebbie fails to show why this is central to his character. It remains nothing more than a gimmick.
And yet, Gebbie has won more awards than she’ll have space for in her cabinet for sure. I’m obviously missing something – probably her next book.
By Vanessa Gebbie
Hailed by short story competition judges and critics alike, Vanessa Gebbie has certainly made a name for herself over the past few years. Anyone on the short story scene, so to speak, will have heard of her: she is the short story lovey, graduating to a gig as editor on Salt Publishing’s recent collection of essays on how to write short fiction.
Gebbie’s stories should be top-class. But I’m afraid to say that after reading her debut collection, I was not as impressed as the judges or critics (which include Maggie Gee, Zadie Smith and Alex Keegan). I fear for my own writing career: if I can’t understand what’s so supernova about Gebbie, I’ve no chance of learning from her.
That is not to say that the stories in Words are poor or unmoving. They are original, delicate and illuminating. But they are also clinical and, occasionally, even contrived. Take “Closed Doors”: a story that details the observations of a shoe shiner on the guests in the hotel where he works. Each room has a different guest, a different story, an alternate glimpse at life and how people live it. This premise is so incredibly contrived that I began to think Gebbie had employed it for some greater purpose. When the story ended, I was very disappointed: it felt like an exercise a creative writing lecturer would pull to pieces. (This is made all the more tragic by the fact that Gebbie herself is one of the most respected creative writing teachers in the UK.)
I didn’t like the working-class voices that feature prominently in some stories. To me, they sounded inauthentic and even patronising: the characters sounded stupid and inarticulate just because of their class.
The protagonist in “Cactus Man”, an adoptee who is trying to find out details of his birth parents, knows a lot about botany. The Latin names for houseplants trip off his tongue easily, but Gebbie fails to show why this is central to his character. It remains nothing more than a gimmick.
And yet, Gebbie has won more awards than she’ll have space for in her cabinet for sure. I’m obviously missing something – probably her next book.
Short cut to success?
Short Circuit: a guide to the art of the short story
Vanessa Gebbie (editor)
I love reading writers’ methods, their habits and their pathways to publication. I believe in them, but I also believe that a writer can learn a limited amount from other writers. Ultimately, a writer must write and write.
So it is with some caution that I approach such books as this, a collection of essays by successful writers on how to craft short stories. However, for the most part, this anthology is incredibly useful. Its pages are filled with insight, inspiration and unfussy advice. Its contributors strike straight to the point and rarely resort to patronising or obvious guidance. I found particular resonance in Graham Mort’s notion that the text of a good short story is activated by the reader and Vanessa Gebbie’s recollection that a Bridport Prize judge told her that he is looking for a story that makes him forget he is reading a story.
In addition to these specific points, the essays are filled with useful, often original, viewpoints on every technical and emotional aspect of a short story: from setting to theme to form and, of course, power and impact. Highly recommended. Well done, Salt!
Vanessa Gebbie (editor)
I love reading writers’ methods, their habits and their pathways to publication. I believe in them, but I also believe that a writer can learn a limited amount from other writers. Ultimately, a writer must write and write.
So it is with some caution that I approach such books as this, a collection of essays by successful writers on how to craft short stories. However, for the most part, this anthology is incredibly useful. Its pages are filled with insight, inspiration and unfussy advice. Its contributors strike straight to the point and rarely resort to patronising or obvious guidance. I found particular resonance in Graham Mort’s notion that the text of a good short story is activated by the reader and Vanessa Gebbie’s recollection that a Bridport Prize judge told her that he is looking for a story that makes him forget he is reading a story.
In addition to these specific points, the essays are filled with useful, often original, viewpoints on every technical and emotional aspect of a short story: from setting to theme to form and, of course, power and impact. Highly recommended. Well done, Salt!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Not an easy ride
The Road
By Cormac McCarthy
Finally, this weekend I got round to reading McCarthy’s prize-winning, critic-pleasing novel. And I can tell you that The Road deserves all the attention it has garnered. It is a simple, terrifyingly bleak story about a man and his boy surviving in the wastelands left over after some global catastrophe that has killed almost everything and everyone.
In fact, the story is so simple that it feels as if it has always existed. Or, at least, that someone else must surely have told this story before McCarthy. I am not so sure about that, but no one could have told with it with the pathos of The Road.
I felt a tad disappointed in the ending – and it’s not often I say that as I feel it’s an all-too-easy criticism. But I think that this ending didn’t quite nail it – and it certainly wasn’t brave enough. Nevertheless, it is McCarthy’s setting that will stay with me and every other reader. I only hope I can remember the beauty and precision of his prose too.
By Cormac McCarthy
Finally, this weekend I got round to reading McCarthy’s prize-winning, critic-pleasing novel. And I can tell you that The Road deserves all the attention it has garnered. It is a simple, terrifyingly bleak story about a man and his boy surviving in the wastelands left over after some global catastrophe that has killed almost everything and everyone.
In fact, the story is so simple that it feels as if it has always existed. Or, at least, that someone else must surely have told this story before McCarthy. I am not so sure about that, but no one could have told with it with the pathos of The Road.
I felt a tad disappointed in the ending – and it’s not often I say that as I feel it’s an all-too-easy criticism. But I think that this ending didn’t quite nail it – and it certainly wasn’t brave enough. Nevertheless, it is McCarthy’s setting that will stay with me and every other reader. I only hope I can remember the beauty and precision of his prose too.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Only a conjuror
The Magus
By John Fowles
I have just spent two weeks devouring John Fowles’s The Magus. The time has flown by. It is a compelling piece of literature: truly outstanding.
The story concerns a young man who, after a failed relationship in London, takes up a post teaching English on a small, post-war Greek island. There he meets a mature gentleman who begins unravelling his life story. Soon, people from the tales appear and participate in what becomes a dreamlike experience for our man. As he becomes involved with more and more characters from the old man’s often contradictory stories, he begins to question everything he knows or thought he knew. He is not sure whether the old conjuror is tricking or helping him.
It is a simple premise for a novel, but Fowles tells the story with all the truth and complexity of real life. The reader quickly becomes addicted not just to the exhilarating plot but also the characters themselves. The reader is just as clueless as the narrator: therein lies the secret to this finely constructed mystery.
Most impressively, the novel says a great many things about human relationships. As a 25-year-old man from a middle class background, our man still has a lot to learn about the people he encounters and becomes involved with. He matures throughout the course of this novel: indeed, that is the focus of his character development. This could have been more complex, but it is the novel’s only area that needs improvement. Otherwise, Fowles’s novel is perfect. Only a true conjuror could have dreamed it up.
By John Fowles
The story concerns a young man who, after a failed relationship in London, takes up a post teaching English on a small, post-war Greek island. There he meets a mature gentleman who begins unravelling his life story. Soon, people from the tales appear and participate in what becomes a dreamlike experience for our man. As he becomes involved with more and more characters from the old man’s often contradictory stories, he begins to question everything he knows or thought he knew. He is not sure whether the old conjuror is tricking or helping him.
It is a simple premise for a novel, but Fowles tells the story with all the truth and complexity of real life. The reader quickly becomes addicted not just to the exhilarating plot but also the characters themselves. The reader is just as clueless as the narrator: therein lies the secret to this finely constructed mystery.
Most impressively, the novel says a great many things about human relationships. As a 25-year-old man from a middle class background, our man still has a lot to learn about the people he encounters and becomes involved with. He matures throughout the course of this novel: indeed, that is the focus of his character development. This could have been more complex, but it is the novel’s only area that needs improvement. Otherwise, Fowles’s novel is perfect. Only a true conjuror could have dreamed it up.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Postcard from the edge
Pyongyang
By Guy Delisle
Animation is big business in North Korea. It sounds surprising but Delisle assures me that it is true. Scores of foreign cartoonists and animators spend time working in Pyongyang’s studios. As part of his job, Delisle served two months working in Pyongyang – walking the smart streets and enduring the fake smiles – and then came home and wrote this fascinating insight into the world’s strangest regime.
His simple but sophisticated drawings reveal the North Korean’s character, at the same time as telling a wonderful story. Delisle’s book does not have a plot as such; it is a mere collection of events and anecdotes about North Korea. But for that reason alone it is an incredibly valuable artifact. His disinterest in politics (other than, at the most obvious level, Pyongyang’s stunning absurdity) is also noteworthy. His view is surprisingly refreshing, as it takes a superficial glance at North Korea. In this way, it manages to make a stronger point than one would with a political polemic. Subtle, humble and immensely entertaining, Delisle’s book should be read by anyone interested in that odd, worrying little country.
By Guy Delisle
Animation is big business in North Korea. It sounds surprising but Delisle assures me that it is true. Scores of foreign cartoonists and animators spend time working in Pyongyang’s studios. As part of his job, Delisle served two months working in Pyongyang – walking the smart streets and enduring the fake smiles – and then came home and wrote this fascinating insight into the world’s strangest regime.
His simple but sophisticated drawings reveal the North Korean’s character, at the same time as telling a wonderful story. Delisle’s book does not have a plot as such; it is a mere collection of events and anecdotes about North Korea. But for that reason alone it is an incredibly valuable artifact. His disinterest in politics (other than, at the most obvious level, Pyongyang’s stunning absurdity) is also noteworthy. His view is surprisingly refreshing, as it takes a superficial glance at North Korea. In this way, it manages to make a stronger point than one would with a political polemic. Subtle, humble and immensely entertaining, Delisle’s book should be read by anyone interested in that odd, worrying little country.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
(An)other masterpiece
The Other
By David Guterson
In 1972, Neil Countryman meets John William Barry during an 800-metre race. Both are teenagers from different schools, and very different backgrounds. The racetrack meeting changes the course of their lives forever. It is from this moment, until late in Neil’s life, that Guterson’s novel unravels. Drifting effortlessly between schooldays, college years and adulthood, from mansions to the rainforests of Washington State and to basement apartments, The Other tells of an extraordinary friendship underpinned by the fierce intelligence and eccentricity of John William.
Guterson’s novel is a fascinating rumination on the choices we make in life, how they affect our character, and vice versa. It is an accomplished study, executed finely by a master craftsman: in John William, Guterson develops an intricate character over the course of the novel, a character that feels fully formed at the start and yet grows in complexity and depth as the novel progresses. Equally, of course, Guterson is so very skilled at explicating a character in the space of a single sentence (as seen in The Country Ahead of Us, The Country Behind).
The Other is a novel so sublimely sorrowful and joyful at the same time. It reflects life beautifully: at times tender and at times harsh. Uplifting and crushing. Comic and tragic. Reading it, I felt that it was part of the world, like a carving on a huge rock face that has existed for centuries in the forests Guterson describes so well. The Other exists timelessly, for its wisdom and tenderness. Like John William, it should be celebrated for it. Guterson’s power seems to be growing. Long may it continue.
By David Guterson
In 1972, Neil Countryman meets John William Barry during an 800-metre race. Both are teenagers from different schools, and very different backgrounds. The racetrack meeting changes the course of their lives forever. It is from this moment, until late in Neil’s life, that Guterson’s novel unravels. Drifting effortlessly between schooldays, college years and adulthood, from mansions to the rainforests of Washington State and to basement apartments, The Other tells of an extraordinary friendship underpinned by the fierce intelligence and eccentricity of John William.
Guterson’s novel is a fascinating rumination on the choices we make in life, how they affect our character, and vice versa. It is an accomplished study, executed finely by a master craftsman: in John William, Guterson develops an intricate character over the course of the novel, a character that feels fully formed at the start and yet grows in complexity and depth as the novel progresses. Equally, of course, Guterson is so very skilled at explicating a character in the space of a single sentence (as seen in The Country Ahead of Us, The Country Behind).
The Other is a novel so sublimely sorrowful and joyful at the same time. It reflects life beautifully: at times tender and at times harsh. Uplifting and crushing. Comic and tragic. Reading it, I felt that it was part of the world, like a carving on a huge rock face that has existed for centuries in the forests Guterson describes so well. The Other exists timelessly, for its wisdom and tenderness. Like John William, it should be celebrated for it. Guterson’s power seems to be growing. Long may it continue.
An adventure in time
The Hills of Adonis
By Colin Thubron
Although Thubron spent four months on the trip, he produced a concise travelogue not 200 pages long. His book is sharp and insightful, offering glimpses into daily Lebanese life in the 1970s. However, I expected more than ‘glimpses’. After his four-month trip, Thubron could have been in a position to characterise the people of his host country with more depth. It frustrated me a little: Thubron is clearly a good writer, a fine observer and an enticing guide. I wish he had married these more, and woven a richer tapestry of Lebanese character.
Instead, the writer focuses on Lebanon’s place in history. His trip sets out to explore Lebanon as an ancient land, populated by the gods and cults that spread around the world. His quest is there in the title, The Hills of Adonis. And, to his credit, Thubron does warn us that his book will involve “a long walk down the corridors of time and thought”. He certainly succeeds on his own quest: to uncover the relationship between ancient gods and the landscape that gave rise to and nurtured them.
I think it could have been even more enjoyable and more powerful if Thubron had tied together the ancient with the living. Comparing the Lebanon of antiquity and modernity would have been a worthwhile challenge, and possibly much more of a quest.
By Colin Thubron
Although Thubron spent four months on the trip, he produced a concise travelogue not 200 pages long. His book is sharp and insightful, offering glimpses into daily Lebanese life in the 1970s. However, I expected more than ‘glimpses’. After his four-month trip, Thubron could have been in a position to characterise the people of his host country with more depth. It frustrated me a little: Thubron is clearly a good writer, a fine observer and an enticing guide. I wish he had married these more, and woven a richer tapestry of Lebanese character.
Instead, the writer focuses on Lebanon’s place in history. His trip sets out to explore Lebanon as an ancient land, populated by the gods and cults that spread around the world. His quest is there in the title, The Hills of Adonis. And, to his credit, Thubron does warn us that his book will involve “a long walk down the corridors of time and thought”. He certainly succeeds on his own quest: to uncover the relationship between ancient gods and the landscape that gave rise to and nurtured them.
I think it could have been even more enjoyable and more powerful if Thubron had tied together the ancient with the living. Comparing the Lebanon of antiquity and modernity would have been a worthwhile challenge, and possibly much more of a quest.
Monday, January 4, 2010
First impressions
The Good Soldier
By Ford Madox Ford
Having read some of the finest novelists of the modernist generation, from Conrad to Woolf, I drifted towards Ford like a caver exploring cracks in the earth. Ford, it turns out, is a particularly deep hole: a seemingly endless cavern in which the reader can lose himself… and his will to live.
Let me explain. The Good Soldier, regarded by many as Ford’s masterpiece, follows the fortunes and misfortunes of Edward Dowell and friends. The two couples at the centre of the tale fall in and out of love with several characters, including each other. Dowell is ostensibly telling the entire story; this is where Ford’s craft becomes apparent. Dowell is an arguably unreliable narrator, an inconsistent and confused storyteller. His narrative unfolds in the same way that we encounter life: that is to say as a blend of the present and images of what we have previously experienced. It is a truly remarkable device; Ford is the master practitioner.
Because his accomplishment is so complete, Ford has also crafted an astonishingly bewildering, destabilising and irritating novel. I do not mean that it is bad; on the contrary, precisely because Ford leaves readers with an entirely realistic impression of his characters, he has written a very fine novel indeed. But it also means that it is difficult and challenging. Very rarely is such a novel an intellectual joy also.
I cannot make sense of everything that happens in this book – my memory is infected with Dowell’s failings as a storyteller and human being. But that is simply reflective of life, for we do not remember every detail. The novel is, in my mind, an incomplete set of images, a series of impressions… for that reason it is beautiful.
By Ford Madox Ford
Having read some of the finest novelists of the modernist generation, from Conrad to Woolf, I drifted towards Ford like a caver exploring cracks in the earth. Ford, it turns out, is a particularly deep hole: a seemingly endless cavern in which the reader can lose himself… and his will to live.
Let me explain. The Good Soldier, regarded by many as Ford’s masterpiece, follows the fortunes and misfortunes of Edward Dowell and friends. The two couples at the centre of the tale fall in and out of love with several characters, including each other. Dowell is ostensibly telling the entire story; this is where Ford’s craft becomes apparent. Dowell is an arguably unreliable narrator, an inconsistent and confused storyteller. His narrative unfolds in the same way that we encounter life: that is to say as a blend of the present and images of what we have previously experienced. It is a truly remarkable device; Ford is the master practitioner.
Because his accomplishment is so complete, Ford has also crafted an astonishingly bewildering, destabilising and irritating novel. I do not mean that it is bad; on the contrary, precisely because Ford leaves readers with an entirely realistic impression of his characters, he has written a very fine novel indeed. But it also means that it is difficult and challenging. Very rarely is such a novel an intellectual joy also.
I cannot make sense of everything that happens in this book – my memory is infected with Dowell’s failings as a storyteller and human being. But that is simply reflective of life, for we do not remember every detail. The novel is, in my mind, an incomplete set of images, a series of impressions… for that reason it is beautiful.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
War stories
The Fixer: A Story from Sarajevo
By Joe Sacco
Sacco’s mighty war-zone reportage has educated me about the Israel-Palestine conflicts and the Balkan war of the Nineties. His books tend to be rather epic in scope (spanning years, populated by several protagonists and taking into account various perspectives on the same conflict). In The Fixer, however, Sacco looks at the Balkan war through the eyes of a single individual, as he reports Neven’s experiences of the conflict. This Sacco conducts with journalistic objectivity, while simultaneously providing a personal, tender characterisation. Neven, the fixer of the title, spins wild stories which teeter, Sacco is told, on the convergence of fact and fiction. Nevertheless, Neven’s insights into the warlords, gangsters and politicians who ran the war are priceless.
Sacco’s harsh dialogue and punchy historical reports drive the narrative along quickly – indeed, the reader is in for a rollicking ride as the story zips back and forth in time and here and there in location, from trenches to kitchens to cabinet members’ chambers. The reviewer’s final word must go to Sacco’s immense talent as a cartoonist: realistic, full of character and exciting to behold, Sacco’s illustrations in this book will grab your eyeballs and command your attention. An elegant, surprising book.
By Joe Sacco
Sacco’s mighty war-zone reportage has educated me about the Israel-Palestine conflicts and the Balkan war of the Nineties. His books tend to be rather epic in scope (spanning years, populated by several protagonists and taking into account various perspectives on the same conflict). In The Fixer, however, Sacco looks at the Balkan war through the eyes of a single individual, as he reports Neven’s experiences of the conflict. This Sacco conducts with journalistic objectivity, while simultaneously providing a personal, tender characterisation. Neven, the fixer of the title, spins wild stories which teeter, Sacco is told, on the convergence of fact and fiction. Nevertheless, Neven’s insights into the warlords, gangsters and politicians who ran the war are priceless.
Sacco’s harsh dialogue and punchy historical reports drive the narrative along quickly – indeed, the reader is in for a rollicking ride as the story zips back and forth in time and here and there in location, from trenches to kitchens to cabinet members’ chambers. The reviewer’s final word must go to Sacco’s immense talent as a cartoonist: realistic, full of character and exciting to behold, Sacco’s illustrations in this book will grab your eyeballs and command your attention. An elegant, surprising book.
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