Frankenstein
By Mary Shelley
The book that founded science fiction had been on my reading list for some time. But it wasn’t until I came across a copy of Shelley’s classic wedged in between all the Dracula books in a shop in Whitby that I decided to embrace my inner demons and tackle Frankenstein.
Above all else, Frankenstein defined a new genre. Shelley used both the wonder and horror science as a way of exploring deeply philosophical themes from identity to family to discovery and, classically, existentialism. But not only this novel profound, it is also deliciously readable: Frankenstein is as startlingly original as it is enchanting. From the opening section, in which Walton describes to his dear sister his arduous journey and discovery of Victor Frankenstein, through that character’s misendeavours and terror, this novel holds the reader’s attention in a grasp not unlike that used by its monster to throttle his victims.
The novel also achieves a great structural success. When Victor is found by Walton, I had certainly forgotten that I was reading his account and that this would inevitably catch up with the present. It was perfect timing. Like Victor, Shelley crafted something that will stay around for a long time, as it underpins the ever-growing sci-fi genre. Goodness knows what would have happened without Frankenstein. That’s a scary thought indeed.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
A collision course of style, scene and sex
Crash
JG Ballard
The best thing about JG Ballard is that, as a writer, he refuses to be pinned down or hemmed in. He will not let a certain genre or style take control of his work. Instead, he relies on his own imaginative power to tell a unique story every time. Never can this be more evident than in this novel.
Crash details how, after surviving an automobile accident, James is drawn intensely to other car crashes and their victims. Suddenly an entire new world opens up for James, who is guided through it by the mysterious and magnetic Vaughan, whose own car accident changed his life. The pair prowls the highways of southwest London photographing car wrecks and meeting other survivors. The obsession quickly becomes sexual in nature, and so we are introduced through James to a fascinating collection of sexual experiences where the mechanics of cars play an active part. On paper, this sounds crude, but Ballard stirs his surreal fantasies into a new, entirely conceivable reality. Within the world he creates in Crash, this kind of sexuality is perfect, possibly even normal. Never once does Ballard’s invented world falter. It remains a tight, well-conceived universe drawn by a master.
However, one wonders whether Ballard had to spend too much time characterising this world and fleshing out its realistic protagonists that he skipped over the chance to weave in a strong plot. The book does indeed have action, development and suspense but it definitely lacks in drive: Ballard could have revved up the stakes somewhat with a little more complexity to the actual story.
JG Ballard
The best thing about JG Ballard is that, as a writer, he refuses to be pinned down or hemmed in. He will not let a certain genre or style take control of his work. Instead, he relies on his own imaginative power to tell a unique story every time. Never can this be more evident than in this novel.
Crash details how, after surviving an automobile accident, James is drawn intensely to other car crashes and their victims. Suddenly an entire new world opens up for James, who is guided through it by the mysterious and magnetic Vaughan, whose own car accident changed his life. The pair prowls the highways of southwest London photographing car wrecks and meeting other survivors. The obsession quickly becomes sexual in nature, and so we are introduced through James to a fascinating collection of sexual experiences where the mechanics of cars play an active part. On paper, this sounds crude, but Ballard stirs his surreal fantasies into a new, entirely conceivable reality. Within the world he creates in Crash, this kind of sexuality is perfect, possibly even normal. Never once does Ballard’s invented world falter. It remains a tight, well-conceived universe drawn by a master.
However, one wonders whether Ballard had to spend too much time characterising this world and fleshing out its realistic protagonists that he skipped over the chance to weave in a strong plot. The book does indeed have action, development and suspense but it definitely lacks in drive: Ballard could have revved up the stakes somewhat with a little more complexity to the actual story.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Bathing in Banville
The Sea
By John Banville
As readers accustomed to a beginning, middle and end, and characters that remain consistent across a few hundred pages, we often forget that human beings are complex creatures. A writer’s challenge is to distil those complexities into the written word and therefore create a truthful, perhaps even universal, story. But Banville sees that task as too large (indeed, it is probably impossible). Instead, he starts with form: how to make the appearance of the words work for the story itself. By deliberately choosing to tell this story through his protagonist’s memory and a few images of the present day, Banville acknowledges that we are nothing if not a sum of our experiences. He knows that while we think the present is the most relevant time frame to us, actually it is our past that has shaped and continues to develop who we are. Banville makes this argument not in the story of his novel but between the lines – simply because of the way he writes it.
On top of that, the art historian protagonist through whose experience we feel the loss and love that define the novel would naturally appreciate beauty of the form. And Banville delivers. The Sea’s delicious prose wraps gently against the reader’s ankles at first. It is an invitation to the protagonist’s exciting memories. But soon the depths of his prose are apparent: the reader knows it is in the hands of an extraordinary writer – one who is able to be economical yet deeply descriptive. Through this, Banville achieves the status of a truly great writer’s writer. And he is able to say something profound within the space of a short novel. As in life, in The Sea, there is no beginning, middle and end. It is a much more complex work than that.
By John Banville
As readers accustomed to a beginning, middle and end, and characters that remain consistent across a few hundred pages, we often forget that human beings are complex creatures. A writer’s challenge is to distil those complexities into the written word and therefore create a truthful, perhaps even universal, story. But Banville sees that task as too large (indeed, it is probably impossible). Instead, he starts with form: how to make the appearance of the words work for the story itself. By deliberately choosing to tell this story through his protagonist’s memory and a few images of the present day, Banville acknowledges that we are nothing if not a sum of our experiences. He knows that while we think the present is the most relevant time frame to us, actually it is our past that has shaped and continues to develop who we are. Banville makes this argument not in the story of his novel but between the lines – simply because of the way he writes it.
On top of that, the art historian protagonist through whose experience we feel the loss and love that define the novel would naturally appreciate beauty of the form. And Banville delivers. The Sea’s delicious prose wraps gently against the reader’s ankles at first. It is an invitation to the protagonist’s exciting memories. But soon the depths of his prose are apparent: the reader knows it is in the hands of an extraordinary writer – one who is able to be economical yet deeply descriptive. Through this, Banville achieves the status of a truly great writer’s writer. And he is able to say something profound within the space of a short novel. As in life, in The Sea, there is no beginning, middle and end. It is a much more complex work than that.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Partly cloudy with more than a chance of patchy rain
Ordinary Thunderstorms
By William Boyd
I was truly intrigued by William Boyd: a successful and acclaimed British novelist that I had not yet tapped. So when a friend at my book group suggested Boyd’s latest book, I was genuinely excited. Even reading the blurb on the back of the book got my eyes watering with anticipation. A literary thriller about a man who has to untangle himself from 21st century existence after it looks like he committed a murder, calling into question his whole identity and poking at the idea of social cohesion? I was about ready to pop.
Instead, I flopped. The novel starts off well by setting up the story and hinting at the debate mentioned above (and promised in the blurb) but after about a quarter of the way through, it started to flounder. Gradually, over the following 300 pages I became more and more disappointed. By the end, I felt deflated, as if Boyd had sucked all the life out of me by stealing the time I had invested in this inadequate, dastardly novel.
In the end, there is no debate about having to forego the trappings of 21st century life. Our hero, a classic fugitive-what-didn’t-do-it, gradually sheds his modern, middle-class identity. But there is no analysis of this process – which the character, an academic, would surely have thought about. We are told that he is intelligent, but it is not clear from his thoughts. Why not? The answer is because Boyd is far too busy creating pantomime villains who run pharmaceutical companies. The stereotypes are all there: the power-hungry careerist, the privileged but foolish board member, the devious foreign investor… not to mention the former SAS bulkhead hired to track down our man. The number of words Boyd wastes on ‘characterising’ this mob of archetypes would have been much more effectively spent on providing the insightful analysis promised by the synopsis and opening section.
Finally, there is just something about this book that reeks of the inauthentic. From the stereotypically evil corporate villains to the streetwise scoundrels our hero comes across, I don’t think Boyd is capable of writing any of them. I am happy to let novelists alter city landscapes and even their social trappings to suit the book but Boyd’s characterisations of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe are so way off, as if they are whirlpools of social horror, that he should have invented place names. Moreover, the language spoken by their unfortunate inhabitants is embarrassing: “You keep chillin’, man” / “You dey got problem?” / “The electric he go be difficult. We have many problem.” I don’t speak street, but I’d bet that this is completely wrong. Where did Boyd do his research? Watching The Bill?
By William Boyd
I was truly intrigued by William Boyd: a successful and acclaimed British novelist that I had not yet tapped. So when a friend at my book group suggested Boyd’s latest book, I was genuinely excited. Even reading the blurb on the back of the book got my eyes watering with anticipation. A literary thriller about a man who has to untangle himself from 21st century existence after it looks like he committed a murder, calling into question his whole identity and poking at the idea of social cohesion? I was about ready to pop.
Instead, I flopped. The novel starts off well by setting up the story and hinting at the debate mentioned above (and promised in the blurb) but after about a quarter of the way through, it started to flounder. Gradually, over the following 300 pages I became more and more disappointed. By the end, I felt deflated, as if Boyd had sucked all the life out of me by stealing the time I had invested in this inadequate, dastardly novel.
In the end, there is no debate about having to forego the trappings of 21st century life. Our hero, a classic fugitive-what-didn’t-do-it, gradually sheds his modern, middle-class identity. But there is no analysis of this process – which the character, an academic, would surely have thought about. We are told that he is intelligent, but it is not clear from his thoughts. Why not? The answer is because Boyd is far too busy creating pantomime villains who run pharmaceutical companies. The stereotypes are all there: the power-hungry careerist, the privileged but foolish board member, the devious foreign investor… not to mention the former SAS bulkhead hired to track down our man. The number of words Boyd wastes on ‘characterising’ this mob of archetypes would have been much more effectively spent on providing the insightful analysis promised by the synopsis and opening section.
Finally, there is just something about this book that reeks of the inauthentic. From the stereotypically evil corporate villains to the streetwise scoundrels our hero comes across, I don’t think Boyd is capable of writing any of them. I am happy to let novelists alter city landscapes and even their social trappings to suit the book but Boyd’s characterisations of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe are so way off, as if they are whirlpools of social horror, that he should have invented place names. Moreover, the language spoken by their unfortunate inhabitants is embarrassing: “You keep chillin’, man” / “You dey got problem?” / “The electric he go be difficult. We have many problem.” I don’t speak street, but I’d bet that this is completely wrong. Where did Boyd do his research? Watching The Bill?
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The adventure of a lifetime
Darwin and the Beagle
By Alan Moorehead
Before the year is out, I am still intending to visit Down House in Kent, the house where Darwin lived with his family for forty years until his death. Until I make it down there one weekend, I am satiating my thirst for Darwin-lore through other means. Earlier this year I read The Rough Guide to Evolution. This week I saw Inherit the Wind at the Old Vic. And now I have just finished Moorehead’s marvellous companion to Darwin’s voyage on the Beagle.
Packed with paintings, illustrations, etchings and photographs, as well as Moorehead’s entertaining and finely crafted prose, this book is a real treasure. It is more an adventure story than a history book. Moorehead has a way of making the reader feel part of this fantastic voyage. By concentrating almost exclusively on the five years Darwin was at sea, the book can go into detail about the places he explored, the people he met and, of course, the creatures he found.
I would have welcomed a little more description of what it was like to be at sea, the rivets and awls of the journey, so to speak. Otherwise, I cannot fault Moorehead’s fascinating study.
By Alan Moorehead
Before the year is out, I am still intending to visit Down House in Kent, the house where Darwin lived with his family for forty years until his death. Until I make it down there one weekend, I am satiating my thirst for Darwin-lore through other means. Earlier this year I read The Rough Guide to Evolution. This week I saw Inherit the Wind at the Old Vic. And now I have just finished Moorehead’s marvellous companion to Darwin’s voyage on the Beagle.
Packed with paintings, illustrations, etchings and photographs, as well as Moorehead’s entertaining and finely crafted prose, this book is a real treasure. It is more an adventure story than a history book. Moorehead has a way of making the reader feel part of this fantastic voyage. By concentrating almost exclusively on the five years Darwin was at sea, the book can go into detail about the places he explored, the people he met and, of course, the creatures he found.
I would have welcomed a little more description of what it was like to be at sea, the rivets and awls of the journey, so to speak. Otherwise, I cannot fault Moorehead’s fascinating study.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A real adventure
Elephant Adventure
By Willard Price
Stumbling across a fun-loving Red Fox edition of one of the Willard Price Adventure books recently in a second-hand bookshop, the ten-year-old lad in me leapt with excitement. I first read the adventures of Hal and Roger Hunt, as described by Price, when I was a schoolboy. I found them to be the perfect way to learn about the natural world (entire islands floating down the River Amazon?!), its inhabitants (tapirs, chameleons, giant insects to name a few) and the spirit of adventure (the sons of a zoologist up against jungle beasties, poachers or tribesmen known for cannibalism).
On second read, the book still delivers. I found myself hooked as the adventure unfolded and Hal and Roger had to track down the son of the tribe they’re staying with on the Congo/Rwanda border. Not to mention the overall mission of capturing an elephant to sell to a zoo in Tokyo.
That does all seem very dubious now, though. I’m not sure I like the idea of capturing animals for zoos (I personally don’t visit zoos). The books are tremendously good at educating people about different animals around the world and why we should respect them and preserve their place in the biosphere. But still, the reader is left with the impression that man is superior to the members of the animal kingdom and I’m not sure it sits easily with me anymore. Price’s treatment of humans is even more problematic. While his characters have the knack of finding remote indigenous populations that speak Oxford English, they do not treat such people very well. The Hunts are in many ways respectful of native people, acknowledging, for example, that they can teach Westerners very much. But in many years the Hunts undermine their hosts. “Hal had no patience for native superstitions,” is one line that had me chuckling.
Casual racism aside, the books are rollicking good reads. And just in the same way that we now read Tintin, I think that they can still be enjoyed. I certainly had fun again.
By Willard Price
Stumbling across a fun-loving Red Fox edition of one of the Willard Price Adventure books recently in a second-hand bookshop, the ten-year-old lad in me leapt with excitement. I first read the adventures of Hal and Roger Hunt, as described by Price, when I was a schoolboy. I found them to be the perfect way to learn about the natural world (entire islands floating down the River Amazon?!), its inhabitants (tapirs, chameleons, giant insects to name a few) and the spirit of adventure (the sons of a zoologist up against jungle beasties, poachers or tribesmen known for cannibalism).
On second read, the book still delivers. I found myself hooked as the adventure unfolded and Hal and Roger had to track down the son of the tribe they’re staying with on the Congo/Rwanda border. Not to mention the overall mission of capturing an elephant to sell to a zoo in Tokyo.
That does all seem very dubious now, though. I’m not sure I like the idea of capturing animals for zoos (I personally don’t visit zoos). The books are tremendously good at educating people about different animals around the world and why we should respect them and preserve their place in the biosphere. But still, the reader is left with the impression that man is superior to the members of the animal kingdom and I’m not sure it sits easily with me anymore. Price’s treatment of humans is even more problematic. While his characters have the knack of finding remote indigenous populations that speak Oxford English, they do not treat such people very well. The Hunts are in many ways respectful of native people, acknowledging, for example, that they can teach Westerners very much. But in many years the Hunts undermine their hosts. “Hal had no patience for native superstitions,” is one line that had me chuckling.
Casual racism aside, the books are rollicking good reads. And just in the same way that we now read Tintin, I think that they can still be enjoyed. I certainly had fun again.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Booker of Bookers (Okri was robbed)
The Famished Road
By Ben Okri
This is one of those books that make a writer like me consider giving up. What is the point of fiddling around with words when someone like Mr Okri has already captured on the page everything that can ever be said? For such is the achievement of this Booker winner that it seems no other writer can ever come close. The Famished Road is an immense, epic and adorable series of beautiful images and happenings. This is wonder, captured. No superlative of hyperbole is possible; for its coherence alone this novel should have beaten Midnight’s Children to be named Booker of Bookers.
The story follows the adventures of Azaro, a spirit-child who has chosen to take human form and live among people. His traversal of the spirit-human world brings with it consequences, confusion and, well, inter-dimensional conflict. Of course, Okri would never use such crude terms: he speaks of “death’s embrace”, of “chaos and sunlight” and “dwellers in their own secret moonlight”. But to extract such phrases from the text in this way denigrates them: the reason why this novel is so powerful and affecting is its relentless stream of coherent images. They trickle from one another like a stream hopping over rocks and coursing through a curving valley. Okri has encapsulated a perfect nature and, more impressively, humankind’s place in it.
In contrast to my last review, I could write about The Famished Road until my fingers drop off. I could probably write more pages about it than there are pages in the novel itself. The heartbreaking thing is that none of my words would come anywhere near the beauty of Okri’s. But that won’t stop me trying.
By Ben Okri
This is one of those books that make a writer like me consider giving up. What is the point of fiddling around with words when someone like Mr Okri has already captured on the page everything that can ever be said? For such is the achievement of this Booker winner that it seems no other writer can ever come close. The Famished Road is an immense, epic and adorable series of beautiful images and happenings. This is wonder, captured. No superlative of hyperbole is possible; for its coherence alone this novel should have beaten Midnight’s Children to be named Booker of Bookers.
The story follows the adventures of Azaro, a spirit-child who has chosen to take human form and live among people. His traversal of the spirit-human world brings with it consequences, confusion and, well, inter-dimensional conflict. Of course, Okri would never use such crude terms: he speaks of “death’s embrace”, of “chaos and sunlight” and “dwellers in their own secret moonlight”. But to extract such phrases from the text in this way denigrates them: the reason why this novel is so powerful and affecting is its relentless stream of coherent images. They trickle from one another like a stream hopping over rocks and coursing through a curving valley. Okri has encapsulated a perfect nature and, more impressively, humankind’s place in it.
In contrast to my last review, I could write about The Famished Road until my fingers drop off. I could probably write more pages about it than there are pages in the novel itself. The heartbreaking thing is that none of my words would come anywhere near the beauty of Okri’s. But that won’t stop me trying.
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