Sally's Book Blog

Closing the book...

2009-09-12T02:39:00.000-07:00

Well, sort of.

As past of my general blogkeeping, I have decided that it might be easier for me to merge this one with my writing blog. After all, writing from reading are symbiotic. You can't have one without the other.

Therefore I am winding up this one but will continue to review any book that takes my fancy (or not) over there.

See you soon.

One Apple Tasted: Josa Young

2009-08-07T04:30:00.000-07:00

I'm so thrilled. I am hosting my very first author visit. I've been rushing around in a bit of a novice's panic, dusting and tidying; there's a bottle of virtual champagne chilling in the fridge and some rather tasty canapes, too (no sausages on sticks at my blog, oh no.) and Josa Young has just arrived, so come on in...

Josa Young is an experienced journalist, having worked on several British glossy magazines such as UK Vogue and She. As well as a novelist, she is also an internet content consultant.

One Apple Tasted tells the story of ever-optimistic Dora Jerusalem, newly arrived in 1980s London. She is "features assistant to the assistant features editor" at Modern Woman, a fashionable glossy, where she meets the louche and gorgeous Guy Boleyn who comes from a very different world. But this is not just a boy meets girl story; the novel moves between the 1980s and 1950s Home Counties and World War Two through a breathtaking trip to the Himalayas. Described by novelist Julie Myerson as a "funny warm, touchingly eccentric and irresistibly readable", One Apple Tasted is a story about love, friendship and the moments that change the course of a life for good

Welcome to my blog. Josa.

Thank you for inviting me; it is a great privilege for me to go visiting.

Could you tell us the inspiration behind One Apple Tasted?

I was working for a slimming magazine as features writer, and my mind did drift a bit when finding new ways to describe the life-changing effect of losing a lot of weight for the nth time. Not that these women were not inspiring – their determination was fantastic! I had been on an Arvon Course, with Beryl Bainbridge as one of the tutors not long beforehand, and she had really encouraged me to feel I could write a full length novel, having read some of my short stories. So, realising I would have a four week gap between editorial contracts, I dreamt up a plot so I
would be ready to start writing when I landed in front of the word processor (as it was in those days). The plot and characters were fully formed in my head, and the first draft was
there in five weeks (I was asked to start on a pregnancy magazine a week later).

Most people who visit this blog are writers as well as readers. I believe your path to publication took eight years via many rejections and a self-publishing attempt. That rings an awful lot of bells here because I and most of my visitors are writers as well as avid readers. Could you tell us a bit more?

It was much longer than eight years in fact from first draft to final publication. So long that when I was invited to upload a manuscript to see how the Authorhouse system worked, I thought
this might be impossible as it was saved on a floppy disc. I was writing about the various ways to get published for a women's magazine at the time. Luckily I found someone to convert it, and
sent off the old version on a modern disc. It was when it came back to me as online galley proofs that I could see what kind of edit it needed. So I started to take it all a bit more seriously
and did some further drafts, uploaded them to Authorhouse, where it just sat there as at that time I had no intention actually of self-publishing the final version. But it did mean that people,
armed with my password, could read it in a nice professional PDF online and get a good impression. Lorne Forsyth, who was relaunching independent publishers Elliot
& Thompson at the time, was one of those people and decided that One Apple Tasted would fit his first list well. The publisher Mark Searle took over, and OAT comes out today, 7 August 2009.

You recently wrote a great feature for the Daily Telegraph--More sex please. we're grown-ups. I agree with you that women prefer to read about deep passion a relationship rather than glamorous young people notching up multiple partners and orgasms Have you had much feedback?

I had some fantastic feedback, both in person, and on the site from women and men wanting to read about passion that actually meant something. And some from another version of that piece
published on the Huffington Post in the US that was less positive and ended up with a debate about porn. I felt that the commenter had not read the piece at all, and was just riding a
hobby horse!

In that article you describe writing the first draft in a freezing semi-abandoned building in Bayswater, London. What was all that about?

The Royal Society of Literature, now warmly ensconced in Somerset House, was at that time in some large dusty rooms in Hyde Park Gardens. The library was never used, and had a broken
window, so when I needed somewhere quiet to bash out my novel, Maggie Fergusson, secretary of the Society, kindly invited me to write there. It was February and freezing!

Tell us a bit about your main character, Dora. How much Josa Young is there in Dora? You have experience of working for Vogue magazine. Are we to assume Modern Woman magazine is Vogue with names changed to protect the innocent (or guilty)?

Dora is definitely not me, although as with most first novels – 'me' is a jumping off place. Her background and foreground are very different, as are the experiences of her family in earlier
generations. And her confused view of love and marriage is not mine either – I was a far more relaxed young woman. The only resemblances are university, career and dark hair (and some
anxiety of body size!). Modern Woman is wholly British magazine. Vogue originated in the US. Similar functions are required for the publication of magazines, and I drew on my experience of
these for Dora's day to day work.

Is it fair to say that One Apple Tasted is typical women's fiction? Some say that this is an overcrowded market. Would you agree?

I am not sure OAT is all that typical. I think one of the reasons it took so long to be published is because it did not fit neatly into any particular genre. It is women's fiction all right, but fellow novelist Isabel Wolff has compared it to a Virago Modern Classic, and I think I hark back to an earlier time when novels were not so rigidly defined. I packed a lot in, because it interested me to do so, and because I was finding a lot of modern fiction thin and insubstantial. 'Too much detail' was a common theme in my rejection letters. My current publishers were able to see beyond that to what they felt was a compelling and entertaining story. I have had terrific feedback from a wide range of people, from young women to older men, all commenting on how satisfying they found the book – which is what I was aiming for.

And achieved! Thank you, Josa, for dropping by on your tour.

One Apple Tasted is published by Elliott & Thompson.

Salt Publishing's JustOneBook campaign--update

2009-07-30T03:20:00.000-07:00

I've just received this message from Salt. If you've been following my periodic posts about literary fiction on my other blog and are still baffled, why not take this opportunity to read some cracking examples/

Here's the message:

The JustOneBook campaign continues with a further sensational August deal.

In order to keep Salt on track through the wet British summer, we're offering you another special deal throughout August. All Salt books are available from us at 33% discount yet again. That's a third off all Salt titles, and free shipping on orders with a cover price of over £30 or $30. Offer ends 31 August 2009.

Simply enter the coupon code HU693FB2 when in the store to benefit.
As before, all we ask is two things—

1. Buy one book. Or perhaps another one ... go on.2. Pass it on. Share this offer with everyone who loves gorgeous books and likes a bargain (whilst saving independent literature).
www.saltpublishing.com

Happy shopping!

Love from Salt

Ox-Tales

2009-07-15T13:13:00.001-07:00

Do yourself a favour and buy one of these four short story collections. Collectively called Ox-Tales (and individually, Earth, Fire, Water and Air) they contain stories by such literary luminaries as--are you ready?--Kate Atkinson, Jonathan Coe, A L Kennedy, Joanna Trollope, John Le Carre, Ian Rankin, Esther Freud, Zoe Heller, Helen Simpson--and more. Riches indeed.

Nip over here to order one or even, if you're feeling generous, all four. Each one only costs £5.00, of which £3.50 goes to support Oxfam's work around the world. Value for money, I'd say--and all in a good cause. What's not to like?

Balancing on the Edge of the World

2009-07-07T03:44:00.001-07:00

I hope Elizabeth Baines will forgive me if I use this review of this anthology of stunning short stories in part to say a little about the nature of literary fiction that I'm in the throes of addressing on my other blog.

And before you're sitting comfortably and before I begin, can I once again urge anyone who wants to read fiction that's different, quirky, varied but most of all, brilliant, then they should take a look at Salt Publishing. You may remember that Salt were facing difficulties so had this clever idea to get as many people as possible to buy just one book. I do hope it was successful but even more I hope everyone has now well and truly caught the Salt bug. I know I have. In April of this year I reviewed Tania Hershman's The White Road and I will shortly be looking at several others including Some New Ambush by Caryl Davies, Vanessa Gebbie's Words from a Glass Bubble and The Scent of Cinnamon by Charles Lambert. Salt books are not just good to read, they feel great in the hand and have the most brilliant covers too.

From what I've heard or read, those who claim not to like literary fiction condemn it for its wordy floweriness and pretention. 'I have to keep a dictionary to hand,' they say. 'The writer's just showing off.' So let's just look at the opening paragraph of Condensed Metaphysics, and my favourite story in this collection. Oh and don't let the title put you off either; all is explained in the story. A science degree is not necessary or the Concise Oxford!

"We're all drunk and Ellie's drunkest. She runs up to the guy with a begging cup outside the Babylon and asks him to lend us some money, we're hungry and want a pizza and none of us has any money."

Not a flower in sight and to exemplifies what I love about Elizabeth's writing. She draws you immediately into the story and the voice of the narrator and doesn't feel the need to explain what's going on because she trusts us to work it out for ourselves (or rather she has the skill to make it easy for us!) And look what she's done in two simple sentences. If you want to teach yourself how to write effectively and clearly but with depth and nuance, make a list of what you've picked up already about where we are and who these people are, their ages and their lifestyle. Whilst having to think too hard when reading can be a turn off, a little bit of effort is well worth the satisfaction from being a partner in the process. Novels that tell me what I should be thinking or 'emoting' (hate that word) are a real turn off for me. Especially when the author feels the need to say the same thing on every page as if we've got the attention span of a gnat.

As Condensed Metaphysics progresses, we move to a late night pizza parlour. With the deftest of brush strokes Elizabeth introduces a rich variety of characters and and awful lot of humour. Who says literary fiction is po-faced?

Another (misplaced) complaint about literary fiction, especially short stories is that there's no plot and there's never any conclusion. Unsatisfying, they say. Not at all, IMHO. This is because literary fiction traditionally doesn't tell you how to read the story and what you should get out of it. What it does is paint a picture and allows the reader to draw his or her own conclusions. I suppose a simplistic way to describe LF is that it's 'a slice of life.' I don't much like the expression. Besides, life is never complete. It's always ongoing; even if we die others carry on.

Many of the stories in this collection are about childhood and family, particularly the darker undercurrents but without melodrama or sensation. I was particularly impressed by Compass and Torch which tells of a camping trip a boy takes with his estranged father. Again these supposedly simple tale exposes the conflicting and complex emotions the boy feels. Again there are no conclusions. These are the final lines:

"Neither hears the horses moving around the tent in the night. For years to come, though, in his dreams, the boy will see their wild fringed eyes and feel the deep thudding of their hooves."

Did anything happen overnight? Was there a tragic accident? Possibly. Or not. Perhaps the horses represent the boy's fears about his father's inadequacies. The writer leaves it up to us. WE can make it our own story. And if anyone wants to know what I mean by clear but stunning writing, this is a fine example. Wild fringed eyes says it all for me. (Oh and I can't resist stressing the absence of adverbs!)

The very purpose of Into the Night is its ambiguity. To put it simply, it tells of a typical and ordinary one-night-stand. It ends as the woman wakes the following morning and wonders dreamily whether they'll both go their separate ways or begin a relationship. I didn't feel short-changed. Quite the opposite. It captures that delicious point of balance where the future is unknown and anything is possible.

I must be honest and say I found one or two of the stories didn't appeal to me but I wasn't bothered. In any anthology, like a box of chocolates, there are always some centres you aren't too keen on. (anything with a hint of orange or strawberry fondant goes straight in the bin or a conveniently passing dog.) The overall impression, though, is rich and satisfying. Every word counts, every image shines. And yet it all feels effortless. (Which to my mind is at the heart of all good art.)

One story differs a little from the rest in texture and tone. In The Shooting Script a single mother is offered an opportunity to write and create a film for television. She is to be helped to write her script and work with a 'mentor'. Only she finds that charismatic, troubled Bob Deal is not as easy to work with as she imagined and things don't go to plan. The characterisation is so good and I laughed all the way through it even as I winced. The satire is as sharp as a stiletto. Although it's about film-making, it brought to mind a f publishing enterprise I predict will end in tears--but not those of the organisers, alas. There are plenty of Bob Deals around.

And to dispel any myths that literary fiction written by women expresses 'politically correct' views, then read How to Behave. The wronged wife and the mistress meet and gang up against the male chauvinism of the man they share. This is sisterhood at work, right? Only it isn't. One of them is a calculating bitch out for revenge. On the other hand, Who's Singing is one of the saddest stories I've ever read.

I am delighted Elizabeth sent me her collection to review and I don't hesitate to recommend them. I am both in awe and inspired. Thank you, Salt and thank you, Elizabeth.

PS. I'm having trouble with my links today. If they're broken, please bear with me. I'll fix them eventually--if and when Blogger decides to co-operate.

Beachcombing by Maggie Dana

2009-06-22T08:28:00.000-07:00

If you follow this blog you'll know that my tastes are wide and various. I have no agenda, although whatever I read has to be good of its kind. I can't bear sloppiness, laziness or lack of attention to detail. That aside, what I read depends greatly on how I'm feeling at any one time. It's the same with TV and clothes. I will watch the X-Factor with relish (whilst suspending my disbelief) and then switch stations and be absorbed in a scientific discussion about global warming followed by a dramatisation of a Chekhov play. I will slob about in elastic-waisted trousers, T-shirt and trainers one day and then decide to wear a flowing hippy skirt and lace blouse the next.

Since my accident, I must say I haven't been in the mood for anything too taxing on the brain. Maggie Dana had sent me this novel a while back and it hadn't quite worked its way up to the top of the pile when I decided it looked just what the doctor ordered. And how right I was. Here's a modern fairy-tale romance for-ahem-mature ladies who still have a spring in their step (metaphorically in my case at the moment)--but with enough astringency to prevent it all from becoming saccharine.

Jillian Hunter grew up in England but a hasty marriage took her to Connecticut, where after the birth of two (now grown-up sons) and a divorce, we find her in her fifties living alone in a rickety house on the shoreline with only an opinionated cat for company. However, she has a successful freelance career and good friends. But she finds herself suddenly thinking about her first love, gorgeous Colin with the floppy hair and dimples who disappeared suddenly from her life. So when chance brings them together again, all is set for their love to be rekindled and fulfilled. So far, so lovely and romantic and indeed, erotic. But there are issues from the past that need to be resolved and love--or is it lust--is blind; Jillian almost loses everything, friends, job, money and self-esteem in pursuit of a happy ending.

It must be said that I am too much of a cynic to enjoy romance for romance's sake, but having said that, I really enjoyed Beachcombing. It is an easy read but is by no means simplistic. There is pain and heartbreak but also a lot of humour and common-sense. The settings are well-conveyed, whether it's an American beach town, Cornwall or London. (And I love Jillian's ability to rattle off the Latin names for flora and fauna!) My favourite character is Jillian's straight-talking but loyal friend, Lizzie. And if at the end good fortune seems to fall into Jillian's lap a little too easily, well, who cares?

Maggie Dana should be justifiably proud of her first novel, published under Pan Macmillan's excellent New Writing Scheme. I am sure it won't be her last. The standard of writing is as professional as any in this genre , in which I would include Katie Fforde and Elizabeth Buchan; and indeed beyond. It's time we had more novels where the heroine is an independent woman in her fifties; women who are just as sensual and silly, stupid and clever, confused, unsure and witty as those in their twenties. Women of my age have the double responsibility of ageing parents and children embarking on their adult lives. It's all too easy to lose one's own identity, being both mother and a child turned carer and I applaud Maggie for tackling it head on. This is the perfect novel to lose yourself in either on the beach or by a cosy fire while storms rage outside (there's both in the novel) but it also makes you ponder life and its choices. Nice one, Maggie. (Love the cover, too!)

This is a hold-up

2009-06-10T10:04:00.000-07:00

Many apologies for those of you who have sent me books to review here and are wondering what's happened. If you don't know already, I recently fell and broke my hip and contrary to what everyone tells me I found it impossible to read in hospital and haven't done much since I got home. This, I think, is because the powerful painkillers I've been prescribed are dulling my brain and also making me fall asleep at the drop of a hat.

I'm off on a week's holiday in North Wales this weekend and hope, as I slowly recover, to spend most of my time reading--especially as I will only have limited internet access.

Normal service will be resumed eventually. Promise.

The Deadline Murders - Ron Morgans

2009-05-25T02:02:00.000-07:00

In a previous life Ron Morgans was a top press photographer and his experience and knowledge informs every page of this action-packed thriller.

Henrietta (Henri) Fox is a paparazzo (or should that be paparazza?) and, as you might expect, one no-nonsense, focused, young lady. Flame-haired, leather-jacketed, motor-bike riding, you name it, she's IT. The action begins as she narrowly escapes being consumed in a fireball at the Farnborough Air Show when a new Chinese plane crashes and it never lets up from that moment on. Cue Cass Farraday, ex-public school, crack journalist, the kind of guy who irons his jeans and who represents everything Henri despises. But when he asks her to provide the photographs for an investigation into a series of unexplained and sinisterly similar deaths, it would appear to be an offer she can't refuse.

Their investigations take them eventually to Shanghai where they find themselves running for their lives in the maelstrom of a highly dangerous Ian Fleming-inspired plot, the horrendous repercussions of which they only find out at the eleventh hour. Morgan clearly knows this Chinese city inside out and this adds spice and colour to the narrative.

This is a well-plotted and stylish thriller. with typically James Bond-ish humour and lightness. Our heroes face death and danger at every turn but somehow manage to escape in the nick of time and with hardly a scratch. And if the climax to which each and every chapter heading has counted us down seem to lack the nail-biting tension danger it needs, who cares? This is huge fun in which the author's familiarity with the way red-top journalism works keeps it on the straight and narrow. There are two further Fox and Farraday adventures already available: Kill Chase and The Emerald Killers.

As someone who likes to keep an eye on the pros and cons of self-publishing, I can see that The Deadline Murders is a vastly superior product in both appearance and content than most novels of its ilk. I understand that the author got within a whisker of mainstream publishing but events beyond his control scuppered the deal--which is a huge shame. Having said that, although I fully understand Ron's decision to go it alone. I do wish he'd hung on in there and held out for a mainstream publishing deal. With a firm but supportive editor on board, the pace would have been even more slick and tension-fuelled. He could easily have ditched some of the superfluous background information and with the irritation (for me, anyway) of itemising Henri's clothes, designer by designer; not to mention his habit of reminding us a little bit too often of her hair colour. (I also wish there had been a little more sexual tension between our heroes but maybe that will develop in later books. This would attract more female readers who Henri might, because of her solid self-belief, alienate.)

I'd like to hope that then, Ron may well have found his novels in the best-sellers' lists and a series stretching well beyond these three titles. It may well still happen. I wish him well. With Piers Morgan writing your cover quotes, what more could an author want?

If you prefer your crime thrillers more rainbow-bright than noir, then The Deadline Murders is for you. You won't be disappointed.

Further information about Ron Morgans and The Fox and Farraday Mysteries can be found here and here.

Stop Press: Salt Publishing

2009-05-22T11:01:00.001-07:00

I've only just come across this. I am a great fan of Salt Publishing although I must admit I've been backward in coming forward to buy their titles as often as I perhaps should. I reviewed Tania Hershman's The White Road last month and I'm currently dipping into Elizabeth Baines's collection of short stories, Balancing on the Edge of the World and loving it. I'll give you my final verdict soon.

But as a result of reading the following, I have this very minute placed an order for 2 Salt books. I hope you by at least one. If we writers don't support the small press, who will?

_______________________

As many of you will know, Chris and I have been struggling to keep Salt moving since June last year when the economic downturn began to affect our press. Our three year funding ends this year: we've £4,000 due from Arts Council England in a final payment, but cannot apply through Grants for the Arts for further funding for Salt's operations. Spring sales were down nearly 80% on the previous year, and despite April's much improved trading, the past twelve months has left us with a budget deficit of over £55,000.It's proving to be a very big hole and we're having to take some drastic measures to save our business.Here's how you can help us to save Salt and all our work with hundreds of authors around the world.JUST ONE BOOK1. Please buy just one book, right now. We don't mind from where, you can buy it from us or from Amazon, your local shop or megastore, online or offline. If you buy just one book now, you'll help to save Salt. Timing is absolutely everything here. We need cash now to stay afloat. If you love literature, help keep it alive. All it takes is just one book sale. Go to our online store and help us keep going.2. Share this note on your profile. Tell your friends. If we can spread the word about our cash crisis, we can hopefully find more sales and save our literary publishing. Remember it's just one book, that's all it takes to save us. Please do it now.With my best wishes to youJenDirectorSalt Publishinghttp://www.saltpublishing.com

Deathwatch--Nicola Morgan

2009-05-16T07:02:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager, there wasn't such a category as Young Adult fiction. Although this was the sixties and we had out own music, magazines, fashion and slang, if my memory serves me well, we had to make that giant leap from borrowing books from the children's library to choosing volumes from the adult stacks, some of them not at all appropriate. (And some of us, I expect didn't ever make it across.) However, I do remember Peacock Books, an imprint of Penguin with dark green spines, aimed at growing girls but the only one I ever remember reading and enjoying was I Capture the Castle.

Anyway, DEATHWATCH is definitely aimed at young girls and tells the story of Cat McPherson, a talented athlete, but otherwise an average sort of girl with her inattention to schoolwork, her mobile phone, annoying little brother and bedroom laptop on which, against the expressed wishes of her parents she spend an awful lot of her spare time with 'Phiz', a kind of social networking site. She also has just dumped Danny because he's 'into' insects.

But before long she begins to suspect someone is watching her and following her through the Edinburgh streets. Is it Danny who isn't yet 'over' her or is it a coach from another athletics club hoping to lure her away? When she wins a race, who sends the flowers out of which drops a huge spider? And why when she logs onto Phiz one evening, does she find someone has corrupted her hard drive and introduced a picture of a huge hairy spider she cannot delete? And so the tension mounts and very soon Cat is not just running but running for her life.

This is a classy thriller which, although firmly aimed at a young readership, is a good read for all ages. As someone who is scared of spiders and wary of bugs and beetles, I found myself touching my neck as I read. I liked the fact that Cat is by no means Little Miss Perfect--although her sins are mainly down to her youth and inexperience rather than any innate badness.

And this is not just a novel about a young girl who finds herself in the eye of a nightmare not of her own making. It's about fear, about losing control, about death and revenge. It also looks at mental illness and the despair of lonely old age. However, such concerns do not slow down the action or depress the spirit for this is one classy novel. Nicola has a light touch and does not browbeat. (Thank goodness. I hate preachy writers!)

And above all, the writing is superb. If Nicola doesn't mind, I shall be using examples of her prose as the springboard for a post on my writing blog very shortly.

shoot the damn dog

2009-05-09T08:47:00.000-07:00

I recently went to the big city (well, Leeds is pretty big compared to where I live) and came home with a stack of new books, as you (or at least I) do. And as someone who has slid into clinical depression a couple of times which fortunately was treated by medication without the need for hospitalisation, I am very interested in the subject and have amassed a small library of books on the subject.

I missed this one when it was first published and the fact that it won The Good Housekeeping magazine award 2008 for non-fiction.

Sally Brampton appears on the outside to be a smart, sassy, intelligent, strong, ballsy women who work in journalism. She edited Elle magazine and also launched Red. She has published several novels and she writes regularly for the Sunday Times and Easy Living Magazine. She doesn't seem to sort to descend into a hellish pit of depression and alcoholism which included several admissions to hospital, years of therapy and drugs treatment which did nothing to 'cure' her but everything to make things even worse. But she did and this book is an account of what happened and more besides.

It is not a comfortable read but then again it's also in many ways heartening. Depression brings out the worst in its sufferers--and others. Although it is a common illness (probably caused by a variety of chemical imbalanced in the brain) it is treated with hostility and scorn--you only have to read some of the reviews of the book on Amazon to see what I mean. Why? Sally Brampton does not hide from describing the monster she became, the suicide attempts, the difficulties of her seemingly privileged childhood and possibly genetic traits in her family. But it would seem that people are too quick to insult her without having read the book carefully or intelligently enough.

Sally writes clearly and intelligently and, as you would expect from a journalist, she fills the book with facts as well as personal memories. (I particularly empathised with the sections on having an underactive thyroid (tick), a family connection with Asperger Syndrome (tick--see also Tim Lott's The Scent of Dried Roses), and the side effects of taking Venlafaxine (unlike Sally I tolerate it reasonably well but it's not an easy drug to come off and although I try, I always give up.) I also believe in Omega 3 oil. Even if it's not as affective as people claim, at least it's unlikely to do any harm, unlike some of the drugs out there.

I once got into a bit of a kerfuffle with a friend who maintained that whilst she is sympathetic to people she knows who suffer periodic bouts of depression, she believes in steering well clear of them until they recover because she finds them bad company and would prefer to leave them until they get back to their normal selves. I find that appalling. After all if a person suffers depression, then depression is part of who they are, and my friend is merely being selective which is not what I call true friendship. Anyhow, I was cheered to read Sally's views that others should not stay away--because is a kind of rejection and therefore hurtful. People with depression are not so depressed that they don't know what complete pains in the neck they can be, and that how ungrateful they must appear to those who do everything to try and jolly them along. You wouldn't expect a friend with flu to stop feeling tired and weak, or a person with a broken leg to go out line-dancing, so why should they expect depressives to stop feeling so bloody miserable all the time? That's the nature of the illness. That's what being depressed means. I can assure you that however tedious it is to onlookers, it's a hundred times worse for the sufferer.

Sally Brampton deserves a medal (and not just because she's another Sally.)

Sally has a blog dedicated to that damn dog.

A Series of Blinding Flashes

2009-04-14T07:59:00.001-07:00

Let's imagine for a moment that books are food. Those irresistible junk romances are surely gooey pink marshmallows (you devour a whole packet in one sitting and then feel sick and swear you'll never touch another); sweeping historical novels a blend of rich ragouts full of exotic spices, blood and flesh, and darkly comic crime novels like the Jim Stringer series (see below) are chocolate mousses.

And if I can stretch the metaphor just-that-little-bit-more, Tania Hershman's The White Road and Other Stories is that astringent lemon sorbet that clears the palate between courses.

Salt Publishing is currently producing some stunning examples of contemporary short fiction which all writers who want to write 'literary' should take a look at. However, it's a long time since I have attempted to write flash fiction myself or even short literary fiction for that matter and to be honest, I don't think I ever have had or will have the knack. Reading this assured collection has confirmed it. It represents the genre at its very best. Some flash fiction is self-indulgent twaddle where the writer seems to think they can throw a few solipsistic phrases together and somehow produce something artistic. Tania's are spare and yet greater than a sum of their parts.

Many of the stories in this collection were inspired by news snippets from The New Scientist magazine. From a bare few lines, Tania twists and shapes the facts into imaginative shapes and colours in stories ranging from a mere paragraph to several pages although none of them are long.

The short story is far too often unfavourably compared with the novel. 'No character development,' people say. 'You just get begin to get into them and then they finish.' is another. But no-one says that about poetry. No-one asks why that man was wandering lonely as a cloud o'er dale and hill? Did his wife leave him? Was he always a loner? Where does he live? We want to know. No. They see the man in the moment, the passing thought, the flash of insight. 9The child is father of the man.'

Heart is one such moment. It is probably the shortest story in the collection but it has stayed with me the longest because I am still there with that heart in my hand and then the cold wine glass. I feel what the surgeon feels. I am her. I don't need any more. I don't want any more.

Tania's stories are incredibly tactile. A girl feels a man plaiting her hair. She trusts the feeling. Until she cuts her hair. A girl on the verge of womanhood senses the sexuality of a man for the first time as she sips an espresso in a Venice cafe and watches him walk past (Firsts.) A gold and silver globe on a window sill pours warmth as soft and smooth as honey across a frozen city. Then there are meditations on the abstract; a traveller arriving at Heathrow from Jerusalem ponders what makes home, home--the place, the people or the facility with the language. This is Express; a neat play on words), another gem.

Given the impetus for the collection, it would be unusual if many of the stories weren't dystopian images of the future. In Evie and the Arfids a woman places invisible tags on clothes on a factory production line; Brewing a Storm tells of scientists who hold the secret formula that will abolish rain--and also life. Surrealism is another constant. In some stories, such as On a Roll you don't know where a dream ends and reality begins in a kind of eternal loop. But others reflect life as it is now. The Incredible Exploding Victor, the most 'real' story in the collection, tells the story of an obese boy whose mother shows her love for him and her own dark fears by over-feeding him.

As now read more novels than short stories, I had expected to prefer the longer stories in this collection to the flash fiction (as some reviewers have) but to me the longer ones were either too long or too short--not quite right for this Goldilocks. The flash fiction, on the other hand, I loved for its brevity, its inventiveness and its poetic quality.

Not all work as well as others but you expect that in a collection such as this but there is no doubt that in the short story Tania has found her home. She has talked on her blog about whether she should write a novel. I am sure if she did, the result would be stunning; I don't think she could right a duff anything but I sure would miss her wonderful short flashes of brilliance.

Jim Stringer--Steam Detective

2009-04-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make. I have a bit of a soft spot for Jim Stringer. I first met him when he was a rookie railway worker based at the sheds behind Waterloo Station and stumbled across The Necropolis Railway. He then became a fireman (in the world of steam trains, a man who keeps the fire burning rather than extinguishing it) whilst still managing to stumble across evils doings. Eventually, his 'talent' is spotted and he is soon working as a railway detective based at York. But he'd really secretly rather drive railway engines. You can follow his adventures (in order) in The Blackpool High Flyer, The Lost Luggage Porter, Murder at Deviation Junction and Death on a Branch Line.

Jim is one of those people who is a lot brighter than he looks. His particular skill is in observing people and finding out what makes them tick, whether criminal or not. Left to his own devices, you can imagine that, like most men, his life would lack stability. But he's fortunate in that his formidable wife, Lydia or rather "the wife" (Suffragette and doyenne of the Cooperative Movement) keeps her wary eye on him. Not that she plays an active part on the novels nor is a cliched battle-axe. You just know that she's there in the background and that Jim is glad she is, even though he never admits as much. He also has a very dry sense of humour, which I suspect comes straight from his creator Andrew Martin. (I've met him and he definitely has an ironic look about him.)

If you enjoy historical novels, crime novels, steam trains and humour--then you can't fail but like Jim's adventures, too. They're a secret addiction of mine. You don't have to read them in order but if you do you'll have the delight of seeing Jim grow and develop as a husband and father without losing too much of his rough edges. You'll also find that for much of these novels you'll be at a loss to know exactly what's going on and that Jim doesn't seem to know what he's doing but don't be fooled. Jim is always thinking and you can be sure he's less in the dark than he lets on.

His latest adventure, set in 1912, The Last Train to Scarborough is structured in a brilliant way. The opening chapter finds Jim not knowing where he is or how he got there and nor do we. It's all very strange and surreal. Then in the following chapter we are sent back a few days and from then on the novel is then told in alternating chapters of past and present until the two come together and eventually everything makes sense. To me, the very best part of these novels, are not the plots, but the settings and atmosphere and the wonderful characters Andrew Martin creates, both mail and female. In this latest novel, the residents of a Scarborough boarding house are as fine as anything Dickens ever created and a lot funnier. Theodore Vaughan and his collection of dubious postcards is a classic as is Amanda Rickerby, dipsomaniac and femme fatale.

But hidden deep beneath the levity, is the readers' knowledge that each novel nudges us closer and closer to war; what will happen to Jim?

PS. If you're not into steam trains, but want to sample Andrew Martin, then do read How To Get Things Really Flat: A Man's Guide to Ironing, Dusting and Other Household Arts.

Moments of madness

2009-04-01T06:07:00.001-07:00

Books on similar themes have a habit of arriving like buses. Hot on the heels of Writing Therapy, came Black Boxes by Caroline Smailes and Marie Strachan's The Earth Hums in B Flat. They couldn't be more different but both explore how mental illness can affect more than the individual concerned and rebound on others. Both are extremely accomplished novels by writers I shall most certainly keep an eye out for in the future.

Having said that, both made me wonder whether I am cut out to be a book blogger because I find it harder and harder to enthuse even though I couldn't ever think of being alive without reading fiction. Maybe I'm getting too old or maybe I now view novels more through a writer's eye than that of a reader. Whatever the reason, I find that I am am more and more picking on the negative aspects rather than the impact of the whole novel--a case of no longer being able to see the wood of accomplished writing for those niggly trees. I find myself underwhelmed by novels that other rave about and I wonder what the heck is wrong with me that I have to be so critical. (It's not as if I rate my own writing any more highly. Far from it. Someone once called me a bread-and-butter novelist and I know exactly what they mean.) Perhaps I'm reacting the way editors or agents do when they first pick up a submitted manuscript or have lost the knack of being a real reader.

Then again, every so often a novel comes along that squashes my inner editor flat and allows the joyful reader in me to have fun so that I find I'm not looking for problems but being swept along by a great storyteller. I'm reading one of those at the moment and will blog about it when I've finished it. (Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel, published at the end of the month.)

But back to the two novels in question. I enjoyed The Earth Hums in B Flat the most. What follows is the review I wrote for Amazon: Gwennie is a young girl growing up in the nineteen-fifties in a close-knit North Wales community, dominated by the chapel and its strict moral code. She is highly intelligent, but naive. When a man goes missing and is later found murdered, Gwennie believes she can solve the mystery. However, her actions cause problems in unlikely places and she soon discovers that truth can be dangerous and that secrets are best left hidden. Novels told in the voice of an imaginative girl on the cusp of adulthood are popular with novelists. (Indeed, we even get the 'first period' trauma for good measure.) I can see the attraction of such a narrator because she enables the writer to set up a complex narrative where the difficulties, complications and compromises of adult life contrast with the black and white simplicities of childhood. And there is much to admire here. The sense of time and place are beautifully created and some characters are freshly drawn; such as Gwenna's grandma and the wonderfully ghastly Alwenna. Gwenna's father is also a fine creation because he is not a caricature, like most of the men in the village. There is plenty of humour in the darkness. The Sunday School scenes were very funny indeed. However, I noticed some flaws. Gwennie's naivety and imagination are refreshing at first but soon become irritating, then tiresome. For such a bright girl she quite often seems stupid. Did she really think that Mrs Evans had already been to the dentist? Even had she not known the expression 'black dog' couldn't she have worked out what it meant in context? Her literal interpretation of some things sits awkwardly on the shoulders of a girl who is an avid reader and has a vivid imagination. And I've read too many novels about fey girls who believe they can fly. I understand such 'out of body experiences' can occur at moments of distress in a young person's life but I could have done without it; it isn't necessary. The darkest secret in the novel comes to light when the children are taught at school about genetics and the way eye-colour is inherited. I know for a fact that this subject was not part of the school curriculum until later decades. And even if it was taught, surely the teacher would be aware of the can of worms she was opening in such a tight-knit community? I also felt the pace of the novel began to sag in the later parts. Maybe this was because its development was too slow and then suddenly, all revealed in one big lump when Aunty Sian tells the family story to Gwennie and her sister Bethan. (In fact, she has no other purpose in the novel.) And that's it, basically. It sort of fizzles out after that. Having said that, this is a first novel and I shall certainly look out for Mari Strachan's writing in future.

Caroline Smailes's Black Boxes is another matter entirely and to be honest I struggled to get through it. The main character is Ana. She is suffering from severe depression and sits in her room doing nothing but mulling over her failed marriage and the fact that her husband has left her for another woman. Meanwhile, her two children, Pip and Davie, are left to their own devices and suffer accordingly. In fact, this was the hardest part of the novel for me because I'm one of those people who feels physical and mental anguish when I read about children suffering in any way for whatever reason and I really had to steal myself to continue reading. And rightly or wrongly, notwithstanding the emotional abuse Ana suffered, I found myself wanting to scream at her, even though I know only too well how depression turns the best people into selfish miseries. It happens but it's still difficult to empathise with a fictional character who behaves thus. The author took a brave decision but that doesn't make it any easier to read.

But then, why should writers care what readers think about their own characters? Discuss...

Caroline is to be congratulated for sustaining a novel, not only through such bleakness but by experimenting with language and metaphor. The title is both literal and metaphorical. The boxes are real enough but also remind us of the flight recorders in all aircraft containing all the minutiae of a flight which can later be analysed when the plane suffers a disaster. So, Ana pores through the minutiae of her marriage looking for the reasons why her marriage crashed. Her daughter, Pip, keeps a secret diary which is her own black box. And because Ana demands silence in the house Pip and Davie learn to communicate in sign language. So, as well as a story of a breakdown in human relationships, this is also a novel about communication or the lack of it. This may be the reason why the novel doesn't flow well and is broken up into short jerky passages as well as the sign language. But this, in turn, makes it difficult to read. I'm sure this is deliberate but it demands oa lot of a reader. And this one didn't have the patience.

Maybe I'm just the wrong reader and not clever enough for it. After all, I have read quite a few reviews from people who clearly don't share my difficulties. I do like to read a novel that sustains me and (am I so shallow?) entertains me, even if that entertainment makes me think. But I did find it a bit tricksy and too clever for its own good, as my mother says of anyone more intelligent than she is. Therefore the fault is all mine and I apologise here to Caroline for not being bright enough to appreciate what she has written.

I have a load..

2009-03-25T05:03:00.000-07:00

...of novels I've recently read and haven't yet got round to blogging about. See my other (elephant) blog for reasons, sorry excuses.

Here they are. I will get round to writing about them all eventually. They're all so very different, all brilliantly written and all fascinating...

Writing Therapy: Tim Atkinson

2009-03-10T11:19:00.000-07:00

Reviewing fiction can be a predictable pastime. Novels you know will be brilliant are brilliant; those you expect to be good are good and those you fear will be ho-hum are—well, ho-hum. And let’s not get started on the stinkers. So why bother? Because one day you open the book on the top of your tottering to-read pile and, before you know it, hours have passed and you’re still turning the pages. And when you’ve finished you feel like you’ve just waved goodbye to a good friend.

When Me and My Big Mouth blogged about Writing Therapy by Tim Atkinson a week or so ago and I asked for a copy, I admit I did so with an ulterior motive. You see, it’s published by YouWriteOn and I was curious. (For details please click here to see my other blog The Elephant in the Writing Room.) Suffice to say, I expected to be underwhelmed.

Wrong.

Writing Therapy is one of the freshest and engaging novels I have read in a long time. Here’s the opening paragraph and a bit more:

This is not a real book; not really. A real book tells a story. A real book starts at the beginning and it has a middle and an end and I should know—I’ve read enough of them. I read so many books that one day I woke up as a character in one. I’m there now, trapped between the pages in the story of a young girl who drops out of school, who reads more than is good for her and ends up in the loony-bin. And she is not the only one here stuck between the covers: there are the other characters, like the nurses for example: Ted and Monica; and there are other patients too, like Debbie and Jason and Lizzie. And, of course, there’s Dr Grimshaw, my psychiatrist.
‘So we’re all just characters in a book, then, are we?’
That’s him now, psychiatrising me. He asks me questions that he thinks he knows the answers to and I sit here and tell him what he already knows. That’s our therapy; that’s the treatment. That is what we do. That, and take the tablets that he gives me.

Isn’t that delicious? So clever, so sharp, so witty. Sophie is the fifteen-year old narrator and she’s one of the most engaging characters you could wish to spend your time with, even though she’s a patient in a mental hospital. And the more you read, the more you begin to wonder whether Sophie is a reliable narrator or whether she is merely using all the ‘tricks’ she has learned to create a compelling novel.

And the result IS a compelling novel. It’s about the difficulties of adolescence, the way young people with mental problems are dealt with and also about the problems of writing a novel—which I must admit may not appeal to everyone—but I found myself nodding along and smiling pretty often. Oh and it’s about writing therapy as well, about whether scribbling it all down can help get through a stormy patch in one’s life.

Writing in the character of someone suffering any kind of metal illness is a delicate balancing act. Too much whimsy can be cloying; too much pain and misery only alienates the reader. Tim Atkinson crosses the tightrope without a wobble. I was particularly impressed by the way he gets convincingly under the skin of a teenage girl. The other characters are also well-portrayed as are the power games and personal animosities between the professionals in the unit. Tim Atkinson tells it all without analysis, without grinding any axes, without any agenda. But it’s a difficult novel to describe simply because the plot— story—what you will—is so quirky. Is this Sophie speaking or Will, the trainee nurse or Dr Grimshaw, or even Debbie or Ted? Is this the same meeting or another? Most of the time you don’t know whether what you’re reading is ‘true’—in as much as any novel is ever true. It’s also difficult to pinpoint a straight time-line.

Please don’t get the idea that it’s a difficult read. It isn’t. It’s hugely readable especially if you let yourself go with the flow and not try to pick it apart. Let it surround you because it pretty soon gets you thinking about what it is to be human; how each and every one of us spend our lives creating our own personal novel of who we are. We select our memories to present us in a more favourable light; we select what we want to remember and what we want to forget. (We only have to ask someone who was there with us on a particular occasion to realise how different our memories are.) Without these stories we are nothing. So does it matter what is true and what is made up when, to all intents and purposes, it’s all made up anyway?

Writing Therapy is one of those novels that are clever without for any moment telling us so—as all the best novels are. There’s nothing worse than a novel that shouts ‘I am clever’ on every page. It’s not perfect. Nothing is. There is a little too much repetition in places and the epilogue doesn’t quite gel with the rest of the novel and drags you away from the young Sophie rather too abruptly for my liking. But these are minor quibbles that could have been editing out, but weren’t, given the publisher involved.

I only wish Tim hadn’t so quickly chosen the vanity publishing route. I’m not saying it would have been instantly snapped up and published to great acclaim. But I’m confident that at least one literary agent or editor at a mainstream publishing house would have seen its merits.

Let’s hope what Scott Pack started will begin to build momentum and maybe this novel will reach a wider readership and the plaudits it deserves. I feel lucky to have stumbled across it.

The Picture She Took

2009-02-12T13:11:00.001-08:00

It often takes me far too long to get round to reading books I've bought. Some languish in my to-read pile(s) almost forever. Back in November 2008 I mentioned having bought Fiona Shaw's second novel, The Picture She Took from the Summit Bookshops in Kirkbymoorside and it's something of a miracle that I actually got round to reading it this week. I said at the time that, although it was first published in 2005, I hadn't heard of it. Not at all. I've done a quick Google and found very little reference to it either on publication or later. There's only one review on Amazon UK, none of Amazon.com, a favourable, if lukewarm, review in The Independent and very sniffy and plot-spoiling review by novelist, Stevie Davies in the Guardian. To be fair to her, Stevie Davies does have a point about the 'modern' feel to it in places. I suppose it shows how far we've come when a gay man (not in show-business) is open about his sexuality. In reality he would keep very quiet indeed. But I think she must have had toothache when she wrote her review.

Any road up, as they don't say up here. Novels that are perfect in every way are rare and this one ticks enough boxes for me to recommend it. It's exactly the kind of historical novel I love to read. Accessible and literary with a strong plot, strong characters and a moral ambiguity. It also makes me itch to read more about the period. I wish I could write a novel that's half as good--dammit.

The novel is set in the early nineteen twenties and begins when Daniel, a young man with a damaged leg, visits an exhibition of photographs taken on the Western Front. One of them causes Daniel to stop and to return on another day. It is of two soldiers. One has been wounded and patched up. In the background is a nurse. The uninjured soldier is lighting a cigarette for the wounded man. They are clearly great friends. But it's nothing out of the ordinary. Two comrades in war frozen in the moment by a Kodak.

For reasons as yet unknown to anyone but Daniel, the photograph obsesses him. He begins to have nightmares. His sanity slips. He sets out on a quest which leads him first of all to Jude who took the photograph when she was a nurse in Belgium. They meet. Jude learns that Daniel hadn't fought in that war at all although his brother had and did not return. His war was in the west of Ireland, a bloody, shameful conflict the English barely think about, even today. He certainly can't speak about it to anyone, least of all his parents. Guilt perhaps?

Jude, too, has been changed by her war. She lost people she loved and feels guilty. But war liberated her too. She rides a motorbike, is a keen photographer but works as a copy-typist, inertia preventing her from taking that leap into full independence. Daniel's mental state continues to deteriorate. They meet again but then Daniel disappears and Jude has an idea where he might have gone. She sets out in pursuit, without knowing what awaits her. What happens when they find each other again will have a profound affect on both of them and change their lives for ever.

This is one of those novels that lingers in the memory and makes it difficult to pick up another. The ending is hugely satisfying even though it's not neatly tied up so you can play that 'I wonder what happened next?' game. The subject matter makes it an uncomfortable read at times because it makes one question whether there is such a thing as right versus wrong. Even the best of us need to examine our own culpability when life turns ugly.

I understand what Stevie Davies is saying but I think she throws the baby out with the bathwater. I'm so pleased I found a copy. Hurrah again for indie bookshops and serendipity.

Sue Gee

2009-02-04T05:07:00.000-08:00

I can't think of anything more exciting for an avid reader than to devour a novel with gusto only to discover that the author has written half a dozen others...

This happened to me recently when I received an email from a friend whose opinions on matters literary--or anything else for that matter-- are always worth listening to (thank you, Jane) telling me I just had to read Reading in Bed by Sue Gee. This I duly did. When I'd finished it, I had that 'why haven't I heard of this author before?' moment and then paused. I had. Several years ago, I read Mysteries of Glass and had been completely blown away by it. Why I hadn't then discovered that she had written plenty of other novels and that I would take pleasure in reading them I can no longer remember. Suffice to say I was given another chance and I am now embarking on a Sue Gee fest.

When this happens, I don't, as some people do, read nothing but one author until the well runs dry. I like to pace my reading. I tend to alternate something light with something more dark, vary nationality of setting and/or author and era. I also don't like to gorge on one author at the expense of others for two reasons. First I like to feel I have something in reserve to enjoy and also that too much of the same thing is a recipe for indigestion at best and a reduction of appreciation in my rush to 'tick the list.'

Getting too obsessed with one author's output can also over-personalise the experience. Whilst I love reading biographies of writers I'm not sure that it actually advances the reading experience. There have been times when having plunged into an author's life because I have loved his or her novels, I discover to my horror,that the author was not a nice person at all or at least not a person I would want to cosy up to. This can spoil things for ever more. I have, for example, managed to make the distinction between Virginia Woolf, the person and Virginia Woolf, the writer. The former would have despised me and I would have heartily disliked her spiteful, snobby ways. The latter I adore. Therefore, although I have Googled Sue Gee and turned up bits about her life, I don't want to read any more. I want to get to know her as a writer. What she eats for breakfast or what she thinks of Gordon Brown is neither here not there.

There's no doubt that much of the background to Reading in Bed is informed by the author's experience but it is also very much based on the lives all English women of a certain age, lifestyle and experience. Torn between worrying about our children and grandchildren we also have to face our own mortality as the older members of our family come to depend on us more and eventually reach the end. At first, I wasn't too keen on the main characters in this novel as we are first introduced to them. Georgia and Dido, friends from way back, are now in their sixties. They seemed rather too pleased with themselves and their perceived intellectual superiority. But, of course, this is deliberate on the author's part. As the novel slowly progresses, their lives slowly and inexorably unravel. They cling to their props; Radio 4, good books, good works and good food. This is most certainly not a novel about 'issues' but there's much about bereavement, sexuality, adultery, work, feelings of worthlessness and senile dementia. For me, two of the most successful characters are Chloe and Maud. Chloe is Georgia's daughter who has grown up with a sense of inadequacy because she has dyslexia which has created a distance between her and from her uber-intellectual mother. Chloe's search for a loving partner--despite her exciting job all she craves is a loyal husband and children--leads her into a series of disastrous love-affairs.

Maud, the aunt of Georgia's late husband, lives in isolated squalor with only her dog for company. Sue Gee cleverly makes sure that we see her life through her eyes first (routine domestic jobs and quiet contentment) and then through the harsh lens of reality (she lives in absolute squalor). In doing so, Gee makes sure we sympathise more with her than those seeking to interfere whilst knowing in our hearts that she can't go on living the way she does. And that's just Georgia's problems--or rather, it shouldn't be but Georgia feels responsible. I haven't even mentioned Dido's!

This novel is not long but it is rich and satisfying in a bleak sort of way. It is the most truly accurate depiction of what it is to be middle-class and middle-aged today. All right, so none of the characters are hungry or homeless or lack money but life for them is not one long picnic either.

I have one big beef. The cover is grade one horrible. Why on earth Headline chose the chick-litty pinks and green and girly line drawings I can't think--unless it's to give Sue Gee's novels wider appeal. They don't need it. Besides, anyone picking it up for a frothy read is going to be hugely deceived and disappointed.

The Mysteries of Glass is altogether different and, to me, a better novel. Set in the 1860s it tells the story of young and inexperienced curate Richard Allen who is appointed to a parish in rural Herefordshire to take on the duties of the older vicar who is slowly dying. Unused to country ways he soon finds himself at odds with this strange primitive society that stands on the cusp of modernity. Not only that, but he find himself falling in love with the vicar's young wife. Although I said it's different from Reading in Bed, it shares the same mastery in creating a complete society out of beautiful, spare prose. The descriptions of the frozen winter's landscape form the backbone of this unsettling novel.

My next Sue Gee will be Heaven and Earth with six more to go. I should have discovered her earlier. But what riches I have in store.

Some recent reading

2009-01-06T11:49:00.000-08:00

I've only been keeping my book blog for a very short while and already I'm cheating by lumping together three novels I have read recently and enjoyed hugely even though they each deserve a review of its own. (For the sake of total accuracy, I should add that I'm three-quarters of the way through One Bright Morning but I don't think my opinion will change.) All three are from the pen of accomplished writers but are totally different in concept and vision (18th century England, late 20th century Nebraska and Los Angeles and North Wales during Word War One.) All three came to me courtesy of the Amazon Vine programme, which I think I've mentioned before, I find wonderful, if baffling. Why was I chosen as a Vine Voice? How come some novels are selected for the Vine treatment and not others?

The Elephant Keeper is a new novel by a new writer (at least to me) and I (foolishly perhaps) predict that this will be both a critical and commercial success. The Ann Patchett was published some time ago and was, I believe, her 'breakthrough' novel. I had already read and enjoyed her Orange Prize winning Bel Canto, which is why I chose this one but I don't know why it was selected as a Vine selection. Perhaps it's because it's a new edition because the cover is different from the original (which, incidentally I much prefer, being more in keeping with the contents.) Anyway, puzzlement aside, I am again grateful to Amazon because it was another thumping good read.

Which brings me to One Bright Morning. I did a bit of Googling (as you do) because this edition has no notes or introduction which is a shame. Apparently, and here I apologise to any Welsh readers here, Kate Roberts is considered to be one of the greatest Welsh writers of the twentieth century. This novel was first published in Welsh in the nineteen fifties and I believe--although I may well be wrong--this is the first English edition. It's never going to be a bestseller, not because it's no good, but because it would appear to have limited appeal. So why is it an Amazon Vine choice? Odd. Anyway, I chose it from the monthly selection because it intrigued me and I have not been disappointed. It should have been published by the likes of Virago Modern Classics--which would, as a matter of course, provided that vital, missing introduction. It is a feminist novel with overtones of Welsh nationalism. But before you recoil in horror, let me say how good it is. It has all the attributes of novels chosen by Persephone or Virago. It's intelligent, well-written and redolent of a period in time and space. If you love the area of North Wales around Caernarfon and Bangor as I do, you'll be equally delighted by it. The translation is excellent and doesn't read like a translation at all--always a plus point as far as I'm concerned.

Some Amazon Vine reviewers have complained that the heroine is always miserable and complaining. Not only is this not true but one has to remember that this is the story of a young, intelligent, woman stuck in a small Welsh village doing a job she would rather not do, where to be seen entering a pub is to be ostracised and to question the mores of the local chapel is to be judged the Devil's spawn. I think she has every right to be miserable.

I'm not going to go into any further detail about this trio: my reviews of the first two are already up on Amazon and my Kate Roberts review will follow when I've finished reading it. I know I should also add links to the relevant pages but, to be honest, I can't seem to cut and paste Amazon's lengthy URLs onto Blogger and they're a total pain to copy out in full--well, they are if you're as idle as I am.

But as a gesture of good-will, I have listed titles and authors below and then, if you're so-minded, you can cut and paste them into a search engine and off you go.

The Elephant Keeper Chris Nicholson

The Magician's Assistant Ann Patchett

One Bright Morning Kate Roberts (translated by Gillian Clarke.)

A Secret Alchemy (2) - The Review

2008-12-19T02:14:00.000-08:00

At its most basic, alchemy is the quest to turn base metal into gold. At its most basic, A Secret Alchemy is two stories for the price of one. The first, an account of the Wars of the Roses and the murder of the Princes in the Tower told both by Elizabeth Woodville, wife of King Edward IV, the princes' mother and her brother, Anthony Woodville. The second is a contemporary narrative about the Pryors, a totally fictional family of printers seen through the eyes of Una Pryor. Una, an historian has returned from her home in Australia to England to wind up her affairs after the death of her husband. Still grieving, she revisits her childhood home, where a printing-press is the heart and hearth as much as the kitchen range. All members have since scattered apart from Uncle Gareth who is struggling to maintain the Chantry Press, in the face of age, infirmity and dwindling fortunes. It seems inevitable that the press must close and the house sold. When Mark, a non-family member who was an integral part of the family firm, returns he devises a scheme to save the press and in doing so stirs up resentments and old grudges through which the secrets of the past are revealed.

Initially, it would appear that the two narratives have little in common but slowly and almost miraculously the stories begin to echo each other--not obviously, not clunkily, but in ways that delight and intrigue and part of the pleasure of A Secret Alchemy is discovering themes, myths, relationships and emotions that pass between the two stories and the two time-zones in a sort of literary osmosis.

Towards the end of the novel, there is a key conversation in which first pilgrimages and art of creation are discussed. Fergus is a sculptor and has just remarked that when someone looks at a work of art they don't see the process that produced it-- 'the doing of it--as he calls it. "When you're doing it you don't think, I want this to be a new stage in the developing sense of the spatial form. You think, How can I get the bloody thing to stand up or would it work better lying down anyway?"

Una then suggests that he must think about spatial form later. Fergus agrees, then goes on to say: Though other people see things that I haven't seen sometimes. They fit it into a story I didn't know it was part of. But at the time, no. And yet. . . what's more real, more interesting? More true, even? The moment, all-plastery? Or when it fits in a story you didn't even know about then, but can see so clearly when you look back?"

This to me is the central theme of the novel. Darwin is exploring the process of history, the narrative that with the benefit of hindsight, we can see the pattern. When we now read about Elizabeth Woodville we know her fixed place in history and that her daughter, Elizabeth of York is to become the mother of Henry VIII, that the mystery surrounding the disappearance of her two sons will rumble on seemingly forever, views changing so that the Richard III is sen as monster, maligned statesman and monster. She herself has no sense of this, in the same way that none of us knows how the decisions we make will affect ours and others' future.

The complex structure of this novel has not much been discussed in reviews. It's remarkable enough that Emma has constructed three separate narratives, all in the first person and yet so distinctive in tone. However, that isn't all. It is only on the very last pages that we realise that the historical story is far closer to Una's than would appear. I hope I'm not spoiling things when I say that when we are reading the 'historical' sections we are reading Una's novel. So you could also say that this is a novel about the complex process of creating and writing a novel. There are hints of this earlier. For example, in a beautifully lyrical passage, Anthony Woodville, who is being escorted to Pontefract and his death, sees a heron in the reeds and reminisces about the first day he went hunting with his goshawk and how it hunted and killed a heron. Much later, in Una's story she too sees a heron and wonders what it would feel like to hunt it with a goshawk. She spins the beginning of a tale in her mind. She gives the hawk a name and devises a scene but the moment passes and she moves on. But the readers knows that we have read the scene fully formed already, so whose story was it? Una's or Anthony's? I absolutely love this kind of writing. I admire its cleverness; I enjoy thinking about the allusions and following my own thought processes above and beyond what's on the page. It's also very clever and difficult to make it work but work it does. Splendidly.

I say this partly to take issue with the criticism in the recent review in the Independent. (You can read it here.) The reviewer calls 'forced' the scene in which Anthony Woodville converses with a world-weary Sir Thomas Mallory on the eve of battle. Hasn't this reviewer read the wonderful The Once and Future King in which , at the end of the final book, a world-weary King Arthur meets the young Thomas, who later was the Sir Thomas who penned Le Morte d'Arthur. This hugely important work, on which T H White's tetralogy is based was first printed by Caxton and in this novel, most of the Pryor family, also printers, are named after characters in the work. Then again, It matters not a jot if readers miss these delightful allusions and I'm sure I've missed plenty but it's a huge bonus when they do.

Other themes that run through the novel: pilgrimages, journeys, discoveries and quests feature strongly. The myth of Jason and the Golden Fleece re-occurs. The Chantry Press has produced a fine illustrated volume of it and it is mentioned several times. I also noted, whether deliberate or not on Emma's part, that Jason's wife, Medea, a sorceress or witch, infamously murdered her children after Jason's adulterous betrayal of her. Elizabeth Woodville's sons are murdered and some of the most affective parts of this novel concern her grief and sense of guilt. Also, after the death of Edward IV she is denounced by her enemies as a witch. Her story is also that of betrayal between cousins, which again brings us back to the Pryors. And if that wasn't enough, the Golden Fleece is often taken as a metaphor for the alchemical search for gold. And whilst we're talking about alchemy, there is more to it than making gold. It is the foundation of modern science. (Sir Isaac Newton called himself an alchemist.) The novel is about alchemy and is itself is a piece of alchemy for at its heart, is connecting the past and the present, about making connections and creating something new out of what has gone before. But I'd hate to give the impression that A Secret Alchemy is heavy-going or 'learned.' It's not at all. Like all the best novels, it's a story of human relationships, family and naturally, love; love in all its many guises: tender, passionate; erotic. It's all here.

I've hardly touched on the high quality of the writing or the fine portrayal of the main players. but I've written enough and any more would be sheer self-indulgence. I'm not so enamoured of it that I consider it flawless or that nothing niggled. It took me a while to settle into it that I almost faltered at the first hurdle. So many names to remember and all so similar! I had to keep checking the family trees for the historical section to fix who was who and how they are related. The Pryor family also took a bit of sorting out too. Their family tree was almost as complicated. However, I persevered and once I'd got everybody sorted in my head, I romped away.

This is a rich and spicy cake of a novel, full of delicious flavours, both light and more substantial. (Can I detect nutmeg? Oranges? Is that Madeira or sherry?) Whether you're one of those who remove the icing and/or marzipan or eat the outer layers and discard the middle; even if you painstakingly pick out every sultana and leave them on the side of your plate, it matters not. You will still enjoy it. But if, you're like me, wolf it all down, right down to the last lingering crumb.

Enjoy!

A Secret Alchemy (1) and The Art of Book Reviewing

2008-12-17T09:48:00.000-08:00

I suppose it's a hangover from my years studying for my Eng Lit BA. You can take a girl out of academia but you can't take academia out of the girl so whenever I've finished reading something worthwhile I feel this urge to write about it at length to understand both what I think the author is trying to tell me and exactly how I respond to it.

But other than that, what purpose does anything I write about someone else's work serve? And why make it public? It's not to tell the author--in this instance, Emma Darwin--that she's produced another belter of a novel, because she knows that already. (I have yet to read an unfavourable review.) Besides which, she's recently written in her must-read blog that by the time punters like me get the chance to read her latest published novel, she's moved on and let go of it. I have no clout in the world of books, although I do cling on to a small collection of paperbacks on which my words stare at me from their back or inside-front covers. So, I could just say, 'I recommend this intelligent and engrossing novel.' Or I could be even more gung-ho and quickly scribble, Fabulous! so when the paperback is published, I will see Fabulous! Sally Zigmond on the back cover. Or not. Anyway, it is fabulous and I do recommend it.

But that's not the point and it isn't enough for me. I itch (notice the nod to Emma's blog there?) to write a long and considered review. An essay, indeed. But why, when our appetite for reading such reviews is waning or so we are told? Can't we concentrate on any given topic for more than two minutes? Oh bother, the cat has jumped up on my desk and has plonked her bum on the book in question. Which just shows what good taste she has! LOL!!!! I apologise to the thoughtful book-bloggers out there--you know who you are, but there's also an awful lot of twaddle out here.

Even more worrying, in these times of people power, is that the broadsheets are reducing their book pages and shedding staff. TV and radio programmes dedicated to books have never been more than token nods to the literary world and may well disappear altogether.

Which finally brings me to the point. In part 2, I am going to give Emma's new novel my full and unwavering attention. In the meantime, if you're wondering what Christmas present to give a good friend who loves big, fat intelligent novels then buy A Secret Alchemy.

Oh and yes, I bought my copy out of my own pocket-money. And I'm keeping it.

The Whitby Bookshop

2008-12-16T00:46:00.001-08:00

I confess. I love Amazon. Or I did. I do much of my book buying there. At least I used to. Cheap. User-friendly site. No fuss. Delivered to your door. What's not to like?

Only, it's just let me down. I suppose it's my fault as I'm one of those stupid people who can't think about Christmas presents until about a week before. Both my sons have inherited my bookaholic gene and they like to be surprised. So I had a good Amazon browse on Saturday and came up with two corking volumes that I was sure hit the right spot. They weren't old, obscure, nor were they runaway bestsellers. They were in stock. I ordered. One snag. One big snag. Amazon said they couldn't be delivered until after Christmas. Bah humbug.

You know, the bigger an organisation gets, the more it becomes a victim of its own success. Amazon is no longer lean and hungry. It can afford to let people down. And now I hear they treat their staff like dirt. Mmm. You can go off people.

Scruples aside, I still had a problem.

Those who know me, will appreciate that I can't just nip on a bus and go to a chain bookstore. But it just so happened that I was going to Whitby the following day and I know they have a good indie bookshop. So, more in hope than expectation, I entered The Whitby Bookshop and found, not the books I wanted from Amazon but two that were equally as suitable, if not better. And within 10 minutes of opening the door, I had two books. In my hand.

So let's take a moment and savour this gem.

It is crammed--and I mean crammed--with books. Always a good sign. Perhaps if you're not a seasoned book buyer you might find it difficult to navigate because all newe hardbacks are shelved together and spine on. There's only one copy of each, although I did see two copies of the latest Alexander McCall Smith. But at least that meant there was a good range and not just the usual suspects, the Nigellas, the Dawn Frenches, the Mavis Cheeks. There were quite a few I wanted to investigate further. The paperback fiction shelves are also well stocked and are separated into general, sagas and romance and classics. The non-fiction shelves further into the shop are also well-stocked as is the dedicated children's section which looked welcoming. Upstairs are remainder books. I'm not a big fan of these but I can understand the raison d'etre. Such books pull in the casual browsers and sometimes there are good books to be discovered. I found one such last summer. In addition, they sell cards, quirky notebooks, those super Penguin mugs and Naxos CDs and lots of book-related goodies. I may be wrong but I think they also run a points loyalty scheme for regular customers.

It was a frustrated book-lover's experinece yesterday, not the shop's fault at all but because I only had limited time and I was present-hunting rather than indulging my own preferences. But I shall be back very soon. Absolutely. Definitely. The only thing it might be said to lack is a coffee shop or even a chair but Whitby is chock-full of cafes and chairs so I bit of standing around, caffeine-deprived is something I can live with. Of course, there are no discounts or 3 for 2s but they aren't missed. This is a bookshop as they should be. Sometimes it's good to feel the quality not the width.

So when you're next in town and find yourself in Church Street, before you tackle those crippling 199 steps up to the church and abbey (and well worth the effort), do call in. Tell them I sent you.

I know it's lazy but . . .

2008-12-09T06:56:00.001-08:00

. . . these two excellent pieces, one by Sam Jordison from The Guardian's booksblogs and the other from The New York Times, are far better than anything I could write on these two book-related topics.

The first cheered me up because I thought I was the only book-lover who guiltily owns too many unread volumes. It's not because I don't want to or that I bought them to impress but can't face them. It's just that, well, the time isn't right for that particular one, especially as I've just been sent one I MUST read or that I can't bear to wait any longer to read.

The second cheered me up also because I don't belong to a reading group and always felt I was missing out. When I moved into Rosedale Abbey I was told 'you'll be pleased to know there's a lively book group,' and then, in the same breath, 'but until someone drops out, there isn't a place for you.'

So now there's a double weight off my shoulders.

Take My Breath Away

2008-11-30T03:40:00.000-08:00

I know I've read at least one Tim Winton novel before this one and I know I was hugely impressed but I can't for the life of me remember the title nor what it was about. The cover illustration was the back view of a woman with a plait. This happens to me quite often and it bothers me because I want to be able to reference what I say about the novel I've just finished. But no. I can't. It's gone.

What I do know, however, is that Tim Winton is a hugely talented Australian writer who doesn't seem to get the recognition ere he should, at least here in Britain. To me, he is as good if not better than, say, Peter Carey, I am at fault too because a quick check on Amazon reveals a shelf of his novels I know nothing about. It's time I did something about it.

Anyway, back to Breath. It came to me via the Amazon Vine programme. Why it was on the list when it was published back in June of this year, I know not, but maybe the publishers felt it needed more attention. They were right. It totally passed me by then. I picked it from the list because of the author and not because of the blurb. I mean, what on earth would a fifty-something woman who hates all extreme sports find of interest? How could I begin to understand why some people take the most awful risks? But, d'you know? I loved every moment I was reading it. The characters, all deeply flawed, all damaged, still spoke to me and I am still in a state of thrall.

We are in the 1970s. Bruce Pike is a fourteen year old living in a small Australian town not far from the ocean. He is the only child of rather dull, older parents who will not let him near the water. He has to satisfy himself swimming ion the local muddy river. Here he meets dare-devil Loonie who is a risk-taker from the wrong side of the tracks. They become friends and vie with each other to play dangerous games. Urged on by Loonie, they start going to the ocean to watch the surfers and soon they are having a go themselves. They meet Sando who, being in his thirties and a crack surfer, becomes the father neither of them have. Bruce's is distant and unsupportive; Loonie's is an abusive drunk.. Soon he is taking them to more and more dangerous waves and feeding their desire to take greater risks. They tell no-one. Bruce feels he belongs to a sainted elite, far beyond the dreams of mortals.

Friendship between the two boys inevitably turns to rivalry and the cracks widen irrevocably when Sando takes Loonie off abroad to surf and Bruce (or Pikelet as Sando christens him, is left to kick his heels at the beach-house Sando shares with his wife, Eva. She too feels abandoned and both are lonely. She is a surly, sarcastic woman who resents the time Sando spends with the boys. With Sando and Loonie away, Bruce begins to unravel her story and soon he and she are embroiled in a sexual relationship. This is dangerous enough but it soon turns very dangerous and nasty indeed and Bruce's coming of age scars him mentally for the rest of his life.

This is a novel of why people take risks with their life, what it feels to be an adrenalin junkie and ultimately, what it is to be alive and breathing and it is simply, but effectively done. It's all in the writing. The descriptions of the massive breakers that roll in from the southern storms are simple but overwhelming in their impact. Here is Pikelet after having approached a wave wrongly:

I was falling down a staircase--one that never seemed to end, which collapsed on me and shot me skyward before snatching me down again so its rubble-spill might drive me headlong across the reef, rattling and wracking me all the way. I bounced and pinged and shot, winded and half-blind, across the shoal, and when the reef fell away the turbulence ploughed me so deep and so fast I barely had a chance to equalize to save my eardrums. I knew not to fight it, but I was nearly gone when the sea let me go. I came up choking, sobbing, kicking at the surface as thought I could climb into purer oxygen. ( . . . . . .) Well (Sando) said with a grin. That one rang your bell.

Breath is full of writing like this, not just at the moments of high drama but the quieter, contemplative moments, the flat water between the storms. And even more astonishingly clever is the way the novel is constructed in the shape of a huge ocean roller, the way it begins as a dark line on the horizon, then rises up like a wall before curling over and crashing down before flattening out on the shore. Reading other people's reviews of Breath, I notice that many complain that the ending is weak that the drama and intensity tails off into nothingness. But that, I'm convinced, is what the brilliant Mr Winton intended. Even the most majestic wave is reduced to a shallow drift of foam in the end.

And here, Bruce, now in his fifties and a paramedic, divorced, the father of two girls, and still not quite right mentally, explains why he still occasionally surfs.

. . . when they (his daughters) see me out on the water I don't have to be cautious and I'm never ashamed. Out there I'm free. I don't require management. They probably don't understand this, but it's important for me to show them that their father is a man who dances - who saves lives and carries the wounded, yes, but who also does something completely pointless and beautiful, and in this at least he should need no explanation.

I felt I was holding my breath from start to finish. As they say Down-under. Awesome.

Short Shrift for the Short Story

2008-11-19T04:32:00.001-08:00

Today, the every-entertaining and yet thoughtful Me and My Big Mouth finds Scott Pack musing on the British aversion to short stories. This reminded me that I wrote a version of the following piece for Myslexia magazine and thought it might deserve another outing. As it was written quite a few years ago, some references may be out-of-date, such as my involvement with QWF.

Anyway, here goes:

As assistant editor of QWF magazine, it’s my job to read a great many unpublished short stories. They arrive at my door by the fistful and lie in drifts on my desk. I read stories seeking publication; I read stories demanding detailed appraisal; I read stories entered in short story competitions. I could write a thesis on unpublished stories. Let's assume I have a box full of one hundred manuscripts before me. I know before I open it that five will be barely literate, five, if I'm lucky, will impress me, ten will be good, but don’t move me and the eighty or so remaining will range from 'so-so' to 'so what?'

It is also my pleasure to read a great many published short stories. These, unlike the manuscripts through which I daily wade, are more difficult to track down. A visit to one of the larger chain booksellers may reveal a single shelf of dog-eared competition anthologies. Ignore the dust. These are essential reading for the short story writer. Collections of short stories by novelists can be found amongst the novels - if you know what you're looking for. But, pick up a book by an unknown name at random and you'll need a magnifying glass to discover whether it's a novel or a collection of shorter pieces.

It doesn't take a statistician to fathom there's a great imbalance here. So what's going on? It's a long story. Think back to your English lessons, whether you gave them up at sixteen, eighteen or left university clutching a BA in English Literature. No doubt you studied the novel and of course you read poetry. But did you study the art of the short story? Thought not. Amongst the great British writers, can you name one that wrote nothing but than short stories? O'Henry, perhaps or Saki? But their style has long gone out of fashion. Respected novelists such as George Eliot, Elizabeth Gaskell and Virginia Woolf all wrote short stories. But would you choose to read them over and above their novels?

Away from these shores, the story is quite different. The short story is understood and revered in its own right. Chekhov never wrote a novel, nor did Katherine Mansfield, but they are two of the greatest writers of all time. Canadian and American novelists, Margaret Atwood among them, have published critically acclaimed short stories but you'll rarely find them in the UK. There is no finer writer than Alice Munro and yet she is sidestepped here because she is a short story writer. As far as I am aware, there is only one British writer who exclusively writes the short form; Helen Simpson. Shame on you if you write short stories and you haven't read her three superb collections: Four Bare Legs in a Bed, Dear George and Hey Yeah Right Get a Life.
At the same time as the published short story languishes here, writers' circles and classes are booming. And what are all these enthusiastic scribblers scribbling? Short stories. Why? Because they're short. And because they're short, they're supposed to be easy. You can toss one off for next week's class. You read it out and the class says it's great and should be published. Sooner or later it ends up on my desk.

A short story is not a short novel; it is the distillation of experience, an anguished face glimpsed in a passing train, the tug of a child on a mother's sleeve. A short story should capture a whole life in a single event. To believe it's something to dash off in a weekend is an insult to those who read it. What's needed is not more writing classes churning out reams of indifferent prose, but classes and books on short story appreciation. The only way to begin to understand the form and what it can and can't do is to read and study. The classics are essential, but if one is writing today one needs to know what is being published today. If the book publishers are reluctant to promote the short story, there's always the small press, alive and kicking, but woefully undervalued.

The short story is too often dismissed, not for what it is, but for what it isn't. Too many unpublished short stories in Britain are limp synopses of novels rather than sharp insights into the human condition. So let's all learn what a good short story can or can't do before it's too late.

The Landscape of His Mind

2008-11-17T09:26:00.000-08:00

Cultural tastes wax and wane; although Shakespeare never entirely slips off the radar, he is currently more popular than ever. Shakespeare in Love and Bill Bryson’s highly readable biography are but two recent examples. So do we really need another book about the Bard? Not if it’s the same old thing. Yes, if it’s The Sonnets by Warwick Collins (published by the excellently eclectic Friday Project.)

Collins is not as well-known as he should be and I cannot for the life of me understand why. With two accomplished historical novels under his belt, The Rationalist and The Marriage of Souls both of which I highly recommend, his latest novel presents a totally fresh portrait of the greatest writer who ever lived.

It is 1592 and the London theatres are closed because of plague. For the next two years, William is forced to cool his heels at the country pile of his patron, the young Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton. In the depths of the countryside, deprived of the distractions of London life his thoughts naturally turn in on himself. Conscious of his lowly position in the household’s hierarchy, he is nevertheless privy to the conversation (and complaints) of this handsome young aristocrat. Will’s regard for Henry is more than friendly affection. This is evident from the opening pages, a lyrical homoerotic description of the Earl swimming in a lake which sets the tone for what follows. The relationship is, however, platonic but such a heady atmosphere sets the playwright’s mind on fire. Not only that, but beneath the bucolic idyll of the Earl’s household, lie treachery and deception, partly in the person of John Florio, a pedantic scholar, who has been planted in the household as a spy for Lord Burghley, Queen Elizabeth’s chief advisor and also the Earl’s ever-watchful guardian. William is first attracted to one ‘dark lady’ who rejects him and having been aroused by her, find an uneasy release in an affair with Florio’s wife, Lucia, who also just so happens to be the Earl’s mistress.

In order to keep his turbulent thoughts and feelings in check William decides to use the long sleepless hours of darkness perfecting the art of the sonnet, obscuring the depths of his feelings in the intricate structure of the form. Collins has plucked 32 of the full 154 sonnet cycle and from them has conjectured a plausible and effective account of Shakespeare’s mind. This is no attempt at biography. As the author himself writes in the Afterword: My own chief interest in writing The Sonnets was not so much to attempt to explore the social or physical world in which Shakespeare lived, as the landscape of his mind that produced his unprecedented body of work and which is, to some extent, revealed to us most directly in the poems themselves.

This Collins achieves with aplomb. For me, who has always found the sonnets difficult to understand, this novel has been the welcome catalyst to revisit them. To this end I have already discovered what looks like a fascinating website.

Despite the author’s denial, no-one can come away from this novella without a clear understanding of the dangerous, dark currents beneath the surface of Elizabeth’s England. Collins’s Shakespeare has no notion of his own genius. He keeps himself safe because he refuses to be bought; he chooses to stand on the margins of society, the watcher in the shadows, the outsider. He is also a humanist. He sees the worth of every man and does not dwell on the evil within. In this, he contrasts himself with his rival, Marlowe, whom he considers the greater artist but a man so drawn to darkness that his life inevitably ends nastily.

The Sonnets may be a slim novella but should be judged on its quality rather than its quantity. It demonstrates my as-yet-unpatented Tardis Theory: Good art has far more on the inside than the outside and the more it is explored, the more one finds. So, if you read The Sonnets quickly and without attention, it might appear thin. Savour it slowly and you will be rewarded. I do wish, however, that Collins hadn’t ‘invented’ a couple of sonnets because they suffer by comparison with the originals. And the little snatches and titles of Shakespeare’s plays that pop up from time to time, although amusing at first, soon grate. But these are minor quibbles. The Sonnets is a keeper and worth repeated reading.

My Wordle

2008-11-16T12:51:00.000-08:00

I have speedreader and her wonderful book blog to thank for this. You'll find all about Wordle by linking to it from her blog, My Favorite Author. As her name implies she is a fast reader. I am so-o-o jealous.

Fun, isn't it? (It would be even better if only I knew how to make it larger on here!)

How do other book-bloggers do it?

2008-11-13T04:14:00.000-08:00

Do what? Get through so many books and not only that, comment intelligently on them, even bringing in other books they've read to support their argument or theme? That's what.

I mean, I always thought I was a fast reader. I remember one English lesson towards the end of term. I was eleven. The teacher was marking exam papers and for two days running ordered us to bring books from home or the library to read in class (quietly). This being 1963, she went round the class checking up on what we'd chosen to make sure we were not reading anything unsuitable. By the end of the first class, I'd finished the book I was reading and so the following day I had begun another. On her round of inspection she stopped by my desk and frowned. she told me off in front of the whole class for 'chopping and changing,' and not taking the task seriously. (The fact I can still remember how unfair and wrong she was shows how much it hurt--and that I must have been a faster reader than the others. The only other person who caught the end of her sharp tongue was someone who'd chosen a Famous Five book--and probably put her off reading for life.)

So, if I am an avid and fast-ish reader, what does that make the others? And more importantly, could they tell me their secret? Please. To answer any questions they might put to me, I don't watch a lot of television or go out much (I know, I'm sad.) I do spent a lot of time online but very little of it is frivolous time-wasting. Well, maybe some of it is . . .

I have a pile of books waiting to be read, books I really want to read and am excited about but can't start until I've finished the one I'm currently reading. Having said that, I often have more than one book on the go, even three, but they have to be three different types of tomes. I can't have two novels on the go at once. (For instance, I'm currently half way through a historical novel and also snatching chunks from a book on short-story writing as well as genning up on deciduous trees.)

So where am I going wrong? And any ideas for speeding up without losing the plot?

Feeling let down by a trusted friend

2008-11-08T03:41:00.000-08:00

I first encountered Anita Shreve when I bought a magazine that happened to enclose a free copy of a novel by a hitherto unknown American novelist. The novel was Eden Close and from then on I was hooked. (A clever marketing ploy more publishers should try.) After that, I sought out all her novels and subsequently bought every new one as it appeared because I knew I'd be in safe hands. Safe doesn't mean that her novels are cosy and undemanding, nor does it suggest they're all the same and I love them all equally, rather that I can be sure of an intelligent, engrossing read.

Shreve's historical novels speak to me the most strongly. It also gives me a strong thrill of recognition when she uses the same house at different times in its history such as Fortune's Rock, Sea-Glass and The Pilot's Wife, without any sense of 'samey-ness'. I think this house is also the setting for Body Surfing and makes a brief, but important, appearance in A Wedding in December, but I may be wrong. It's the sort of house I have always dreamed of owning, slightly faded and ramshackle, right on the shoreline, full of light and the sound of crashing waves, facing the wide ocean on the Atlantic coast of New Hampshire, I think. Again, I'm not sure; my American geography is hazy.

But one house doesn't make a novel. It is the quality of Shreve's writing that draws me in; its quiet precision, its sharp understanding of the small things that resonate throughout one life and how easy it is for people to misunderstand each other. I also admire her sense of place and her vibrant weather-painting, no more so that when she's writing about snow.

There's a lot of snow in Testimony. Indeed, the whole tone and feel is icy and, like A Wedding in December, it centres on one dark event that happens at a school. Three teenager boys at an elite boarding school are caught on videotape, indulging in a drink-fuelled sex orgy on school premises with an under-age girl pupil. (I'm hazy about American education but I think they are seniors and she's a sophomore, I think .) The effect is as if a very large pebble has been dropped into a small pond. The ever widening and strengthening ripples destroy three marriages and causes the death of one of the participants.

The publisher's blurb describes the novel as a gripping emotional drama with the impact of a thriller. Sorry, but I don't think so. I had two problems with it which made me reluctant to pick it up once put down--and I never thought I'd say that about an Anita Shreve novel. These are, firstly, the structure and secondly, the tone. Shreve chooses to tell the story through several voices. We are to assume they are giving 'testimony' to an investigative journalist, but this didn't work at all for me. Chief amongst them is the school's headmaster and the over-sweet girlfriend of one of the boys. We hear from two mothers, one of the boys, briefly from the girl at the centre of the maelstrom and even more briefly the words of a local policeman and oddly one of the school's catering staff. The idea. I presume, is that each vignette adds another layer to the story and shows the far-reaching effects of the events. It's an ill wind and all that jazz. However, there's a lot of repetition and little is learned so that the whole thing seems to run out of steam and I found myself asking myself, 'so what?' Never mind making waves, it was more like a storm in a teacup.

If only Shreve had chosen to tell the story another way, perhaps with only one or two narrators or a disinterested observer. It is, frankly, a mess. Too many questions are left unanswered and others that seem to be important get forgotten. No doubt both author and publisher will say that that's the whole point, that no-one and everyone is to blame. Well, yes. but it's a brave try but a mess is still a mess. Another problem is that the novel has barely got underway than there is a graphic (well, graphic for Shreve) account of the 'rape'. I assume this is because Shreve wants to 'show' the shocking evidence before the readers get to know the people involved but it sets the tone for what follows and that tone is prurient and moralistic.

The novel seems to be saying that boys will be boys, especially in a hot-house atmosphere, and that woman are the main culprits. The silly little girl is over-sexed and shallow, the mother whose son dies is to blame because she is having an affair. Even the headmaster's wife is a harridan because she is disorganised and wants a baby having told him when they married that she didn't. In fact, it's the rancid whiff of misogyny that sticks in my craw and why I feel let down. If this isn't what Shreve intended, then something's gone wrong somewhere.

Then again, even the most sympathetic characters, male or female, fail to engage me. It's not good when you read of a young boy's anguish and want to shout at him to 'get over it' even as he is walking to his death. That, to me is a sure sign that a novelist has lost her way.

So, I really hope her next novel is a return to form, because, of course, I shall be reading it regardless. And finally, I can't think what her British publishers were thinking of with that cover. Not only is it that tired headless female but it bears no relation whatsoever to the contents at all. The original American cover is much more in keeping.

Discovery 1

2008-11-05T04:17:00.000-08:00

I'd noticed the shop before. The first time I wanted to go in it was closed. Sunday opening isn't a feature of the small town shopping experience. The second time I was in a rush and it was literally one foot in the door, saw it was empty and chickened out. So this time with over an hour to hand I decided it was time to do a a thorough recce of The Summit Bookshop in Kirkbymoorside.

I am a big fan of independent bookshops even though I buy a lot of my books online. Until Amazon and its ilk find out how to smell and feel like a bookshop and devise clever ways for customers to browse which involves actually involves picking a book up, sniffing it and feeling it (telling me that because I looked at a book on trees, I'd want to look at Jamie Oliver's latest caper isn't very helpful and slightly worrying), then bookshops of all persuasions will always attract me. But the best thing about independent shops is that not one is the same; not only do they look, feel and smell different, they are run by people of disparate character and the selection of books on display varies enormously so that books that somehow have passed you by in the usual places are there waiting for you to discover. Serendipity is the word when it comes to indies.

Anyway, I soon set to appraising, assessing, browsing, mooching, smelling the coffee (it has its own cafe, not a Starbucks or a Costa, that also serves home made cakes and buns but I shall save that for another day) and admiring the round pine tables. Maybe I could sit down and read or write? Not sure. They looked too pristine and eager. The shop is also a small gallery and several vibrant abstracts were on display as well as a selection of greeting cards by local artists that were out of the ordinary--and, of course, top price. Another time, maybe.

But what of the books, I hear you cry. Well, there didn't seem to be a big selection at first glance. In fact, my first thoughts were of the 'slim' and 'sparse' variety. However, further inspection revealed that there was actually a fair few paperback novels, all crammed, spine out, onto the shelves and had to be prised out. (My erstwhile bookshop managers would have gone ballistic. (Face out! Face Out! Snap to it and make sure they're the latest titles!) However, the standard was higher than that of the chains; mainly contemporary literary novels. Another word I jotted down mentally was 'quality'. The stock was neither old or dog-eared so the shop must have a reasonable turnover, either that or they hardly get any customers at all. Then again, perversely,I would have liked to see a few more popular novels somewhere; romances, maybe and thrillers. There were plenty of British crime novels of the Reginald and Susan Hill type but I didn't spot many American crime writers but I may be wrong here, so don't quote me. There was also a good selection of classics (more individual Shakespeare editions than I might have expected) and a spattering of local books. Some of these were the usual woeful slim pamphlets of self-published verses but I did come some interesting looking local history volumes I might have bought if I hadn't been feeling mean and conscious of all the books I have at home I haven't read.

Had the man behind the counters (both books and cafe) not pointed out that the non-fiction section could be found upstairs, I wouldn't have even known there were stairs (tucked between the cafe and the loos) let alone climbed them (no signage or none that I could see) and once on the first floor I almost missed it because it involved traversing another room containing 3 PCs which I took to be a private office but which I realised later must have been some sort of Internet cafe. It was empty but this wasn't surprising as I couldn't see any sign outside and how are people to know what's inside if you don't tell them? Having eventually found it, I wasn't over-impressed; the selection, whilst adequate wasn't particularly inspiring or exciting. And shoppers need a bit of oomph, however book-minded or literary they are. Well, I do anyway.

When I came down again my eyes lighted on a reasonable display of children';s books. Picture flats were displayed at the correct low level but I saw nowhere for children to sit down and feel comfortable. Again, it wasn't very exciting and the bibliophile and ex-bookshop employee in me wanted to install small chairs/low tables/posters/bean bags and colour to encourage the little ones to explore while their elders got their caffeine shots. And for good measure, I mentally re-arranged the main shop, placing inviting piles of books on the tables and generally 'mussing' the place about a bit. It was all a little too neat and tidy for me. By coincidence, last night I watched BBC 2's All Over the Shop in which a business guru told struggling small shop-owners where they were going wrong.

Don't get me wrong. I liked the place and would recommend it. I enjoyed browsing, although being the sole customer can be unnerving. And when I went to pay I had a pleasant chat with the man behind the counters who was quietly helpful without being pushy. And I bought a book which I never would have found online or in Waterstone's or Borders (and certainly not Smiths) because it was published several years ago, and not by a well-known author. (I'll write a separate post about it soon.)

So, in conclusion, I will visit as often as I can and see how things transpire although I suspect they make more money from selling coffee and buns than they do books, which is a shame, but 'twas ever thus.

The Distance Between

2008-10-28T11:38:00.001-07:00

As you might expect, I read a fair few novels. I enjoy most of them because I have got to an age where I know pretty much from looking at the cover whether one will appeal to me and if it doesn't I steer clear, whatever others say. And the more books I read, the harder it is for me to be impressed.

But...every so often a novel comes along that blows my socks off. It doesn't have to be exciting or fast-paced or even sensational. In fact, those are adjectives that usually turn me off. In my case, it's the quiet ones, the slow ones that slide under your skin and stay there. The Heretic's Daughter by Kathleen Kent is one of those, so much so that I have spent an afternoon when I should have been doing other things, reading to the end, with tears in my eyes. Lest that put the more cynical amongst you off, may I add that this novel is not sentimental, romantic tosh (although there's nothing wrong with that when the time is right) but a deeply-felt novel about the human condition. Like all the best fiction, its whole is far more than a sum of its parts and as I can only concentrate on few here, I know I'm in grave danger of selling it short.

We've all heard of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692 where mass hysteria caused many men, women and children to be accused of witchcraft and then imprisoned, tortured and hanged. Much has been written about this shameful episode in American history, the apotheosis perhaps being Arthur Miller's, play The Crucible, in which he used the historical event as a metaphor for McCarthyism which was raging at the time. (Human nature never really changes.) Many people have written about the causes behind this hysteria, as to whether it was caused by sexual repression, fundamental Puritan Christianity or even from eating ergot, a rye mould, the chemical components of which match those of LSD.

Kathleen Kent does not concern herself with all that. She confines her story to the small voice of one of its innocent victims. It is based on true events and the people at the heart of the novel are the author's ancestors. Sarah is the 10-year-old daughter of Martha Carrier. From the outset we see that Sarah's relationship with her mother is a difficult one. Both are strong-willed and stubborn and Sarah is certain that her mother feels no love for her and she desperately craves human affection. Then again, human affection is missing in the wider community. From the moment the Carriers move to Andover, they are viewed with deep suspicion. They are immediately brought before the village elders who reluctantly allow them to settle but watch them like avenging hawks, first because they bring smallpox with them to the community and secondly because they seem to thrive on the farm they inherit from Martha's mother (which causes a family rift and more suspicion.)

The harshness of the land, where Indian raids are frequent and savage, where starvation is only one ruined crop away, not to mention the harshness of the Puritan ethic, the dogmatic beliefs of the village elders who rule the community, all these coagulate into a powder keg of repressed emotions and fear. So when girls in the neighbouring village of Salem begin to suffer fits and hallucinations they claim is caused by witchcraft, it isn't long before it spreads and the Carriers begin to suffer. Everyone turns on them but strangely they leave Sarah's father alone, Sarah does not understand what is happening, especially when her father appears to do nothing to prevent his wife's fate. Tension mounts unbearably as everyone, including readers, wait and watch as, one by one, family members are arrested, questioned, imprisoned and in Martha's case, hanged. (this is not a plot-spoiler by the way. Not only is this a historic fact, it is foreshadowed right from the beginning.) It is here that Sarah has to make a monumentally difficult choice. Does she stand up for her mother's innocence, for despite the difficulties between them, Sarah knows her mother is no witch, or does she denounce her in order to save herself? Her choice, even though made with her brave mother's blessing, will continue to haunt her all her life. The section of the book describing life in a dark, filthy, dungeon is difficult to read, troubling and yet ultimately positive. Despite oppression, depression and cruelty, the human spirit fights on and goodness begins to trickle into the darkness. This is why I found myself in tears. And as time drags on in that living hell, Sarah comes closer to her mother than she ever has and realises how deeply she is loved.

If you're expecting high action about pioneer life, think again. This is a quiet, exquisitely written book, which you may even find slow at the beginning. But that slowness is deliberate. We are in the mind of a young child and we can all remember how time can drag at that age, even though Sarah has little leisure time, The descriptions of the New England landscape, the changing seasons, the weather, the cold, the heat and the farming year are wonderfully done. It is a novel that draws you in until you feel part of the Carrier family. Seen exclusively through the eyes of a young and bewildered child, we learn through her the true nature of her mother, the steely Martha. We also learn the history behind her father's seeming aloofness and inaction. Sarah is not a saint. She disobeys orders, she sneaks, she eavesdrops. She is impatient and unkind to her baby sister in the same way her mother is unkind to her and slowly we begin to understand why these people behave as they do and by the end we understand that what holds this family together is a deep and steadfast love and through them we learn that what causes the horror of the witch trials is not silly girls or gossipy vindictive neighbours but the deeply flawed Christianity of the community. It is a lesson to us all. I particularly admire the way the author avoids the trap many lesser historical novelists fall into of putting modern heads on seventeenth century shoulders. Not once does anyone's faith in God waver, despite all that happens to them. Not once do they think they are living in remarkable times. They merely live and cope with what is handed them the best they can.

I have called this review The Distance Between because this is what I think is its main theme. (The Distance are also the opening two words of Sarah's account.) The novel explores the distance between people, the distance between compassion and cruelty. love and hate, the true meaning of Christianity and people's interpretation of it. These distances seem so wide but yet they are all too close. The witch trials may be the subject but the novel is really about Sarah's journey from ignorance to understanding of the distance between mother and daughter which so far apart at the outset gradually narrows as she matures. 'I am not my mother!' Sarah shouts at one point to her tormentors. But she eventually realises that she is and that she loves her mother more than she loves herself. And it is brilliant how the author changes our perception of Martha through Sarah. I did not like Martha to begin with but came to admire and love her.

I know I have failed to cover the true wonder of this novel. It is remarkable. I haven't begun to talk about other characters, especially Sarah's three brothers who are all beautifully evoked; Richard who feels he can never live up to his father, poor Andrew whose brush with smallpox leaves him slow-witted and vulnerable and Tom, a frail asthmatic in days when the condition wasn't recognised and considers himself weak and useless. And the previous life of Sarah's father in England, although never explicit, is the most extraordinary strand of all and goes a long way to explain what marks the Carriers out as different. Then there's fey Margaret, her unfortunate parents and the tragic tale of Mercy who I came to feel deeply sorry for despite her unpleasantness.

All I can do is urge you, beg you, to read it for yourself. Unfortunately, it is not published in the UK until 2009. I was lucky enough to be sent a preview copy by NewBooks magazine.

Numb Bums and Soft Towels

2008-10-21T03:40:00.001-07:00

What is the difference between a travel diary and a travel book? I did a bit of Googling and found some wise words from uber-travel writer William Dalrymple on the sadly moribund BBC Get Writing pages.

At 73, with a history of heart problems behind him and not a little excess weight, leather-clad Santa Claus lookalike Simon Gandolfi set himself the challenge of riding from Mexico to Tierra del Fuego on a motorbike. Now I don't know one end of a motorbike from the other but even I can see that a 125cc Honda is not the best vehicle on which to undertake such a journey (no wonder a numb bum was a frequent occurrence) as its best use, as people kept reminding him, is delivering pizzas on city tarmac. Old Man on a Bike is his account of this epic journey (or Septuagenarian Odyssey as the strap-line has it.) His route takes him from the U.S-Mexican border through the umbilical cord of Central America via Guatemala, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Panama then on into South America and to its frozen tip via Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Argentina. He travels through deserts and mountains, suffers extreme heat and cold and numerous punctures, meeting kamikaze truck drivers almost head-on, eating in numerous cafes, restaurants and sampling a plethora of hotels from flea-pit to deluxe.

But is it merely a diary or a piece of classic travel writing? There were times when I wasn't sure. Travel writing needs a purpose. What was our determined Santa seeking? Eternal youth? Not quite although I detected a whiff of regret and not a little anger at a youth lost. This old man could be pretty grumpy at times. Another purpose was to discover what the South Americans made of the world order and particularly their opinions on their Big Northern Brother - or El Norte as everyone calls it. The first quest is the best part of the story. He falls off his bike, trips over, cracks his head, slashes his hand open, burns his knees, breaks his false teeth (twice), suffers mosquito bites and mountain sickness. He suffers all with understandable grumpiness of age but after initial annoyance, I soon warmed to his cussed determination to grit his teeth and get on with it. Unfortunately, I found his political insights somewhat shallow. Rich people are exploiters and poor people underpaid and oppressed. War is bad, especially the Iraq war. America rides roughshod over its poor neighbours. Well, yes, I can't argue with any of that but it was a shame he didn't dig a little deeper. I also grew a tad weary that every hotel room had to be defined by cost, whether the shower worked and how thick and fluffy the towels were. But then we oldies like our creature comforts.

Thank goodness there were many inspiring passages of writing to counteract the mundane. Gandolfi is at his best when he is in a cathedral, chatting to children or riding his valiant Honda over mountain passes. He is generous about the people he meets (speaking fluent Spanish helps) and he dispels many a myth. Colombia, that dangerous, crime-ridden narcotics haven was, on the contrary, home to the kindest, most helpful people on his whole journey--including the cops. In fact the policemen and women everywhere bent over backwards to ease his journey, escorting him through murderous city traffic, finding hotels, taking him to bike repair shops, paying for his meals. He remarks with ironic glee that the only place he was robbed was in a very European style Argentinian town.

Not that his journey wasn't without danger. Apparently, and this I didn't know, there is no road route between Panama to Colombia. You either fly or you take a boat. A lasting friendship was forged between Gandolfi and Ming, a Suzuki riding Buddhist of Chinese descent when they shared a crossing on a vile ship of smugglers. There's nothing like being dirty, hungry, sick and scared to know who your friends are. Here his writing took flight and once the ordeal was over and he was once more on his way, so was I and Santa Claus and I became travelling buddies.

In fact, I probably learned more about Simon Gandolfi than I did about the countries he passed through, although I came away with a great affection for places and people I knew very little about. There were hilarious moments (I particularly enjoyed his brief conversation with a Hereford calf) but he's no Bill Bryson nor is he a Colin Thubron or indeed a William Dalrymple. But the pages kept turning and I was never bored. I also liked the feel of this paperback. It was sturdy of spine with folded back and front covers which I've been reliably informed are called 'flaps.' I would have liked more detailed maps, though.

Old Man on a Bike is published by The Friday Project and I would like to thank Scott Pack hugely for sending me a copy.

The Bookcase and other books

2008-10-13T07:32:00.000-07:00

First of all, as promised, is my new bookcase. I am not a good photographer and therefore it's turned out a bit pale and wishy-washy. Out of focus, as well. Ash is a lighter wood than oak but not quite as anaemic as it looks here. It's not clear either that most shelves are double-banked. I'm an even worse at organising than I am handling a camera. (No Dewey Decimal System here) but I think if you were to ask I would be able to lay my hands on a particular book in minutes--as long as I had a ladder.)

In the three cupboards at the bottom sits the best Royal Doulton dinner service although I can't remember the last time it had an airing or when I'll ever use again. I say dinner service, but in fact that's a decoy tactic. Hidden behind the soup bowls and plates are more books. (Shhh. Don't tell.)

Here, too, are the books I bought in Oxfam in Whitby. I had, of course, intended only to browse, you understand, so goodness only knows how I came out after a mere half an hour--car park ticket about to expire--clutching them in my hand.

I know I've read Julian Barnes's excellent first novel Metroland and I could have sworn I owned a copy but as it didn't appear when unpacking the famous fifty boxes, I can only assume I don't. I'm not sure whether I've ever read Circles of Deceit by Nina Bawden but as I have never been disappointed with anything of hers I snapped it up like a shot and even if I have read it before, a re-read won't hurt. I don't think she has written any new fiction since she was seriously injured in the Potter's Bar rail crash (which killed her husband.) So appalling.

Big Day by Barry Unsworth is a new one on me. (This edition is from 2004 although the novel was first published in 1976.) I am not overly acquainted with his novels but those I have read I have enjoyed. This one, for some strange reason, is an American edition and looks brand-new. I wonder what story lies behind how it ended up in Whitby.

Anya by Susan Fromberg Schaeffer which a quick visit to Amazon UK shows to be out of print in here but not in the US. She is an American. This is the Penguin 1994 edition even though the book was first published in 1974. It tells the story of the daughter of a middle-class family of Polish Jews whose life is ripped apart by the Holocaust (although what little I've read about it suggests that the war years are only a part of Anya's story.) The author's website looks like it's not been updated for some time but I'm nevertheless looking forward to taking a closer look. and reading what looks like a very rewarding novel. And if I enjoy it I have more to look out for. How I enjoy discovering 'new' authors, especially those with a long back-list.

And finally, A Botanist's Garden by John Raven. There seem to have been many editions of this over the years but it seems to be currently out of print but I'm pleased to add it to my growing collection of gardening 'reads'. I don't know whether it's because of my increasing years or the fact that our new garden is almost a blank canvas but I'm rapidly trying to fill the huge gaps in my horticultural knowledge, despite being head gardener in our old house. I am quite good at identifying most garden plants and as a child I was dead keen on wild flowers which I pressed and put in a book with description. Why an how did I part company with it? It must have been over 30 years ago and was probably when I felt I was too grown up to keep childish things. I seem to recall there were hundreds of flowers growing in fields and hedgerows. Even though I am now surrounded by both, flowers seem very scarce. Or am I looking back with that 'things ain't what they used to be' eyes?

Incidentally these five newcomers have yet to find a place in any of my bookshelves, hidden or otherwise. And I've just remembered I ordered two books online yesterday. It's so easy, it takes less time and effort than making a cup of tea and I can remain seated--always a bonus. I wonder what I'll come back home with next week. Again, promise me you won't tell anyone.

And My Bird Can Sing

2008-10-10T08:36:00.000-07:00

LITTLE BIRD by Camilla Way published by HarperCollins.

This is an ‘extended’ and amended version of the review I wrote for the Amazon Vine thingummy. I don’t know why I am one of the anointed ones as I reviewed books very rarely on Amazon before being chosen. Anyway, I was sent the novel for free and very grateful I am, too, Mr Amazon.

The story of Elodie Brun, (is it intentional that her name rhymes with Melody, I wonder) is compelling. Kidnapped by a strange mute man as a baby and living for her first vital twelve years from human society in a Normandy Forest, she never learns to speak and is nicknamed ‘little bird’ by the media when she is discovered because the only sound she makes is that of the birdsong she is familiar with. She is unaware at the time of how famous she has become; her ‘rescue’ is an international cause celebre. She is ‘adopted’ by Ingrid, a renowned psychologist who takes her from France to New York and puts her under an intensive programme to teach her to speak. But Elodie eventually becomes restless of what is another form of captivity. A family argument becomes a tragedy which causes Elodie to flee, first to a seedy apartment in Brooklyn and then to London where her road to self-discovery really begins.

As I said, a compelling account of what it is to be human and what impact a fractured childhood, the lack of language and love has on the adult and how we adapt to the circumstances we find ourselves in. To me, Camilla Way writes best when she is describes places, wherever they are; a forest at dawn, a street in Brooklyn or a pub in South London. She can catch the essence in a few words that immediately nail you to that particular location, all senses alert. London streets are sallow whereas in the streets of Brooklyn, above her, reams of cables cross each other, holding the sky in a net. She is also brilliant at getting under Elodie’s skin to show from within her development from the eponymous little bird to the sensitive, intuitive woman.

It’s such a pity that the plot is so contrived. This kind of novel doesn't need it. To suffer the trauma of being kidnapped and deprived of human company for her whole childhood, Elodie ends up in the grip of a massively dysfunctional rich American family and then having escaped, believing that she has murdered the very woman who rehabilitated her, she finds herself living with another family, this time a group of pimps and prostitutes. A flight to London as a drugs courier conveniently equips her with a new identity and money. Eventually, she finds her feet and meets Frank.

Ah, yes. Frank. I haven't yet mentioned Frank and his two best buddies, Jimmy and Eugene, who form the other main plot strand that alternates with Elodie's story until they finally enmesh. It is here I feel the novel is at its weakest. Eugene's story has been told a hundred times before and Jimmy has no other purpose that I can see other than as a foil for Frank. I can partly understand why Camilla Way created Frank as a soul-mate for Elodie. He is kind, sober and steady and is not a controlling figure. He is a man of few words and I can see how this would appeal to Elodie. However, good people are difficult to write about without boring the reader with the result that it's hard to understand the deep love that grows between them.

Nor do I think the revenge/stalking strand is necessary. The coincidence of this person (a minor player until now and still a cipher more than a fully-fleshed person) finding Elodie again is rather contrived and the whole drama lacks tension because the climax takes so long in coming. The ending of the novel, too is a little weak and neat. (That Frank just so happens to speak fluent French is only one of those clunky conveniences.)

Then again, Camilla Way writes so beautifully and explores the enigma of who we are and how much of us is due to nature and how much nurture, that I forgive her totally. More, please.

Never enough shelves

2008-10-07T02:07:00.000-07:00

'Fifty boxes of books.' The removal man said, lips curled as he took a drag from yet another cigarette and tossed the butt into the gutter beside his van and this is a man who collects old vinyl records and had just handed over £200 for my Beatles' collection. Most of my time after he and his pals drove off into the sunset was spent ripping open said 50 boxes (sometimes my fingers too) and climbing up and down ladders sorting out the contents, rediscovering old friends and finding new homes for them all. It was both invigorating and depressing.

There would have been more than 50 boxes, maybe nearer 60, had I not, with leaden heart, had a major cull before we moved. I had to be ruthless. But how to choose which books had to go? Was it books I'd read once and were never likely to read again? Hardly otherwise I would have immediately ditched all my Anglo-Saxon text books and primers. I flick through my Beowulf and marvel at the neat notes my youthful hand made in the margin. No. They're part of me, of my life, my history. What about my tattered editions of Little Women and the three sequels? My Puffin editions of The Secret Garden and Noel Streatfield's The Painted Garden (which in my opinion is a far better book than Ballet Shoes and sadly neglected), not to mention the Narnia books. I can still remember how my childish mind interpreted them even now when overlaid with my adult perceptions. They're my childhood. Which makes me wonder what ever happened to all my Lorna Wells ballet books? It was probably another cull year ago. I hate letting go of books. I wish I didn't have to. Ever. It's like a mother abandoning her children.

So what must I keep? My collections of novels, essays and short stories by my favourite contemporary authors, whose books I buy in hardback on publication regardless of unfavourable reviews or the state of my bank-balance; Helen Dunmore, Margaret Atwood, Jenny Diski, Kate Atkinson, Julie Myerson and forgive me if I've left anyone out. And books written by people I know, people I've queued to meet and sign my copy of their latest book and writers from the past who are published in the original green Virago editions and now Persephone's delicious silver covers. many of my favourite books were given to me by friends and family, many no longer alive. 'From Uncle Alfred, Christmas 1958, or 'from Ninin on your 10th birthday'. The latter's delicate handwriting is achingly familiar and loved. When she sadly died a few years ago, I inherited her copy of Edward Lear's nonsense poems, the one in which I first encountered, among others, The Pobble Who had No Toes which I recited in front of Mrs Pickering's class and won a Gold Star. I also have her edition of Lewis Carroll's poems including Phantasmagoria with its delicious illustrations of rookie ghosts and full instructions of how to terrify humans. They will remain with me for as long as I last.

My collection is by no means all fiction. I have a whole collection of books about Victorian life, about railways, British and French history, medieval women and abbeys, women travellers and pioneers. Some I have read over and over again. Others are there just in case I need them. I have school prizes, worthy and dull but never to be thrown out. I have the usual Bible, Shakespeare, dictionaries, books of quotations, guides to saints, popes, flags, grasses, wild flowers, birds, Thesauruses and the delicious Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. Jon and I share books about mountains and mountaineering. I wonder what happened to that book of Scottish tartans I pinched from my grandmother's book case that stood in her parlour to where I disappeared after tea of potted meat sandwiches, tinned pears and evaporated milk when the conversation about people I didn't know grew repetitive. She never noticed. She wasn't a book person is the kindest way of putting it. Her eclectic collection that bore no relation to her personality, which, were she still alive and I am being kind here, have been fed by Hello magazine (pictures only). It comprised of American editions abandoned by an American lodger who had embarked and then abandoned a correspondence course in literature who used to be married to my dad's cousin and she only kept because someone told her that owning books was a sign of a cultured mind. I also nicked Virginia Woolf's Death of A Moth and Other Essays and Richardson's Pamela which I tried to read when I was far too young and failed, but nevertheless impressed the professor who interviewed me for a place on the Eng Lit course. I apologise for the rambling sentence but that's the point of books. They come trailing clouds of , if not glory, an trailing caravan of history and memories.

Some of my books are pristine and new, hardly touched by reading. Others are musty volumes picked up in charity and second hand shops. My, mainly Penguin, collection of classic fiction, Austen, Brontes, George Eliot, Lawrence, Hardy and Dickens, are looking pretty foxed now but I have no intention of replacing them even though many are shedding pages from the spine.

Now. If you're a book person you'll find this all pretty familiar, if not to say dull and routine. If you're not you'll say that the Internet has all the information I'll ever need and that once e-books are affordable, I can keep all my favourite authors in my handbag. Without the dust and deterioration. All Very True. And I probably will but that doesn't explain what owning books, having books around me, means to me. Books are friends. They have a personal history, even if that history relates to last month, like the paperbacks I found in a second-hand bookshop in Sheffield to where I'd been taken by good friend in which we giggled like a pair of silly schoolgirls, Something to do with the ubiquitous bearded bespectacled man who sits behind the counter in such places, either with a tinny radio tuned to the cricket or talking to an asthmatic dog, or both. And it's not only the words on the page. It's that stain on page 3 where Andrew spilt Ribena when he was six, bless him; the dent on the corner which probably happened when moving from the student house in Palmer's Green to first married home in Woodford and that etching of a boat on page 49 that looks like an evil goblin in certain lights and another photograph I've never seen in any other book or on the Internet however hard I try. Such tangible evidence cannot be downloaded, nor can Kindle, Sony or whatever create that familiarity and warmth of books collected over the years that greet you like old and trusted friends when returning home.

Which brings me back to the problems of finding room for them all in my new home. I had though that the purpose built and beautiful ash floor-to-ceiling bookcase (picture later when I've fathomed how to download from a new camera) would house most of them. We also have the bookcase that used to stand in Jon's father's judges' chambers and the Edwardian glass-fronted bookcase we bought cheaply in an auction that houses what I call my 'posh books' mainly hardbacks and Folio Society editions. (A quick word about the FS. I know people are sniffy about the FS and that they do not keep their value, hence the ready trade on eBay and that you can buy most of their books in paperback editions for a fraction of the price and that they are probably naff. I am aware of all that but I like the feel of them in my hand, the illustrations and the way they paper doesn't deteriorate. I don't buy any now because I haven't the room, although I did buy a set of Dorothy L Sayers' Lord Peter Wimsey novels on eBay because the paperback editions are horrid.)

Anyway, the point of all this is to report that I still haven't got enough room for all my books and that I have had to stuff the overflow into various places like bedside tables and wardrobes (who needs clothes?) and that's without having bought a book in over three weeks. Not to mention the promise not to buy books frivolously, recklessly or needlessly (who am I trying to kid?) to my husband who, although grown over the years reasonably tolerant of my foibles for a non-book person, can't see why I might just need another bookcase. Or two or five. It's not because there isn't the room. I have already pinpointed possible places. It's just that he doesn't get it. The need to own books and the passion thereof.

Poor soul.

French Cricket

2008-09-30T12:12:00.000-07:00

The Elegance of the Hedgehog: Muriel Barbery, translated from the French by Alison Anderson

This is an extended version of the review I wrote as part of the Amazon Vine system.

I'd read a fair bit about this book on other blogs well before I got hold of my copy so I began reading with a great deal of curiosity and an open mind. It’s narrated alternately by two residents of a large block of luxury flats somewhere in central Paris. Renee is the concierge and to all intents and purposes is the stereotypical Paris concierge. A gruff widow, shabby and unkempt, unhelpful to the point of bloody-mindedness with the television permanently switched on in her cubby-hole quarters. Paloma is the 13 year old younger daughter of a family of well-heeled left-wing intellectuals. She is a very bright child who feels superior to all those around her which, although neither know it at first, puts her on a par with Renee who hides her similarly penetrative intellect under her concierge's apron. (Unfortunately, I found it difficult to tell their peevish voices apart and would have struggled had the publisher not used a different type-face for each.) Renee plods on unhappily, apart from tea, delectable patisserie and gossip provided by Manuela, the Portuguese cleaner but Paloma has decided she is shortly going to commit suicide after having set fire to the building as life is pointless.

Then an elderly resident dies and his flat is bought by Monsieur Ozu and the world turns. Both Paloma and Renee begin to learn that hedgehogs are elegant because appearances are deceptive, everybody has their good points and life is worth living.

This is a very pared-down account but that essentially is it. It is basically a fairy-tale of redemption wrapped in pseudo-philosophy and some glaring stereotypes. AS such, it's just not powerful enough to fill a whole novel which ended up as padded as a winter-weight duvet. It takes far too long to crank up and get moving and then ends far too suddenly and shockingly as if the author had to take drastic measures to put an end to what could have droned on forever. This is a common fault in new writers and an editor really should have stepped in to sort out the imbalance.

Much has been made of the philosophy. Both narrators begin by sharing a naive view of the world. That the rich are shallow and the poor suffer and never the twain shall meet. Both end up understanding that class barriers can be crossed and that there's a reason for everyone's behaviour, however reprehensible. I may be wrong but I think most intelligent people have come to the same conclusion by the time they've reached 40, if not before.

Was there anything I did like? Of course. Plenty The humorous touches made me smile, if not laugh. Some of the residents were funny in a 'Desperate Housewives' sort of manner. I was amused by the 'Mozartian flush' although it did seem somewhat OTT for the refined tastes of Mr Ozu.

But I have to say I was confused about the tone. I get the impression that it’s meant to be a light and frothy account of the silliness of human nature, a sort of Clochemerle for the Capital. However, the tone of the translation and the cover gave it a pseudo-gravitas I don’t think does it any favours. I may be wrong about this but again I think it’s a translation problem. I am not criticizing the translator. I can imagine it wasn’t an easy job as many of the jokes rely on language. I just wonder, as always, whether French humour translates well into English without something being lost in the process. Who knows?

My conclusion? A curious novel that I neither loved nor hated but which may be just that little bit too Gallic to work for the English reader. I wish I were able to appreciate it in its original language. Some things are untranslatable. Like cricket.

Displaced Person and Misplaced Books

2008-09-15T12:12:00.000-07:00

You may or may not be aware that I am book bereft, the reason being that I have had to get rid of several bookcases because of my looming house move (see my chapel blog). I have a deliciously huge and empty fitted bookcase waiting for me but at present most of my books are stacked on the floor in what was my study which is now, well, a room with books piled precariously on the floor. Unlike many anally retentive people, I never had a system for shelving my books, and certainly, God forbid, no catalogue or computer database, although I did try to keep authors and topics vaguely together. Even so, I knew where every books was and was able to place my hand on the one I wanted to open at any given time, day or night And now I can't. I could scream and indeed, have.

As for books 'on the go' I have two: Divisadero--mentioned below and The Elegance of the Hedgehog, both of which I intend to opine fulsomely upon when I've finished reading them. (I am usually a fast reader but there's nothing like packing up and moving on when you've not done it for twenty five years for slowing the brain.) Yesterday I bought the Booker-shortlisted, The Clothes on Their Backs and also a non-fiction title a very dear friend of mine suggested was right up my street, A Time to Dance A Time to Die by John Waller. And she is, as always, right. But I haven't started either.

In the meantime, I thought I'd post something about one of my favourite novelists. In order to do so, I went up to old study to retrieve all said author's paperbacks I own (all but one which I can't source anywhere in the world) to allow me to quote from and appear bookish and intelligent. But could I bloody well find one? Could I hell? I dutifully examined countless heaps and found all sorts of treasures I wanted to dip into there and then but not the ones I wanted. Unless you have always been able, like me, to lay your hands on a particular book or series of books with your eyes closed you cannot begin to understand the state I was in when I retreated defeated by the enormity of the task.

This wouldn't be so bad if I weren't about to lose my internet connection. (Again see my chapel blog) and I knew I could resume my book-related blethering shortly. But the sands of time are ticking. Hang on. Something wrong with the metaphor there but you know what I mean. Take it from me. My time is short.

So I shall end with this order. Read Barbara Comyns. Now. You won't regret it. She's fab. And if you thought magic realism began twenty years or so ago with the Isabelle Allende and her South American ilk, think again. I would, at this juncture, have quoted the opening paragraph of Who was Saved and Who Was Dead to whet your appetite but I couldn't find the ruddy book, could I? So I can't. Virago used to publish most of her novels, most of which have lapsed out of print. And the two they do still publish have the most vile of covers in the whole wide world in contrast to the delightfully surreal Stanley Spencer paintings they once used and that matched her work so perfectly.

If I have time in the next week before I lose internet connection, I'll write about Barbara Comyn's life--what little I know of it. I would love to research and write her biography, as I don't believe there is one currently in print--if ever. Is anyone out there prepared to give me the go-ahead? Does anyone read this blog?

Currently reading

2008-09-07T04:40:00.001-07:00

According to many articles I've read, Michael Ondaatje seems to be regarded as a 'difficult' writer or rather, a writer whose fiction is difficult. But, of course, it all depends on the meaning of the word difficult. The longer novels of Henry James are a problem for me because of his long, convoluted sentences. (I greatly like his shorter works such as Daisy Miller, What Maisie Knew and of course, The Turn of the Screw is a short masterpiece. But his doorstops always defeat me and this bothers me. By the time I get to the end I find I've forgotten the beginning. I find myself starting again only to find that I lose the sense at about the same point and go back again and again, until the book once again goes back on the shelf to reproach me. Then there's the difficulty created by a writer who insists on using words I've never heard of or dropping into another language. I'm all right with French but it wasn't my fault my school didn't study German or Greek. Then there's the difficulty perversely caused by someone who can't write very well so that the meaning is like a water-hole after a visit by a herd of buffalo.

Ondaatje's difficulty lies in his refusal to create a connected integrated story. The way all novels are supposed to work. As Wikipedia says, his style of fiction is non-linear. He creates a narrative by exploring many interconnected snapshots in minute detail. All writers expect their readers to do some work. Indeed, a writer who spells everything out in laborious detail just in case you miss the point is not a good writer. Ondaatje doesn't try to get us to see the point, the purpose; he sets up a challenge and the reader is left alone to make his or her own connections. This is the point of his fiction. Or maybe there isn't one. That's the point. Life is not a novel.

I tend to do most of my novel-reading in bed in that half hour, hour or even two hours, depending on the page-turnability of the book in question, just before I turn out the light. On reflection, Ondaatje was perhaps not the best choice for this kind of reading, especially as my life has been just that bit busy lately, but a childhood of conditioning has rendered me mentally incapable of reading a book during the day unless it is for study or I'm travelling or in a doctor's waiting-room. One doesn't sit down and read for pleasure when there's work to be done. Such education is not easy to fight.

So bed-time, it is. Therefore conditions were already stacked against me when, having started Divisadero with gusto, I found myself, several days or rather, nights, later, grinding to a halt. The first section during which I'd got to know the main characters had ended abruptly; then a long gap in time and space and we were following one of the first characters as he learned to be a card-sharp and engage in a tense game of poker; then we changed characters and continents and I found myself in a totally different kind of story. This is a very big gamble for an author because I don't think I am the only one to choose that moment to put it down. It lay on my bedside table, bookmark positioned only about a tenth of the way in, glaring at me as I leafed through a series of magazines for the next two weeks.

I know there's no law that says one has to finish a novel once started and in fact there have been plenty that I've abandoned with relief. But they are usually because they are bad. I know I'm not stupid. I enjoyed The English Patient (preferring it to the film which managed to turn it into a slushy unoriginal 'adulterous passion in war' movie.) And then there's my stubborn streak. I bought this novel. I chose it, nobody made me do it and I was damned if I was going to give up on it. But every time I picked it up I put it down again.

I gave myself a good talking to and sat down to find a way out of this impasse. Would it be the charity shop for it or could I find a friend with a longer attention span? Then it came to me. I was approaching it the wrong way. I should not try and read it like a story but slow down and savour the words, the sights and the sounds the author presents. And that is what I am doing now and am being hugely rewarded. I am not trying to work out 'what the story is.' Only connect Forster famously said and I fear I was trying to make connections. Ondaatje's writing tells us there are no connections and life is random and arbitrary. And yet a wholeness is beginning to emerge; something to do with being divided and parted and things breaking into fragments, the opposite of Forster's command. Or is it? I'll report back when I've got to the end. Which I will.

Victorian Crime - Fact and Fiction

2008-08-29T04:06:00.000-07:00

Impulse buying can be a huge mistake. Impulse buying when you're frantically searching for that third book to take advantage of a 3 for 2 deal and not miss your train is invariably a disaster. But not this one. I bought it without even opening it. It was the cover. (Never underestimate the selling power of that front cover.) It immediately appealed to me on many levels - not least the facsimile Victorian cover that told me everything I needed to know, in particular that it would be a hugely satisfying read and that once I began it I wouldn't stop and would be bereft when I'd finished it.

Even so, the first thing I did when I got it home was to check reviews on Amazon. I don't know why I do this - justification for my actions, I suppose - because too many low scoring reviews can easily make me slip a book to the bottom of the pile and never pick it up again. And guess what? I've never seen so many dismissive reviews. Messy. Unfocused. Padded out. Who wants to read yet another book about such an infamous murder? Everyone knows who did it. Who cares?

Well, stupid me. I'd never heard of the murder so it was all new to me, although a quick glance at the lengthy bibliography, and a brief flirtation with Google confirmed I my minority status. But if you, like me, are similarly afflicted, the bare facts are these: on the morning of Friday 29th June 1860, the Kent family and their servants at Road Hill House, Wiltshire, woke up to discover that Francis Saville Kent, a child of three, was missing from his cot where he slept alongside his nursemaid, Elizabeth Gough. A search discovers his body in the servant's outdoor privy. His throat has been cut. Evidence points to the murderer being one of the household. Who could have done such a wicked thing? And why?

The ensuing police investigation became a national talking point. Everyone had a theory, including Dickens. Most people thought he had been murdered by Elizabeth Gough and the master of the house because they'd been discovered by the child together in her bed. Popular opinion was suspicious of servants and found it difficult to countenance that any member of a respectable middle-class family could possibly be guilty (although that didn't stop them involving the master of the house.) Another theory was that it was a servant with a grudge or grievance - and there were always plenty of those. The local police were baffled, not to mention inept. The enquiry stalled. The family remained tight-lipped in deep mourning; the servants subdued.

Meanwhile, the Metropolitan Police had recently set up a detective department and Detective Inspector Jonathan Whicher was sent to Wiltshire to re-examine the evidence. He pretty soon discovered the identity of the murderer - Constance Kent, fifteen years old and the victim's step-sister, but her pre-trial hearing collapsed; he was not believed and was vilified for years after, ruining his reputation effectively destroying his career. A young innocent girl murder a brother she was known to love? It was a damnable insult, a slur on the reputation of an innocent young girl and her family. Hadn't they suffered enough?

It was only several years later, when Constance confessed and was sentenced to death (later commuted to life imprisonment) that he was vindicated. But mud has a habit of sticking and it was too late for this very able detective, who like the best fictional detective was a master of observation and evidence. However, the reputation of the professional police detective (as opposed to the gentleman amateur) took years to be rehabilitated.

This is a book of immense scholarship and historical detail that wears both lightly - not an easy feat. Summerscale unearths an enormous amount of facts about the future lives of everyone involved without repetition, deviation or hesitation (although others disagree - vide the Amazon reviews. I happen to think they're wrong.) It is well-structured, readable and compulsive. One strand, for example, follows Constance following her release from prison. She disappeared from public view so that the later generation of the Kent family had no idea that she ended up in Australia, tended the sick and lived to be a hundred. That's a whole story in itself. Not only does author, Kate Summerscale, shed light on the workings of police, coroner, courts and prisons in the mid-nineteenth century, she also explores the social strata of city, village and county and the rise of the middle classes. Samuel Kent was one of the new middle class. He was not a landowner, lawyer, doctor or in ecclesiastical employ. He was a factory inspector, employed to make sure that the laws relating to child labour and other welfare matters were adhered to. His work took him all over the country. He was popular with neither the bosses nor the workers. His family kept itself to itself but the enquiry revealed all was not well in this isolated world. His first wife, now dead, was reputed to be insane. His second wife had been the children's governess (and most likely his mistress before his first wife died) and when they married went on to have more children whom they appeared to dote on at the expense of the motherless, older ones.

At the time, Sigmund Freud had not yet propounded his theories into how childhood experiences moulded the adult but Constance's confession reveals just how deeply the circumstances of the family had affected her. Summerscale has a theory of her own as to whether any other member of the family was involved and whether the first Mrs Kent was mad or not, and if so what had caused it. I'm not sure about this but it's plausible. She also moves from social historian to literary sleuth by shedding light on the development of detective fiction in Victorian times and how the Road House case impinged on later novels, including The Moonstone and Lady Audley's Secret. She also traces the usage of such common-place crime-related words and phrases such as red herring, clue and sleuth.

All in all, a hugely satisfying book. My only slight criticism is the title, which only tells a small part of what this book is about. I thought at first it was one of those pastiche Victorian crime novels which I suppose was the idea, which irritated me for some reason I can't fathom. But what I loved most about it was the way it stimulated me into thinking up my own theories as to the Constance's inner life and why shedunnit.

As Chance Would Have It

2008-08-18T03:44:00.001-07:00

"A coincidence is just an explanation waiting to happen."

So says Jackson Brodie towards the end of When Will There be Good News.

Coincidences do happen in real life but are frowned upon when used in fiction. How far can coincidence be used in a novel before readers feel cheated? And then again, is there really such a thing as coincidence? Surely life is a series of random events, some of which seem to make sense and others don't? Is coincidence a contrivance of the human mind to make sense of the crazy unfair world we find ourselves born into? We've also all heard of the theory called Six Degrees of Separation. This novel explores how far you can tangle up characters and incidents both past and present without it seeming contrived.

In her latest novel, Kate Atkinson takes these theories and stretches them farther than you could think possible. I'm not sure how she gets away with it but it must have something to do with her being a supremely clever and assured writer but more importantly because chance and coincidence are not used merely to provide a neat ending and.or make life easier for the writer as is often, alas, the case, but are its raisons d'etre. The whole purpose of this novel - apart from to entertain which it does magnificently.

Those who have read other Atkinson novels will have already met Jackson Brodie, ex-soldier, ex-policeman, ex-private-eye, shambolic and hopeless human being. He first appeared in Case Histories and we followed him into One Good Turn. You could describe him as an accident waiting to happen or perhaps a human train-wreck. Which is why it's not surprising to find him close to death after a train-crash just after discovering that he's travelling in the wrong direction.

However, the main focus of this complex tragi-comedy is Reggie. She is a brilliant creation. Sixteen, going on fifty, but looking like a child, irritating and engaging in one breath, she is alone in the world. She sees herself as a disaster magnet. Her mother (whose life Reggie defines as when she lived with Gary or the Man-Who-Came Before Gary) has died tragically, her brother is a nasty piece of low-life and the only person she might call family is Ms Macdonald who once taught her Latin before she was forced to give up school. She is now dying of a brain tumour and has found religion and cooks Reggie the most disgusting meals. Reggie is happiest, though, when she is at the house of Dr Joanna (call me Jo) Hunter looking after her baby. Dr Hunter is everything Reggie admires. She is organised, efficient, clever, funny and in control. Only the readers know the truth and it is Jo's past that forms the basis of the tragedy. When Dr Hunter and the baby suddenly go missing, Reggie is convinced she's been kidnapped. But nobody will believe her. Through a series of accidents and disasters, both internal and external, Reggie stumbles upon Jackson Brodie whom she railroads into investigating the crime that no-one believes has happened.

Meanwhile DCI Louise Monroe is beginning to regret becoming the second wife to super-supportive surgeon husband. She is also involved in the search for a man who may or may not be out to get his wife and children. When he turns up in hospital as a victim of a train crash, she is surprised to find the patient is not the killer but Jackson Brodie, whom she finds herself falling in love with once again, against her better judgement but Jackson is again married to a wife he knows very little about....

Events hurtle towards their chaotic conclusion like a French farce directed by Quentin Tarantino. More and more connections are discovered, some comedic, some tragic, mostly both, between the various players, some mysteries are solved and others discovered. (There are other lesser plot threads, one of which involves hidden drugs.) The novel ends with Jackson losing all the money he inherited in Case Histories and the most poignant link of all is revealed.

Atkinson leaves the ending open enough to allow for Jackson to return. (Please, please!) I hope, too that Reggie will also re-appear. She is a great character who I suspect is Kate's alter ego in view of her dark wit and her knowledge and use of the English language. I imagine the author shares her sense of comic anxiety. This is a novel that can be read very quickly but is even more rewarding when re-read. It will make you laugh but leave you gasping at the ingenious and intricate plotting which, although purposely contrived, never fails to impress. Kate Atkinson writes what I call 'Tardis' novels ie simple on the outside but immensely huge and complex within. It is very easy to read but reveals complex ideas about fiction and even life itself.

(I bought When Will There Be Good News because I love everything Kate Atkinson has ever written. I wasn't disappointed.)

The perils of straight-talking

2008-08-06T00:29:00.000-07:00

"Dear Sally,
Thank you for your email. Frankly I think your comments are ignorant and in complete contradiction to every other comment and feedback that I have received so far. I have had glowing compliments on the standard of the writing and also the appearance of the book. In fact I find your comments rather sad and insulting. There may still be a few copy errors in the book you received as it was a pre- publication copy."

I was sent this email by a disgruntled gentleman yesterday less than five minutes after I'd emailed him to let him know I was unable to review his historical novel and gave him brief reasons. Then today he forwarded me an email from someone he claims is not a friend who says nice things about it just to show how wrong I am.

The funny thing is that I said very little about his talent as a writer, only that I didn't think he was a 'natural fiction writer'. No, most of my criticisms were confined to the 'product' itself. For, of course, this was a self-published venture. And by the way, there is no indication on the book itself or in his previous emails to me that he was sending me a 'pre-publication copy.' Nor were there a few copy errors. The pages were littered with incorrect and meaningless punctuation. He didn't respond to my comments on the narrow margins, the blocked paragraphs, the non-standard size and feel and the rather amateurish design of the cover design and artwork. I didn't go into detail about a 520 page long novel that needed a through prune because it was tedious, repetitive and slow. In fact, I let him off quite lightly.

I want to make it clear I have nothing against self-publishing. I believe that if someone has a book they consider has a market, then they should go for it - but only if they understand something of the book business and the huge difference between marketing non-fiction and fiction. Local history/topography is a case in point. These books may not be a viable proposition to a big publisher but sell remarkably well in the area of interest and can earn the writer a tidy sum over many years. In fact, I buy such books regularly when out and about.

What really concerns me is people who write novels without understanding the basic principles of writing and publishing and then insult those who do. Despite all this unfortunate man's bluster, he hasn't a clue, poor soul. And that saddens me. The excellent blog: How Publishing Really Works was set up by a friend and fellow writer who, like me, is dismayed at the number of people who are either so naive about the book world that they fall prey to scammers and crooks (thus losing a great deal of money they can't spare) or so arrogant that they believe they know more than all the 'proper' publishers out there and that the publishing world is a closed shop that exists to keep out the 'little man'.

The unpalatable truth is that the reason why most fiction manuscripts are rejected by publishers and agents is because they are poorly written. Yes, I do know that a handful of brilliant manuscripts are missed or misjudged - nobody's perfect and this is only reported in the media because it is so rare - but said agents and editors do know the difference between crud and talent. Then again, many manuscripts are not utter rubbish and easy to dismiss, but so-so and average and would need lots of work to turn them into marketable books. That's the writers' job not the agent or publisher. And there's no point being precious about commerce. Why on earth should a publisher take on a book they know won't sell and only make them a loss? Would you?

Very few people know how bad some writing submitted for publication can be. Some is so bad it's funny but the majority is merely tedious, unoriginal, dull tosh.

You can always tell the difference between those writers who will make it eventually and those who never will by their reactions to rejection. Immediate anger and dejection is the rightful and natural reaction of everyone. However, the wise will learn from rejection, keep trying and improving. The idiots rant and rail against the 'snooty, closed shop' of the publishing world, deaf to the advice they may have been given. And some of these will turn to anyone who praise their writing to the skies and take on their manuscript and turn it into an unsellable, shoddy, POD job that no-one wants to read let alone spend their hard-earned cash on.

Which brings me back to my less-than-gruntled author. I have no idea whether he's actually tried and failed to pitch his manuscript to agents and publishers so decided he'd prove them wrong or whether he plunged headlong into publishing his novel without knowing what he was doing. Either way, he's not going to make any money. Especially when he's charging £15 for a huge brick of a paperback and an unbelievable £25 for the hardback. And why would you want to create a book if you didn't want to sell it? You might as well keep it in a drawer wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon.

I may not be the world's expert on publishing but I have experience of bookselling, editing and writing fiction. I know a bit more about publishing than the man/woman in the street. I may well be sad, but I am not ignorant. Far too many people think writing is easy and that they have a 'right' to be published. It seems to be a delusion shared with those dreadful 'also-rans' on TV talent shows. (You don't seem to find someone who can't jump or run complaining their talent has been missed by the Olympic selectors. Then again that's because that's measured by rulers and stop-watches that squash any self-delusion.) I remember a girl being told by Simon Cowell that she couldn't sing a note and that her home-made dress was hideous (both true). Her mother came blustering in to tell Simon Cowell that he was ignorant and wrong. You may not like Simon Cowell (I do, apart from his blindingly white teeth) but sure as eggs is eggs he knows the business he's in.

I know I promised to name books I think are bad but I am not going to do so in this case. It wouldn't be fair precisely because it is a self-published work by someone who is self-deluded. Now, that is sad. And ignorant.

The Spare Room

2008-07-31T06:45:00.000-07:00

I had heard many good things about this novel but it was after reading Susan Hill's blog where she said it ought to win Booker 2008 that I finally placed an order. It was winging its way from The Book Depository when I read Dovegreyreader's praise. As we all now know, it failed even to make the 13 book longlist. Cue widespread wails of 'shame' not least from the boss of Canongate, its publisher which I considered undignified and ultimately pointless. However much he denies it and however much he didn't mean it, it does sound like a case of sour grapes. And does the novel itself no good at all.

Anyway, I began reading it yesterday and finished it today. I won't dwell on the 'plot' as those who are interested can find that elsewhere. It is not a long read. And yes, it's good and yes, I understand what the author is saying about friendship, delusion, guilt, betrayal conflicting emotions and and above all, the debilitating affect of anger. The style is spare, clean, unfussy and sharp and a delight to read. I wouldn't hesitate to recommend it to others.

But . . . I can understand completely why it didn't make the Booker longlist. I haven't read any of the books on it and quite honestly, there's only one that appeals to me, so I'm not making a value judgement here. It was revealing to see that the qualities of the books that were chosen, according to the judges were. "large scale narrative and the striking use of humour."

Interesting, and as I said, revealing. (why do so many people think that novels have to be large-scale and monumental to be successful?)

There is humour in The Spare Room but it is humour of the most painful kind and not laugh aloud funny and a cursory glance is not written 'on a large scale.' Although that, to me, is its strength. But then I am not a fan of big, large-scale, novels full of humour. That's smacks of Boy's Own Adventures.

Which brings me to the thorny subject of gender with regard to book appreciation. Of course there are exceptions and of course I realise that men and women can read and enjoy the same novels but if I've said it once, I've said it thousands of times, there is a kind of writing and outlook on life which is only truly appreciated by women and maybe only women of a certain age. They are small scale and domestic and are often ridiculed for being so, for being 'parochial', 'inward-looking,' 'ordinary' and other pejorative adjectives. One could say the same about The Spare Room. As its title makes clear, it's focused on one place, one time and the relationship at its core is between two women of similar age and background but what it concerns, concerns us all - human relationships and above all, our own mortality. To me, it is this very 'smallness' that wasn't understood by the Booker judging panel, a panel, I might add, that consisted of a majority of men and chaired by a politician. And we all know how easy it is for women in the minority to be coerced by the opinions of strong-willed men.

However, having said all that, there were quite a few things that disappointed me about this novel. Although we are told that in her prime, Nicola was a wonderful woman, a great friend who lit up everyone's life and was a joy to be near, but I couldn't see it. It didn't get through to me. And the ending disappointed me. I have read reasons why the author chose to end it in this way and I fully understand and appreciate them but to me it seemed rushed and therefore unsatisfactory. Had she slowed it down just that little bit, been slightly more expansive, her point could still have been made and the feeling of total everlasting guilt at the end could still have been the final enduring thought. And who knows? Had the novel not read like a long short story or a novella it might have been on that longlist.

And here's another thought. Because it was 'easy' to read and doesn't show off ( a sure sign that a writer is a great writer), some people think it can't be a great novel.

But ultimately, who cares? Let's not judge a book by its Booker. Read it and decide for yourself.

THE STATE OF ME

2008-07-28T02:47:00.000-07:00

Had I not answered a request by the publisher to read and review this novel, thus picking up a free copy (thank you hugely, Mr Pack), I might not have ever had the opportunity to read it. I may well have picked it up from a front of bookstore table although I think I might well have put it straight down again - more of which later.

This is the story of Helen Fleet. Young, bright, witty and fun, she has all her life before her. And a boyfriend to die for. Then, when in France as part of her degree course, she is first struck down by a mystery virus which leaves her weak, ill and practically bed-ridden for years and suffering many unpleasant side effects such as nausea, cramps and headaches. An eventual diagnosis hardly helps. M.E. has not long been recognised as a serious illness by the medical authorities and even now there are health professionals who still persist in thinking it's all in the mind. Not only does she have to cope with her illness she has to face day to day ignorance, prejudice and even downright hostility. Helen is soon judging friends, relatives and passing strangers by how they react to her condition. Woe betide anyone who thinks she's lazy or could easily be 'cured' by drinking herb tea, cranial massage or meditating. We follow Helen as she is dragged to rock-bottom, living off her parents, invalidity benefits and the 'charity' of friends. Even her boyfriend finds it tough to cope with her paranoia, fits of anger and self-pity and although they agree to remain friends, she has to suffer in silent jealousy as he has sex with other girls, either in reality or in her own impotent jealousy.

I'll stop there. If this sounds heavy-going or dull, think again. This book is a delight from start to finish. The 'serious' side of the novel - the day-to-day reality of dealing with M.E. is tempered by Helen's self- deprecating sense of humour which had me giggling on almost every page. Her writing is fresh, sharp and stuffed full of delicious observations about human behaviour. The 'Scottishness' of the setting, with its unique slang and way of looking at things is a definite plus point, as is the variety of narrative styles the author uses. I particularly liked the 'Q and A' passages between Helen and the anonymous 'stranger.' The observations though Playschool-shaped windows were original and invigorating, excoriating at times but never cruel.

There is no doubt whatsoever that we are in the presence of a natural born writer here who knows how to shape a phrase with skillful ease. There is nothing forced or over-written. Some of my favourite characters were not part of the medical story. I particularly loved her uncle Brian. I know quite a few adults with 'learning difficulties', as we are supposed to call them these days, and Nasim's affectionate portrayal is amusing without being in the least patronising. Other writers, take note.

If I have a criticism - and THE STATE OF ME is by no means perfect - it is because it's not really a novel and I wish it hadn't been marketed as such. It is a fictionalised memoir. Although Helen is clearly not Nasim, Helen's journey learning to live with M.E must be Nasim's as must her observations and her attitude to the reaction of others. There is no plot as such and although there is a sense of narrative drive and a 'feel-good' ending (but not unalloyed happiness), it doesn't really go anywhere in the same way as a diary can't be planned or shaped because its very nature prevents it and it can only record events as they happen. That's not to say that the pages didn't keep turning. They did and I always wanted to discover 'what happened next.'

My main quibble, though, is with the cover. It too 'old' for the contents and too subdued. The strap line is pretentious and off-putting. This is surely a young person's book - twenties definitely, even teens but I don't think the cover begins to appeal to that readership. Nor does it reflect any quirky humour and lightness of touch that makes THE STATE OF ME such a pleasure to read.

A BORGIA ORGY

2008-07-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

If, like me, you're a fan of big historical novels about real people, you're going to love this one. And whether you know anything about the Borgias or not, you'll know it all by the end without feeling you've just staggered out of the classroom.

When the Jews are expelled from Spain by royal edict in 1492, Esther’s fate is more fortunate than many of her race. Her exile takes her to Rome and her father who lends money to the Borgias and where, after arranging a quick and expedient conversion to Christianity, he secures her a post in Lucrezia Borgia’s household. From that moment on, her fortunes are not only tied to those of her mistress but to her brother Cesare with whom, from the moment she sees him, falls deeply and irrevocably in love. But is this love or a naïve infatuation? And can it ever hope to be fulfilled? Although dubbed by Cesare ‘La Violante’ (oath-breaker or treacherous one) Esther ultimately realizes that she is only one pawn, not only in the power games played between the Borgias and their enemies and allies alike, but more dangerously, in that more darkly intimate one between brother and sister.

Sarah Bower has woven another rich tapestry in her second novel. It is indeed a book of love in all its guises. More than one love story unfolds as the pages turn and love, as well as blind, can be twisted and crippled.

Although Esther may not be such an immediate empathetic character as Gytha in Sarah’s debut novel, The Needle in the Blood – there were times I wanted to scream at her for mooning over one of history’s nastier creations – you gain a deep understanding of her total powerlessness and alienation from the world in which she finds herself.

The Book of Love is a richly satisfying historical novel. It deserves prizes. But there is one award Sarah Bower will never ever win and that is the Bad Sex Award. Her love scenes are charged with the most delicious eroticism! But she is also heart-wrenchingly tender and surely no-one could fail to weep for the pain Esther endures as she learns the hard way where your dreams can lead you.

Sarah Bower is a writing friend but I bought my copy and I would have done so had I not known her from Eve.

MURDER MOST ENTERTAINING

2008-07-13T13:32:00.000-07:00

T be honest, MURDER MOST WELCOME is not a novel I would have picked up to read in the normal run of things. I rarely venture in libraries these days (to think in my youth I was never out of one) because I am too angry at all the non-book-related paraphernalia littering the place and the sight of good books being sold off for 20p. Our local library has no atmosphere and its selection of books is on the whole poor, but I digress . . .

MURDER MOST WELCOME is published by Robert Hale who doesn't sell to bookshops but to libraries and very successful they are too. That doesn't mean you can't buy their books - or indeed, this one. You can either direct from the publisher, through Amazon or by ordering through your friendly local bookshop.

I'm wandering off the point again. What I want to say is that I wouldn't have heard of, let alone read MURDER MOST WELCOME had its author, Nicola Slade, not been a friend and were I not already well-disposed towards its period setting, the mid-nineteenth century which was far less stuffy and dull than people are led to believe from the adjective 'Victorian'. Which would have been a great shame. And I am so glad I did because it is hugely enjoyable.

Charlotte Richmond, its heroine of vague antipodean origins, is a widow, her husband having died in India on active service for the Raj. She has arrived at the Hampshire seat of her husband's eccentric family, determined to settle down as a respectable English lady. But what is her background and what is she trying to hide? She is almost succeeding in her aim and finding friends in the neighbourhood when her husband turns up out of the blue very much alive, only to be, as far as Charlotte is concerned, conveniently murdered. But by whom? Surely not Charlotte herself?

Nicola's knowledge of the period and her love of now obscure Victorian novels by the likes of Charlotte M Yonge shines from every page (the heroine's name is a tribute) yet it is the author's talent for comedy that kept me turning the pages. But this is humour with a heart and I hope, like me, you will want to read more about Charlotte, a most original and engaging heroine. Here I can reveal that a sequel is being written at this very moment. Hurry up, Nicky!

Note: I bought my copy.

MISSION STATEMENT

2008-07-11T11:26:00.000-07:00

NOT ANOTHER BOOK BLOG.

Well, yes.

AREN'T THERE ALREADY TOO MANY?

Well, no.

SO WHAT'S DIFFERENT ABOUT THIS ONE?

Not much, except that it's MINE.

Nor will there by any prize draws by cats, teddy bears or any other sweet little cuddly things.

SO HOW DOES IT WORK?

Some book bloggers only review books they like, which is fine but they can over-froth like a malfunctioning washing machine. Publishers love these bloggers and bombard them with freebies and then plaster the froth over their jackets. Messy. Others claim to be scrupulously fair, non-partisan and because of that can be tedious in the extreme. And there are book bloggers who want to let you know how clever they are. As I'm an average sort of person, I work hard to keep pretentiousness at bay. Please slap me (hard) if I ever show any signs of it.

Also I don't want to hold back from criticism because I'm afraid publishers won't find me and send me their books. (But if they want to risk it, that's fine by me!) If I don't like a book, I'll say so, especially if I think it's being pushed mercilessly in the market place at the expense of other, better books. (Better, that is, in my opinion only.)

I will unashamedly write about books written by friends so if that makes me unreliable, so be it. I'm not telling people what to do. Caveat Emptor. Don't buy a book on my recommendation and then complain if you thought it was rubbish. I assume all visitors to this blog are adult and capable of making their own choices. I will make things easier by making clear whether I actually bought the book in question with my hard-earned cash, whether it was given to me by a publisher or an author etc.

WHAT SORT OF BOOKS WILL YOU REVIEW?

Anything. As an old radio programme used to say - and that dates me - old ones, new ones, loved ones, neglected ones. I intend it to be a rag-bag of books I've read last week, last year, twenty years go. I might even write about authors past and present I adore and those I can't get to grips with (Henry James anyone?)

ANYTHING ELSE?

As someone who has worked in various bookshops over the years - starting during the historic three day week in the 70s when Watership Down was the top bestseller - and ending in the smallest Waterstone's in the country (now closed) - I know about being at the sharp end of book selling. I also know a bit about writing and the way publishers (especially their publicity departments) work - if work is the right word.

FINALLY A WARNING.

I am a published writer. Have blog, will self-promote shamelessly. So there.