The introduction says that George Friel, the author of Mr. Alfred, M.A., was a teacher and hated it. You can tell, given the title character’s disdain for / exhaustion with his profession.
Mr. Alfred is a teacher in a shit part of Glasgow, teaching (mostly) shitty kids. His one ray of hope is Rose Weipers, a female student. But his feelings for her (which are never entirely clear — is he honourable or a dirty old man?) are soon found out and his life comes crashing down around his ears.
Like Robin Jenkins was really good at doing, Friel wrote very descriptively about life in Glasgow’s less-than-prosperous areas. History tends to repeat itself, or young people with nothing to hope for all turn out the same, no matter the decade. And lots of men still spend their evenings like Mr. Alfred — drinking.
Is it a cautionary tale? I don’t know. But it’s edgier and harder than Robin Jenkins. Worth a read if you’re at all familiar with the city.
Makers does what it says on the tin. It’s about guys who make stuff. The tinkerers and inventors. In a near future.
I wasn’t sure I was going to like it. This is because I am far too aware of who Cory Doctorow is — it sets up expectations. I’m glad my fears weren’t realised. This novel was kind of fun, actually. It revolves around Lester and Perry, two really clever guys, and Suzanne, a reporter who follows their ups and downs.
It does a ‘what happens next?’ kind of story, following the dot-com boom and bust. It seems a plausible vision of our near future — I know 3D printers are pretty damn exciting things and Neil would probably worship the ground I walk on if I could ever afford to surprise him with one.
That’s the beauty of Makers — it takes things we (or the nerdy / geeky among us, at least) know already exist (the aforementioned 3D printers, Disney) and applies them to a more cyberpunkish world. More stuff, more disposable stuff!
(The other thing that was really fascinating was the fatkins sub-plot. I can totally see it happening in our world of quick fixes.)
All in all, if you’re a bit of a techy person — by that I mean you’re not the ‘Apple mass-market consumer electronics are so innovative’ type — Makers is the novel for you. It reminded me a little of Neal Stephenson’s work, and that’s high praise.
- Details: Makers by Cory Doctorow, Harper Voyager, £7.99
- Verdict: 4/5
Now I know where ‘grok’ comes from. Valentine Michael Smith is a human who was raised as a Martian, and he’s been ‘returned’ to Earth. His naïveté and deep wisdom bring confusion, chaos, and ecstasy to those around him.
Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land was an interesting read, mainly because it was so anachronistic. I did not find the plainly misogynistic bits offensive — they were pretty funny because they are so out of chime with what’s acceptable these days. I don’t know this, but was Heinlein an early Flower Power dude? He should’ve been.
I can see why this has been considered a science fiction classic. It’s got aliens, space travel, and a different moral system. It was published at a time of great change (I’m presuming, since I wasn’t there), and the best science fiction puts ideas and belief systems into different contexts to show them for what they really are (sort of), all the while telling a really good yarn.
I’d heard a few things about Wetlands, mainly that you needed a strong stomach. But I was going into it sort of blind, because I knew nothing else about it. I can be pretty good at ignoring the hype that goes with the publishing business.
Wetlands is the story of Helen Memel, who has checked herself into hospital following an accident with her razor. We get a highly intimate look into what goes on in her head — and man, is she fucked up. It’s probably the Singaporean in me that’s horrified that someone of that tender age should have had such experiences, and to have revelled in them, too!
There’s definitely something broken in Helen. Is it her parents’ split that’s partly to blame? I have no idea. But kids can be royally screwed up by events at home that have nothing to do with abuse.
While the graphic descriptions of what Helen gets up to and her deliberate lack of hygiene did take me aback somewhat, what struck me was how her audacity, her boldness was really a shield to hide her extreme loneliness and emotional fragility. It was hilariously funny and shocking and sad all at once. I devoured the entire novel in a day.
(I read it while I was eating lunch. I grew up with a family of doctors. Nothing grosses me out.)
- Details: Wetlands by Charlotte Roche, Fourth Estate, £7.99
- Verdict: 4/5
A couple of short story collections, picked up fairly randomly.
I’ve read a few Joyce Carol Oates novels in the last few years, and I’ve always found them a decent read. I’d vaguely heard of this collection (Dear Husband,), so when I saw it at the library, I figured, why not?
She doesn’t disappoint. I’ve grown to really like short stories, and while these may not be the best I’ve ever read (not that I’m really qualified to judge, as I’ve only come to the genre fairly recently), they’re certainly up there when it comes to pathos.
Tangent: one of my friends told me about a recent read (well, in the last six months) and thought it might be my thing. It was a Joyce Carol Oates. Heh.
This collection of stories is from the author of Bright Lights, Big City — Jay McInerney. I’ve never read him. The stories in The Last Bachelor — with one exception, if I remember correctly — are about people in the time following the attack on the World Trade Centre in New York.
Again with the pathos. There’s a lot of sadness in short stories, and sometimes the author can go overboard a bit. I think McInerney is guilty of that. While the ideas behind the stories were interesting / good, I found it a little harder to identify with the characters or even give a monkeys about them.
This is not to say that I didn’t read it cover to cover with ease. I think maybe his style just doesn’t fit me too well.
The back of the book tells you that the protagonist has a good life, and yet is slowly finding it unbearable, and one day he tells his wife he’s not coming home. In a ‘typical’ Richard Yates book, this happens about half way. In Disturbing the Peace, however, that’s how it begins.
(I’ve read other reviews saying this was his worst book. I don’t think so — it’s just different.)
John Wilder sells advertising space for a magazine. He has his flings and his wife and son stay more or less quietly at home. When the novel opens, he’s just told his wife that he isn’t coming home. Ever. That sparks off a series of events that make you wince in empathy, even if none of the characters are particularly lovable.
The novel is essentially a downward spiral of an alcohol-fuelled early mid-life crisis that might or might not be outright insanity. I found it much darker than the other Yates novels I’ve read, but no less compelling. It appears that it’s the most autobiographical of his novels, which makes me sad.
I have a suspicion that this book was sitting prominently in the library’s Quick Choice section because of the story ‘What’s in Swindon?’ A nameless business hotel (I suspect either the Jury’s Inn or the Menzies) and ex sex, apparently.
I mentioned the absolute brilliance of the production design of the book on Twitter — it’s got a hardback, fliptop box, with a wee (a-format?) paperback inside. This is something I’d buy for someone, because it looks so collectible (Seth Godin thinks this is the direction we’re headed, too). The author wrote back and hoped I’d enjoy the contents as much as I did the packaging.
And yes, I did. I read the collection in two sittings. It was pretty delightful in its own quirky way. Although it made me start thinking about smoking again. Which is bad. I actually considered locating some herbal cigarettes, and then I remembered I tried them once in 1998 when I was volunteering at a theatre group and they were mank.
Anyway. Good book. I look forward to seeing what else he has in store.
I was quite pleased to find another Arnaldur Indriðason novel in the library, this one’s called Arctic Chill. A young Thai boy is found stabbed to death, and Erlendur, Elínborg, and Sigurður Óli try to find out who, why, and where. They aren’t helped by the victim’s mother, who almost immediately hides her other son, even though he may have important information about the crime.
I’ve seen a really negative review of this novel, because — to be honest — nothing much happens. No great evil is uncovered, no massive conspiracy is unmasked. Instead, Indriðason gives us an account of an Iceland in transition, with the poor boy’s untimely death merely a horrific side effect. SO if you’re after action and adventure, you’ll be bored to tears. If you’re after something realistic and atmospheric, this is a great novel to while away a weekend when the weather is shocking.
- Details: Arctic Chill by Arnaldur Indriðason, Vintage, £7.99
- Verdict: 4/5
Honesty time. Given my book snobbishness, I wasn’t expecting to like this, because it has a chick-lit kind of jacket. I only borrowed it at the library because it was in a Express zone. I know it won the Costa. Prizes don’t mean anything to me, except it does give some name recognition to the winning books.
So. The novel flashes back and forth in time — we’re introduced to Lexie Sinclair in the 50s and Elina and Ted in the present day. Lexie yearns to do something more than what is expected of her (i.e. get married and have children), and gets her chance when she meets Innes Kent, a charming Londoner. Elina and Ted are new parents, struggling to cope with their new lives with a baby in tow.
What I liked about the novel was Lexie’s story. What I didn’t give two poops about was Elina and Ted’s. It was clear from the blurb on the back and the first two chapters that all the characters were connected in some way. So I raced through Lexie’s bits and found Elina and Ted’s sections slightly less interesting.
What let it down — for me — was the cover. I don’t like genre covers. It makes it too easy to dismiss what may otherwise be an excellent novel, but because it’s too ‘chick’ or too ‘crime’, it may be ignored just in case it’s a hopelessly formulaic read-and-instantly-forget waste of time.
On the whole, I’m glad I did give it a chance. But it’s a shame it took me this long. Most of the other books in the Express zone were even more genre-looking, so this was the least-worst option. That’s not exactly what a publisher wants, is it?
Can I just say how refreshing it is to read a translation that is also an excellent interpretation?
Most translations end up reading oddly, they get quite clunky. Victoria Cribb has made the Iceland of Arnaldur Indriðason’s imagination not so distant, because the language flows really naturally.
Hypothermia concerns the suicide of Maria, who was distraught after her mother’s death. Inspector Erlendur decides to look into it a little further, and is minded to re-open a few cold cases of youths who went missing many years before. He is also plagued by memories of his own brother, as well as having to be a father to Sindri and Eva, who are now old enough to make real demands on his emotional life.
This was clearly not the first Erlendur novel; but it doesn’t seem to matter too much. You get that you haven’t read the history behind some of the characters, but it doesn’t stand in the way of the plot nor your enjoyment of it.
Overall, I have to say that of all the Scandi crime novels I’ve read in the last few years, this has certainly come out on top. I look forward to finding more novels by Indriðason on the library shelves. And hogging them for a little while.
- Details: Hypothermia by Arnaldur Indriðason, Vintage, £7.99
- Verdict: 4/5
I’ve been reading some ‘new voices’ lately. Rather than space out my brief reviews, why not group them into one bumper post?
This was apparently a TV Book Club choice. I don’t watch it, so I had no idea but for the sticker. I must say that the sticker did add a sense of trepidation, in that it might be shite. There was also that marketing gumpf about being like The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, which is a novel I really enjoyed.
So. Pat Peoples has just got out of the ‘bad place’, and is working towards being kind, not right, as he wants to end ‘apart time’ with his wife Nikki. The blurb on the back makes it sound like David Nicholls-style chick-lit with temporary insanity thrown in, but it isn’t, really. While I loved One Day for its ability to twang the heart-strings, The Silver Linings Playbook is that and so much more.
Spending time in Pat Peoples’ mind gave me quite an interesting perspective, and a renewed appreciation / confirmation of the truth about love (i.e. a constant compromise). And how supposedly sane and normal people really aren’t.
Details: The Silver Linings Playbook by Matthew Quick, Picador, £7.99
Verdict: 4/5
Next up is Tom Rachman’s The Imperfectionists, a story about a failing English language newspaper in Rome, as seen through the eyes of the people who work for it. If you’ve been reading the site for a while, you’ll know I used to work for an international weekly newspaper, so I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for this particular section of the industry. I was entertained by the author’s stories of the weird and wonderful people who work there. I was surprised that the story that has stuck with me most is Ruby Zaga’s — ultimately, I felt she was the one to be most pitied.
I thought it was funny. And sad. I’ve read some reviews condemning it for not being about the business, but all that stuff is reported in the news anyway. I rather enjoyed the fact that it was about the types of people in the business and how it thoroughly invades their personal lives.
Details: The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman, Quercus, £16.99
Verdict: 3/5
This novel gets the same score as The Imperfectionists, but only just. The Registrar’s Manual for Detecting Forced Marriages jumps backwards and forwards in time, interweaving the stories of Selim, a Kurdish illegal immigrant, and our narrator, a German woman who now works in France, assisting in marrying people at the local town hall. When she feels compelled to look into a possible forced marriage, she starts to remember Selim and her less-than-illustrious past.
It was an easy read — I managed it in an afternoon. But it just didn’t do it for me, I simply couldn’t feel as strongly about it as, say, The Tortilla Curtain, another novel about illegal immigration, but told with much more feeling.
Details: The Registrar’s Manual for Detecting Forced Marriages by Sophie Hardach, Simon & Schuster, £12.99
Verdict: 3/5
Charlie Gordon has an IQ of under 70 and has started writing progress reports because he’s been given the chance to become smart. This is down to an earlier test subject, a mouse named Algernon, that has become really smart — and stayed that way.
And that’s the premise of Flowers for Algernon, a book I saw reviewed favourably some time ago. And I’m reviewing it favourably here.
Right from the word go, when we started with the first progress report / journal entry, I knew what was going to happen to Charlie Gordon, but knowing where the story was going to take me didn’t lessen its impact. That’s what’s most impressive about Flowers for Algernon — by the time I got to the end, I was definitely about to sniffle in sympathy.
Some spoilers follow.
(Read more.)
Neil and I listened to the audiobook on a drive up to Edinburgh recently. I’d read the novel a couple of months before.
Jack Miller is down-at-heel, working at a stationery company in London. He gets the opportunity to join an expedition to the Arctic, working as a wireless operator, and he sees it as an escape from his dreary life. But the team of five is whittled down over time and as the nights get longer, Jack is soon left with only some husky dogs for company. And then he starts to realise that all is not right in this solitary outpost — there’s something else out there.
As a novel, I quite enjoyed it. I haven’t read a proper ghost story in a long time — if that terrible book I read about supposed real-life hauntings in Singapore counts. Jeremy Northam definitely did the story justice, with great accents and such expressive reading (and he was in Emma. Squee). Neil kept asking me to put the next disc on as the previous one ended.
My sister would be terrified of Dark Matter (and how her fear affects those around her is not suitable content for any website — heh). Reading the words on the page or listening to someone read you the story were both fun.
(Full disclosure: I run the official fan community for the author’s series of Stone Age novels.)
- Details: Dark Matter by Michelle Paver, £12.99 (hardback) or £16.99 (audiobook)
- Verdict: 3/5
Affection is what I feel for Christopher Buckley, who wrote the unrelentingly brilliant Thank You For Smoking, one of those books you read and re-read when a chuckle is needed. I was glad to spot a copy of Boomsday at the library, and he’s one of those authors whose books I’ll pick up without even bothering to read the blurb on the back — I know it’ll be good.
Boomsday is the point when the Baby Boomers begin to retire, drawing on their Social Security. The United States is in huge amounts of debt and involved in wars that it can’t fund. Our protagonist Cassandra Devine, a young PR hotshot, isn’t happy about it. Her popular weblog that discusses social security reform suggests to her readers that it’s time to take action against the Boomers, who have built up unsustainable debt over their lifetimes and are leaving us Gen X-ers (and beyond) to pick up the bill.
The novel was published in 2007, so Buckley wasn’t exactly seeing too far into the future, but as a satire it hits a wee bit close, doesn’t it? Which is why I think it’s brilliant. As a reader it seems so funny, so implausible, but it’s probably closer to the truth than we want to imagine.
- Details: Boomsday by Christopher Buckley, Allison & Busby, £7.99
- Verdict: 4/5
This book is famous. But I had no idea what it was about. My copy is a World Book Night edition, offered free of charge by my local Waterstone’s long after World Book Night had passed.
I reckon they should have been giving copies away like mad, since The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time is set in Swindon. We meet Christopher Boone, who we can tell almost immediately is autistic. He lives with his dad and goes to a special school. But when he discovers a dead dog one night and decides to play detective, the story really takes off.
As I’ve mentioned before, I reckon I’m sort of borderline on the autism spectrum, so while I don’t have a full understanding of autism and its effects, I kind of get it. Mark Haddon drew a map of part of Boone’s home on Randolph Street, and before I had the chance to check if it was fictional, I was almost incensed that it was a series of semi-detached houses. Most streets in Swindon (at least in the town centre) are flanked by terraced houses. The only street named Randolph in Swindon is certainly not full of houses. It did actually really bother me. And I was much happier with the map of the railway station platform, because that was pretty accurate.
… where was I? Oh right, I’m writing about a book I read.
It was a memorable, yet quick to read, novel. It’s hard not to read it in one sitting, and it plunges you into the world of someone not-quite-normal, but he has qualities we all recognise. I enjoyed it immensely, but this novel shouldn’t make anyone feel happy at the end of it — it’s too real.
(And by the way, I’m not very good at maths.)
Given that I worked for Jamie Byng when he slammed the longlisting of Child 44 for the Booker in 2008, I wasn’t expecting to see it in the mail. But there it was, as a bonus novel to accompany the imminent publication of Agent 6, Tom Rob Smith’s latest thriller starring Leo Demidov.
I’ll lay my cards on the table — I’m not a big reader or buyer of thrillers (although I could never resist Ian Rankin). True crime I like, if done well. And I have tried to read authors who get a lot of press (James Patterson, Stieg Larsson), but have been invariably bored by the books I’ve read (James Patterson, Stieg Larsson). So it was with a slight sense of trepidation that I decided to read Child 44 and Agent 6 sooner rather than later.
Child 44 opens with Leo Demidov in his thirties, a rising star in the MGB (the former NKVD), married to Raisa and by all accounts, living a relatively good life in Stalinist Russia. He has no qualms about arresting seemingly-innocent citizens, presuming them guilty since the State knows what it’s doing and he is a patriotic person who wouldn’t be investigating them if they had nothing to hide.
I cheated and skipped ahead to the acknowledgements when I was only a little of the way through as the blurb said it was based on a real-life investigation. I was expecting to find a story about Cold War intrigue and Russian state suppression, but then Smith said he’d based it on Andrei Chikatilo’s crimes, but not his motivations.
What? Andrei Chikatilo, child murderer? That threw me. But I read on.
To cut a potentially deathly boring review short, I preferred the earlier part of the novel, which dealt with the horrifying results of maintaining ‘Communist’ authoritarianism. And I wasn’t sure what I would think of Agent 6. There was a sequel to Child 44 published, The Secret Speech, but I haven’t read it.
So. Agent 6 opens in 1950, when Leo is a young MGB officer, and he’s just met Raisa. We get this back story in Child 44, but Smith expands on it here, telling us what really happened. We then skip ahead 15 years and meet Leo and Raisa again, as well as their two adopted daughters — they are now living in relative poverty, as Leo is no longer an asset to the State. Leo stays behind while his family goes to New York on a peace concert tour, and bad shit happens, pretty much breaking Leo. The novel skips ahead several years at a time and eventually settles some time in 1980.
On the whole, I can see why Child 44 was a success, but I think Agent 6 is better. Spoilers follow.
(Read more.)
