the kingfisher scrapbook

it's not the winning

2011-10-14T03:33:00.000-07:00

This year I have read 9 out of the 13 Booker longlistedtitles. And I have one more on my shelfstill to read.

If I had been on the Booker judging panel I would havefought hard to get the Alison Pick and the Sebastian Barry onto the shortlistas I thought both were stronger novels than some that made the cut.

But out of the shortlist I’m torn between the Barnes and theDeWitt – and it was really only the rather abrupt ending that let the Barnesdown for me. But overall The Sisters Brothers wasthe best of the shortlist for me, plenty to think about, beautifully written,challenging expectations and hopefully shaking up critics who wrote it off as agenre novel. Surely it’s about how abook is written rather than the predominant content than counts?

And if I were to hazard a guess at who the Booker panel willcrown winner – I’d say they might pick Pigeon English.

I can’t wait till Tuesday to find out if I’m right…

the final four

2011-10-14T03:18:00.000-07:00

Contrary to what this blog suggests I’ve actually read theentire Booker shortlist - helped no doubt by absence of any 600 page epics andthe overall readability of the novels. The very readability that a new literature prize, just announced, seemsto attempt to challenge. Now I don’thave a problem with readability, but equally I felt rather let down by most ofthe Booker books I read this year – none of them seemed to bear the mark of atruly special book, a standout winner from recently published literature. Perhaps my ambivalence to most of the novelsexplains my lack of blogging about them…

But, in advance of the prize announcement on Tuesday Iwanted to briefly summarise my thoughts on those I haven’t yet mentioned, andthereby justify picking my own winner.

Julian Barnes The Sense of an Ending felt like theobligatory wordy, witty man’s book – but I rapidly found myself warming toit. The characters were as believable asthey were irritating. The narratorsself-confessed unreliability as he takes a handful of memories and fleshes themout spoke so strongly of human truth – how would our own lives be any differentif we tried to do the same? Barnessubtly presents Tony’s priorities with pages of the narrative devoted to hisfriendship and only the odd paragraph to his wife and child.

I feared that The Sisters Brothers was going to be a bitsilly, but I was wrong – Patrick DeWitt wrote a surprisingly sensitivestory. Scene by scene we are offeredcharacters more outlandish than the last but our brothers, particularly Eli arethere to guide us and help us make sense of this strange land - ‘The harbor, at first sight, I did not understand it. There were so many ships at anchor that theirmasts looked to be tangled impossibly; hundreds of them packed together sodensely as to give the appearance of a vast, limbless forest rolling on thetides’. Despite all the killings and surgicalprocedures not a lot actually happens, it’s more like a catalogue of nearmisses, but enjoyable to witness nonetheless, and throughout the plot acts asan efficient backdrop for the portrait of the brothers.

Pigeon English was also a character led novel and I enjoyedtime spent in Harrison’s company. Stephen Kelman gave him a distinctive voiceand world view and it was pure pleasure to witness familiar things through hiseyes - ‘The devil is stronger here because the buildings are too high.’. And the pigeon gets my vote for bestsupporting actor – I could have read an entire book focused on him alone. Sadly I felt the novel as a whole was quiteweak, it seemed to drift and then peter out quite suddenly and I was leftfeeling that Kelman had somewhat wasted a strong character on a weak plot.

And my last Booker trip was in the hands of Carol Birchaboard the good ship Jamrach’s Menagerie. Initially feeling like a cross between Oliver Twist and Doctor DoolittleI had high hopes, immediately revelling in her descriptive skills – ‘We went upa ladder to a place where there was a beast like a pie, a great lizard mad andgrinning, and monkeys, many monkeys, a stew of human nature, a bone pile of it,a wall, a dream of small faces’. I’m along-time fan of seafaring stories and usually can’t wait to set sail. But a strange thing happened here - once wetook to the waters my interest started to sink, and like the charactersthemselves I found myself craving a return to dry land, and when we did thingsseemed to pick up again.

a bit on the side

2011-09-06T06:42:00.000-07:00

In OnCanaan’s Side we find ourselves at the mercy of another confessionalnovel. Lilly’s days (and chapters) maybe ordered and consecutive but her memories roam far and wide. Always a comforting travelling companion, sheleads safely us through time as well as across the miles.

‘To remember sometimes is a greatsorrow, but when the remembering has been done, there comes afterwards a verycurious peacefulness. Because you haveplanted your flag on the summit of sorrow. You have climbed it.’

From herchildhood and her subsequent escape to America, her early days there astroubled as those she left behind. Theusual wide-eyed wonder (‘How were thereladders long enough to get bricks up so high?’) balanced by the laterperspective of someone who has seen many years of life pass them by (‘Tears have a better character criedalone.’). Powerful set pieces (like the rollercoaster scene) are pepperedwith little details about her day-to-day life, visitors and doctorsappointments.

Sebastian Barryaddresses issues many of us will face, the real stuff of human life, but alwaysmanages to spotlight them in striking and poetic ways. And it is his character creation that enableshim to do this – in the process challenging my assumptions about spending somuch time in the narrative company of a little old lady. That she could be holding such a story, suchtruth, at times so brutal never ceased to amaze me. I’m glad I’ve bumped into Barry again (wefirst met a few Bookers back), and through him Lilly – I hope others do too.

introducing the band

2011-09-06T06:34:00.000-07:00

Like theEdwards novel Half Blood Blues is a story built upon seemingly minoractions and their eventual undesirable consequences. We see seeds of trouble sown early – jealousyover a woman, shame in front of one’s peers, rivalry both personal andprofessional.

Through SidEdugyan quickly fills us in on how things were in both Parisand Berlinduring the Second World War, particularly if you were black or part black. This was one of those novels where you arepresented a scene you think you are familiar with, then told to look moreclosely, at a detail you’d previously overlooked – and there the story lies. Perhaps a lazy comparison, but Levy’s Small Island came to mind –although that achieved it’s aim better for me.

Initially I wasimpressed – I felt like I was getting a decent dose of story-telling. Sid swiftly sketching an outline of whathappened and then we would wait for the details to be filled in, the charactersto be fleshed out. But sadly this neverquite happened - few of the cast were as strongly defined as Sid. A group of characters was clearly needed tosupport the storyline, but I was surprised that the star they all revolvedaround, Heiro, stayed largely superficial to the reader.

In addition andperhaps inevitably the novel relied quite heavily on the appeal of the jazzscene, which whilst atmospherically rendered (‘We sat at the knifed-up chairs, while he snapped a tan handkerchiefout of his front pocket and whisked the nutshells and cigarette butts to thefloor. His eyes glistened like beetles.’)never has quite the same appeal that audible music holds, especially not for areader who doesn’t happen to be a jazz fan.

something for the weekend

2011-08-12T04:59:00.001-07:00

In Snowdrops the relevance of the title doesn’t appear until near the end, whereas Edwards introduces the eponymous cupboard by page 20. From the first pages we are dragged into the story, its past and its present and plenty of suggestions that we will be shown how one becomes the other. This foreshadowing never kills the story though, never spoils what will come.

Edwards manipulates Jinx in a way that allows her to slide effortlessly through time, making a bed will allow a lengthy digression about her marriage breakdown and when she snaps back to the present we feel little sense of dislocation. It feels realistic, true to how our thoughts can roam. At other times Lemon will lead Jinx down memory’s lanes, while at other times she knows the way herself.

The characters are guarded and vulnerable at the same time, they are warm blooded and we feel a genuine sense of intimacy, of their desire to share their story in a way that Nicholas Snowdrop never quite achieved. Jinx is more than willing to let us judge her, but will we?

Cultural details form a foundation for the A Cupboard Full of Coats, they are never merely used as colour and flavour. Much like Lemon’s cooking, we are not just impressed at first taste, but left satisfied and full by the portrait Edwards offers. We don’t just witness a girl growing into a woman and the incidental things that happen to her, instead we witness blow by blow the cuts that shape the distinct individual she becomes, complete with smooth and jagged edges.

a problem shared

2011-08-12T04:57:00.000-07:00

The first two novels I read from this years Booker longlist both dealt with the narrator offering the reader a confession - a tale of their downfall and the part they played in it.

In Miller’s Snowdrops the reader is positioned alongside the ‘you’ that is the narrators fiancé - the one he is confessing all to in the hope that she will still stand by him. We are left to wonder what we would do if we were in her shoes? I felt like we learned quite a bit about the silent English girlfriend, to the degree where I felt I’d like to meet her, to hear her response to Nicholas’ tale.

As backdrop for the confession we get a swift portrait of Russian, mostly Moscow, and these details were skilfully handled, for me Miller at his best. He scatters contrasts between beauty and corruption liberally through his pages. However, after a while it felt like he was making the same point over and over and it’s power began to wane.

It is a novel of people more than politics – towards the end it is the lies about childhood and background and the little things that bite more deeply than the bigger deceptions. Love, friendship and the stories we share matter far more than money.

The atmosphere is one of wall to wall suspicion, in Miller’s Russia even the weather can’t be trusted. But in the end even the reader doubts themself, questioning whether perhaps we haven’t missed something, something vital heart of the story that feels strangely absent.

trivial pursuits

2010-02-08T02:46:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I rearranged my to-be-read bookshelf. For no other reason than I wondered what it would look like laid out by colour. I was pleased with the results, despite the dominance of black, and the sorry lack of green spines.

Faithful Tamara recently questioned my lack of posts. I am an avid reader, but a lazy reviewer. Whenever I make notes on a book as I read I notice how much that act deepens my appreciation of the book. But I quickly forget this fact.

I’ve read some great books over the last few months. I’ve just forgotten to share them here. But I’m reading a book at the moment, that is causing me great excitement and pleasure, and I’m making lots of notes, and hope to deposit them here soon.

In the meantime, my top ten reads of 2009 – in no particular order.

Oystercatchers – Susan Fletcher

The Romantic – Barbara Gowdy

Olive Kitteridge – Elizabeth Strout

Dear Everybody – Michael Kimball

The Transformation – Catherine Chidgey

Ocean Sea – Alessandro Baricco

The Glass Room – Simon Mawer

The Gargoyle – Andrew Davidson

Be Near Me – Andrew O’Hagan

Plainsong – Kent Haruf

the end is nigh

2009-10-06T10:49:00.000-07:00

This year I’ve struggled to find enough time to devote to my Booker experience. I’ve kept up with my reading aims, but not the consequent blogging. And here we are, on the day of the big announcement, and here I am, cracking out a quick post to give me some sense of last minute involvement.

You’ll have to take it on trust when I tell you that my shortlist predictions were very accurate this year. I guessed 5 out of 6 of the judges choices. I wonder if that might help me in guessing the winner again this year?

Since my last post I read The Little Stranger and didn’t think that much of it. I conclude once again that I just don’t get Waters. I read The Glass Room which I loved and has jumped out as one of my best reads of 2009. I read Summertime which excited me and made me think a lot, and made me realize Coetzee is really quite cool. And I’m currently ploughing on through The Children’s Book - which I’m liking quite a bit, but I’d enjoy far more if it was in paperback and not such a killer to hold.

And so to winners and thereby losers. My personal pick for the Booker Prize 2009 would be The Quickening Maze. It’s stuck with me long after reading, and I think it has a lot of hidden depths. It would be great to get it to a wider readership, who might find unexpected pleasure in reading the prose of a poet. But if I can’t have that I’d be very happy if Mawer took the prize.

But I feel, as ever, that the judging panel won’t agree with me. Sod’s Law would have Wolf Hall win as I haven’t read that one (and doubt I will). I doubt they’ll give it to Byatt or Coetzee again. Overall I’ve got a nasty feeling that Sarah Waters will win this year…

lost in a forest

2009-09-02T08:08:00.000-07:00

A strange thing happened with The Quickening Maze in that the novel has seemed to get better the further away I’ve got from actually reading it.

A relatively short book, it tried to pack a great deal into it’s pages, mainly through the multiple character threads we jumped between. This reinforced a sense of confusion, perhaps echoing characters who don’t always have a firm grip on who they are. The reader is pulled in as one of the many confused souls, but after a while the charm of the maze began to lose it’s appeal. However with the safety of distance I realise I actually quite enjoyed myself!

I especially liked Fould’s emphasis on setting. The buildings and the forest were vivid and almost acted as characters in themselves, creating a strong rural gothic atmosphere throughout.

‘Even the building looked mad: plain, square and tight, with regular small barred windows that emitted shrieks.’

Dividing the novel into seasonal chapters gave a strong sense of time passing, and the actions in each chapter sat well within the intended season. The first Autumn section felt like trying to grasp at many tumbling leaves, but by Winter characters had begun to still and settle into their roles.

‘the stopped fish under their dirty window of ice.’

Whether because Foulds is a poet, or due to the historical setting of the novel at many times I almost forgot I was reading a contemporary novel. The dialogue and description felt like they genuinely reflected the 1840’s. In The Quickening Maze Foulds created a vehicle to deliver regular bursts of his poetic prose which makes this novel one of the more elegant for it’s language on this year's longlist.

‘Two crows cranked past with their slow labouring stroke when a wind caught them and swept them round like a finger turning a clock hand.’

It’s possible that The Quickening Maze needs the same attention that a poem requires and that further readings might better unravel it’s many layers. As the Booker judges will be re-reading these novels I think it’s highly likely that we might see this title on next weeks shortlist.

confessions of a chimp

2009-08-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

One of the joys of the Booker Prize list is when I’m introduced to a novel I would not otherwise choose to read - and Me Cheeta certainly fits that bill. And a good job I took a chance on it because I was hooked after a just a few pages.

I know a fair bit about primates and next to nothing about the Golden Age of Hollywood but neither were a barrier to enjoying this book. Whilst specific names and films and incidents meant little to me the overall tone kept me engaged throughout. Cheeta’s story bears much relevance to our current celebrity obsessed culture, where hopefuls fling themselves at fame, and even minor celebrities update their autobiography every other year. At times I had to pinch myself to remember that this was fiction (sort of).

Cheeta, the ultimate unreliable narrator, played varied appealing roles within his life story, and I’m left with many memorable moments. There were scenes of innocence and experience - eating his first banana, seeing stuffed heads of walls and commenting on the animal loving nature of the home-owner. A master of faux naivety, the reader rapidly realises that Cheeta knows far more than he is letting on, such as when he calls a plane an ‘iron bird’ when knowing full well both it’s make and model.

There were moments of existential wisdom -

‘A human trying to act a chimpanzee is somehow pathetic, whereas a chimpanzee trying to act a human is funny because… well, why is that? Something to do with aspiration. You think we’re pure and want to be us. We know you’re not pure, but we still aspire to be you.’

and heartbreaking poetry -

‘I still felt scattered, like the golden light rippling on the underside of a bridge.’

Me Cheeta does what many of the best of the old films does, it makes you laugh, it makes you cry, and it sucks you in despite any reservations you may hold. Earlier copies of the novel name Cheeta as the author, and online articles talk of James Lever merely ghost-writing the autobiography, so it’s hard to know who to credit with the achievement. But it’s fun and unexpected and great to see such a banana skin slipped in amongst the more serious Booker longlisters.

land of confusion

2009-08-16T03:41:00.000-07:00

The Wilderness is the first novel I’ve read that features a central character with Alzheimer’s. It’s a disease that offers plenty of potential for literature, but has inherent pitfalls, which I fear that Harvey fell into at times.

The way Harvey charts the progression of Jake’s illness is memorable and moving. Incidents such as the first time a loved one notices that something isn’t quite right, losing common words, and finally total bewilderment at everyone and everything.

‘He sees a mouth moving, hears words cluster together like a series of shapes that promise tessellation, but which do not, no matter how one turns them.’

I also liked the structure that Harvey used, with the main story interspersed with titled chapters reflecting past events. This made the novel feel a little like a collection of stories, perhaps showing up that there is less organisation to life that we sometimes like to believe, a pretension that Alzheimer’s is keen to strip away.

In the same way as Toibin with Brooklyn I feel Harvey probably achieved her aim, but in reality I found The Wilderness quite a confusing read. Some people have simple lives - if they then develop Alzheimer’s it becomes more confusing. However, when someone has a complex life (as Jake does to my mind) and then Alzheimer’s comes into play the story descends into chaos. To my mind Harvey tried to do too much, and didn’t quite pull it off. Jake’s story without the Alzheimer’s might have worked, the Alzheimer’s story without quite so many other threads might have worked, but the two together clashed.

‘Gradually he is being scattered and lost - hundreds of unread messages floating out across the sea.’

I came to care for the increasingly unreliable narrator Jake, his pockets stuffed full of letters, head stuffed full of grand plans for glass houses, his heart pulled in many directions at once, but at too many times during the novel I felt like I was the one losing the plot.

there and back again

2009-08-08T06:18:00.000-07:00

Irish novels often feel like familiar territory. In almost every one a character heads off to America in hope of a better life. So Brooklyn, with its central story of just that journey, seems like a good place to start my voyage into Booker waters.

This is a novel about a couple of years in the life of Eilis Lacey. And that is both its strength and its weakness - because a novel that has such modest aims relies heavily on the ability of that character to engage the reader. And there Eilis struggled for me.

Eilis is supremely passive. Life happens to her. Major decisions are made for her, and she goes along with them. She assumes there are no other options, but she doesn’t even look for them. I felt little connection with her, perhaps because there was so little substance to connect with. In fact the only glimmer of life came when grief visited. As if until then she was a blank slate waiting for pain to write its message on.

‘Somehow, she thought, if she could look at him, take him in clearly when he was not trying to amuse her or impress her, something would come to her, some knowledge, or some ability to make a decision.’

It seems clear that Colm Toibin intended Eilis to be this way, and he succeeded in maintaining that throughout, but in creating such a passive character inevitably the novel itself took on a lot of her character. At times I felt I was drifting through it, floating from scene to scene, with my attention only partly engaged.

Thankfully my partial engagement took notice of some of the background details which gave my reading greater satisfaction. Many of the minor characters were lively and entertaining. I was particularly fond of the wily Mrs Kehoe. The dialogue of minor characters often brought scenes to life and offered genuine humour in places -

‘No one likes flies,’ Miss Kelly said, ‘especially on a Sunday.’

I also loved the significant role of letters throughout the novel. It is letters that firstly arrange her passage to Brooklyn, and once there Eilis comes to experience her Brooklyn largely through what she chooses to share or omit from her letters home. A times letters hold offer both good and bad news, and in the end they remain unopened and unreplied to signalling Eilis further decent into passivity.

Brooklyn is an example of good old-fashioned linear storytelling. Nothing wrong with that. It’s a calm voyage with Toibin at the helm, although at times I felt like we were barely moving. Admittedly we got to our destination but I can’t help thinking I would have enjoyed a few more choppy patches.

the pick of the crop

2009-07-29T05:02:00.001-07:00

Slap bang in the middle of an English summer, clouds in the sky, and the Booker longlist announced yesterday.

AS Byatt - The Children's Book

JM Coetzee - Summertime

Adam Foulds - The Quickening Maze

Sarah Hall - How to Paint a Dead Man

Samatha Harvey - The Wilderness

Jame Lever - Me Cheeta

Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall

Simon Mawer - The Glass Room

Ed O'Loughlin - Not Untrue & Not Unkind

James Scudamore - Heliopolis

Colm Toibin - Brooklyn

William Trevor - Love and Summer

Sarah Waters - The Little Stranger

My initial impression was one of pleasant surprise that there were quite a few books already on my ‘want to read’ list. In particular How to Paint a Dead Man by Sarah Hall. Her Electric Michelangelo was one of my Booker highlights in 2004 and last year I read her earlier Haweswater and it was my book of the year. I can’t wait to see how this one measures up.

I’ve picked six titles to start with, I’ll see how I get on with those and if I’m still hungry I’ll come back for a second helping. I already had my eye on the Colm Toibin and the Samantha Harvey, so they were easy choices, and I decided to try again with Sarah Waters, as while I’m never that sure about the strength of her writing, she usually writes a pretty good story. The Quickening Maze appealed as I’ve liked fictionalised realities of poets in the past. I’m pushing my boundaries by choosing to read Me Cheeta, it sounds simply bizarre, but Booker reading is about self-challenge, reading things I otherwise might pass over, so that had to go in the virtual basket.

Overall it seems to be a very appealing longlist. If I was asked to read all 13 there is no single title that I would be eyeing with dread. Although for the moment I’m skirting around those two hefty volumes! It seems a varied selection as far as setting and story and time. And with possibly less political agenda that in previous years. A notable absence of an Indian novel too. Quite a few titles that focus on artists, writers. A few that interweave fact with fiction. All in all I’m looking forward to my first batch of books arriving. Let the summer commence!

a rose between two thorns

2009-07-26T04:34:00.000-07:00

Only a couple of days to go before the Booker longlist is announced. Just time to tidy the scrapbook and catch up with my best reads for the last few months. The benefit of getting behind with these means I get to look back and reflect with a little distance, and often the quieter titles shine through with more lasting warmth than those that burned brightest at the time.

Stephen Clayton undoubtedly created a great character in Jonathan. Reflective, existential and able to make fascinating even the most mundane of daily activities. At times I felt like I was reading a modern day Camus. But where the death in The Outsider illuminates Meursault, the death in The Art of Being Dead overshadows Jonathan. It clouds him and draws attention away from the real strengths of Clayton’s writing. I felt like he started well but didn’t quite manage to sustain his creation but this was still easily my best read in April.

‘I was a part of the pub and the silence and the rain, and yet I experienced everything as if through a thin sheet of frosted glass; as if I were my own ghost watching my life unfold about me.’

In contrast Michael Kimball managed to hit the right note straight off and stick with it. Dear Everybody was utterly engrossing and at times almost too real to bear. Impossible to read without wondering what collection of scraps we each might leave behind. Not just my book of the month for May, but stands a high chance of being my book of the year.

‘Unfortunately, the photo shop also processed the unused film at the end of the roll, so that the last few photos are all just black, which made me realize that they were actually photos of all the things that we never did together.’

I sometimes read pieces by Burnside in the LRB. His style draws me in and I find myself fascinated by whatever he chooses to share with me. And so it was with Glister, a weird little tale of a strange Scottish town and it’s peculiar inhabitants. I liked dipping into their perspectives, each as unsettling as the last. I liked the feeling of tension and not-quite-rightness throughout. The ending felt like it spun out of control a bit, but hard to think of a better way to wrap up what Burnside had weaved by then. Quirky and a little rotten, my top June read and one I won’t forget in a hurry.

‘the dead so away into their solitude, but the young dead stay with us, they colour our dreams, they make us wonder about ourselves, that we should be so unlucky, or clumsy, or so downright ordinary as to carry on without them.’

My books of months gone by

2009-04-14T05:00:00.001-07:00

I’ve got a bit behind with my book blogging, but thankfully not with my book reading, and I’ve got a couple of Book of the Months for February and March to share.

‘My mind hopped around agitated on a high tree, would not come down, would not let me read…’

I’ve developed quite a taste for books based in cold settings. Snow, ice, remote, barren, wind-swept places, they all appeal within the pages of a book read in a nice centrally heated house with a cup of tea! So when John Self reviewed Julius Winsome at his Asylum I knew I had to read it. And I wasn’t disappointed. Slightly shaken up, but not disappointed. What a book! I had to force myself to read it slowly, as I knew I did not want to miss a single word. I had to remind myself to breathe. And sometimes to put the book down if I was gripping it too tightly, just as it gripped me. It was so tense, emotionally as well as through the plot, which is a simple but perfect vehicle for Julius to meet us.

‘The winter is fifty books long and fixes you to silence like a pinned insect; your sentences fold themselves into single words, the hand of twelve makes one hand of time.’

If I could stand the loneliness, the cold, the guns and the dead dog then this is the life I would choose to lead. In the meantime I’ll just enjoy the book.

I was impressed by my first introduction to Kate Grenville via her 2006 Booker nominated The Secret River. She has the ability to draw me in, almost purely through the strength of her writing, to stories that might otherwise slip through my fingers. Her next book I read was Lillian’s Story, which I got in a grotty little yellowed paperback. However the story and characters exploded like one of those snakes in a can, and I’ve never quite crammed them back in since. At times I still feel that a little bit of Lillian is lingering near. I was eager then to read Dark Places which Grenville wrote to tell the story of Albion, Lillian’s father, in some ways the flipside of Lillian’s Story. What a great idea - I can’t stop thinking of how many other books I’d like see this done to! It feeds that need of wanting a bit more once a novel has ended, without resorting to a sequel.

‘Their features were jammed together in the centre of their faces like an afterthought, and they all stared out woodenly at the world, as if it cost money to have an expression on your face.’

And Dark Places has nothing of the sequel about it. It begins before Lillian’s Story, and like that, follows quite a linear path of a character’s life. But it is in no way dull for that approach, and whilst at times it is painfully obvious where Albion is heading, we are still gripped to see him get there. Again Grenville has created an utterly life-like character, and while there were times when I felt very uncomfortable spending so much time with such a vile man, I couldn’t help but see him through to the end. And like Lillian, I don’t think I’ll be forgetting him in a hurry.

The Letters - Fiona Robyn

2009-02-26T03:12:00.000-08:00

Over the past few years of blogging I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know a select handful of published authors. I’ve found it fascinating to learn a little about their writerly lifestyles and habits alongside talk about their families, interests and amusements. I’ve picked up tips, numerous reading recommendations and endless encouragement on the way. And typical me, I’ve hoarded their books, eking out the eventual pleasure of reading them.

Fiona Robyn had her book on that pile, and I’m allowing her to jump to the top as it’s due out on Monday 2^nd March and this seemed the perfect time to read it and share my thoughts! I knew it would add an extra dimension to my reading to feel I know the author if only virtually. However I didn’t realise how hard it would make this post. I want to shower The Letters with unconditional praise and say I adored every page. But I can’t, not quite.

One of the things that makes me like a book is if I like the people, places or events within it. It takes an outstanding writer to make me enjoy a book if I don’t like the main character. And truth be told, I didn’t like Violet. I didn’t like her attitudes, or her lifestyle. I don’t think I was particularly meant to like her, but I found it hard even to tolerate her. The only times when I warmed to her at all were when she was reminiscing about her childhood. I felt I could have been friends with the young Violet, but not the woman she grew into. I didn’t like the regular need to use quoted words and phrases within the prose referring to Violet - I felt she might be one of those people who constantly makes quote motions in the air with raised fingers. I wished she’d have used her own voice, her own phrases throughout and not fallen on the safety net of those marks. Some might say that Fiona Robyn has created an authentic character if she can inspire this much dislike in a reader!

‘She’d never been a natural at developing connections. Other people seemed to find them so easy. She sometimes imagined them as having lots of different coloured strings attached to their bodies, representing the things about themselves that other people would find attractive or interesting. All they had to do was take the end of one of these strings and offer it to a passing stranger, and the stranger seemed to willingly take it and become a friend.’

That said there were large parts of The Letters that I enjoyed very much. I loved the letters themselves, the way they appeared out of nowhere and were largely unremarked on by Violet for the majority of the novel. This allowed me to feel like they were my secret. It hinted that I might be able to work out their message before she did - I didn’t, which made the final twist all the more pleasing! I liked and believed in Elizabeth and warmed to her through her words. I would have liked to have spent more time with her.

I loved the structure Fiona Robyn chose for her novel. The shifting back and forth in time weaved the whole together into a neat bag to carry the main plot. There were sharp observational details throughout, as I would come to expect having enjoyed her small stones for some time. I was most delighted by the seaside scenes, and strangely for me, the cat scenes.

‘She didn’t know why she’d never paid proper attention to raindrops before. There was a whole country of individual drops, like citizens, and when a new one splashed down it would either find its own place and sit quietly, or it would merge with a neighbour. If the new raindrop and the neighbour created enough weight they would be smeared across the windowpane by the light wind, and join a whole chain of drops together, gathering speed and fluidity as they streaked down towards the bottom corner of the window-frame.’

I’m sure that readers who get along well with Violet will enjoy a smoother ride than me, but I’m very glad to have read Fiona’s first novel, and wish her all the success she desires for it. And I look forward to reading the next one, to see who she introduces me to!

My book of the month - January

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

I’ll admit that once I would have been a bit snobbish at the thought of book recommendations given by a popular television pair. But over the years I’ve noticed that quite a few novels I’ve really enjoyed have appeared among the Richard & Judy selections. I recently got a copy of The Luminous Life of Lilly Aphrodite - so when I saw it on R & J’s 2009 selection I thought I’d jump it to the top of my reading pile. And what a treat it was.

Beatrice Colin tried to do a few things within the novel, and achieved all with a well-handled balance. Each chapter begins with still image (and for me there is something so thrilling about finding pictures in my novels) and a little snapshot from cinema history.

‘Every evening for a year, barring church holidays, and days off due to ill health, Arnold von Heidle and his wide, Hilda, attended the Union Movie Theatre in Alexanderplatz, Berlin. Two hundred and fifty films they witnessed, incognito, to assemble their extraordinary statistics. And this is what they saw: ninety-seven murders, fifty-one adulteries, nineteen seductions, thirty-five drunks, and twenty-five practising prostitutes.’

Then within the chapters we follow the story of Lilly - a gripping rags to riches story. Her name changes with her role - Tiny Lil, Lilly, Lidi. From orphan to housemaid to film star - from backroom fumbles to a personal invitation back to Germany from Joseph Goebbels. Along the way we learn a bit about interwar Berlin life - especially as it impacts on a small group of women.

We grow to love Lilly, and her perseverance and spirit despite the bad luck that always seems to dump on her doorstep.

‘With snow thick on the ground outside and the air filled with dozens of burning cigarette ends, the bar gave the impression of warmth if not the real thing.’

This was one of those rare books that I thought about when away from its pages. I cared enough about the characters to be eager to return to spend more time with them, and I wondered more than a little at what happened to them after the novel ended. Hence I especially enjoyed the gently omniscient narrator who gives us little glimpses into the fate of those extras who people Lilly’s world - some get their just desserts, some don’t.

a land of plenty

2008-12-30T02:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve heard a number of sad statements regarding books at this seasonal time of year. People saying they have never given or received a book as a present, and that books number among the most unwanted presents.

To redress that balance I bagged a bumper haul from under my tree this year. Family and friends may tire of wrapping flat rectangles but they know what will make me happy.

A little something for the many corners of my reading personality, plenty of pages to dip into through the year ahead.

Drawing Matters - Jane Stobart
The New Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain - Betty Edwards
ABC 3d - Marion Bataille
4000 Animal, Bird and Fish Motifs : A Sourcebook - Graham McCallum
Bird by Bird : Some Instructions on Writing and Life - Anne Lamott
52 Projects : Random Acts of Everyday Creativity - Jeffrey Yamaguchi
The Haiku Anthology - CVD Heuvel
Crow Country - Mark Cocker
A Prickly Affair : My Life with Hedgehogs - Hugh Warwick
Tossed : 200 Fast, Fresh and Fabulous Salads
Vegetable Heaven : Sensational Seasonal Vegetarian Cooking - Mason & Abramson
The Virago Book of Love Letters
Angela Carter's Book of Fairy Tales
The Penguin Book of Classical Myths - Jenny March

This morning I also received a copy of The Art of Being Dead by Stephen Clayton. I have no idea where it came from or who sent it. I don’t recall asking for it, or ordering it, but I’m very pleased to give it a home as I’ve read a lot about it and want to read it. What a pleasant surprise! They say money doesn’t grow on trees, but this morning it almost felt like books did!

hunting and gathering

2008-11-16T04:18:00.000-08:00

When it works fiction can do many things - it can entertain, enlighten, educate or challenge. I know I’ve read a good book when I walk away with at least a couple of these in my basket. When a book dispenses a hefty dose of imagination it can also change the way you see something, so that you will never see that thing in quite the same way again. Two recent reads did that for me The Night Country (Stewart O’Nan) and Firmin (Sam Savage). After reading these books ghosts and rats are forever altered. O’Nan doesn’t rely on the usual ghost reactions - instead he elicits our empathy for his ghosts, and shows us the fine lines between the living and the dead. And in Savage’s creation of Firmin, the little book-loving existential angst-ridden rat, I feel I’ve found a true friend.

Sometimes I get stuck in a run of poor books, ones that don’t hit the mark, that I trudge through beginning to end. And then I hit a rich vein where every one seems to sparkle and shine. And hot on the heels of those two came Astrid and Veronika (Linda Olsson) - the kind of book that tears me in two. I want to linger over every page, savour every word. I want to take time between chapters to contemplate what I’ve just read before I return for another dose. But at the same time I can’t tear myself away, I feel bereft when I lay the book down. Not because of a page-turning plot, but just because I feel at home within the pages, and a little more lonely when away from them. This is the kind of book I want to write. A simple story about two women and their unlikely friendship. But within that the whole of their lives. Two stories, more stories, meeting in one. There is perfect attention to detail throughout, colour, texture, light and sound. Little images connect to create a memory space for the two characters to dance in.

And finally for something a little different. Usually I’m content with any old paperback copy of the book I want to read, but very occasionally I hold out for a particular version. And The Book of Imaginary Beings (Jorge Luis Borges) was one such case. I saw that there was a hardback version with quirky illustrations (by Peter Sis) and I knew that was the way I wanted to come to this book. It’s my first experience with Borges and won’t be my last, although I acknowledge its not a full dose of him, being a kind of encyclopaedia. Within these pages I’ve met many wondrous new acquaintances along with more familiar faces. Two of my favourites have been The Ink Monkey ‘whenever people write, it sits with folded hands and crossed legs, waiting till the writing is finished, when it drinks up the remainder of the ink’ and Swedenborg’s Angels where ‘Things’ appearances change to correspond to states of emotion; each Angel’s clothing shines in proportion to its intelligence’. Both of who would be handy to know in day to day life!

batten down the hatches

2008-10-13T02:43:00.000-07:00

When I published this post I noticed I'd started it with the same complaints as I'd written in my last post regarding the poor selection of Booker titles this year etc etc. So I'll cut the repetition and admit that I rather lost interest in the process. I’d read all but two of the shortlist and couldn’t face trying to slog my way through the two giants that I hadn’t - although if either wins I might read it once it makes paperback. My favourite read was the John Berger which didn’t make the shortlist, and from the short list I’m backing Linda Grant, but I’ve got a funny feeling that the judges will chose The White Tiger as their winner.

I finished Sea of Poppies and did enjoy it, but have learnt that I don’t really

do epics, and its clearly that. It obviously felt like the first part of a trilogy as the resolutions that were reached by the end weren’t large enough considering the build up. I was also a little let down that it took till two thirds of the way through before all involved parties with gathered on The Ibis, and we only hit the sea at the very end.

‘The wind had fallen off, so there was not a fleck of white visible on the surface, and with the afternoon sun glaring down, the water was as dark and still as the cloak of shadows that covers the opening of an abyss.’

It took me a while to get to grips with who was who, although when I was with any character I felt fully immersed in their story. It felt like mingling at a giant party, where you soon get to know whose company you enjoy the most. I most liked my time spent with Deeti and Paulette.

Although there was lots of strange and inaccessible dialect words, slang and shipboard terminology that we couldn’t hope to understand I didn’t feel lost as many characters seemed equally baffled and there is a comforting lack of a glossary - so we are clearly encouraged to take it as it comes.

‘…beneath the surface of this farrago of sound, meaning flowed as freely as the currents beneath the crowded press of boats.’

Sea of Poppies also contained my favourite animal encounter of my Booker reading - the scene with the stoned monkeys hanging around outside the opium factory.

So, I’ve left the Booker behind for another year. My papery boat is currently sailing me into mountainous territory courtesy of Robert Macfarlane - Mountains of the Mind. I’m also planning a few spooky reads in a nod to the annual R.I.P. challenge.

short measures

2008-09-09T03:25:00.000-07:00

The announcement of the Booker shortlist is expected later today. I have read 7 and ¾ books from the longlist. And have shared my thoughts on 7 of those here. I’m 100 pages from finishing Sea of Poppies and am hoping that we actually head out to sea before the end!

It seems I’m not the only person to feel a little disappointed by this years selection. Or perhaps the past few years have just spoilt us. Some of these books felt quite a drag to get through whereas in the past I’ve enjoyed being introduced to some sparkling new literature. Perhaps this year offered a poor choice of new releases, perhaps the Booker judging panel have unusual tastes?

Only 4 of those I read deserve a place on my shortlist, those being -

From A to X - John Berger

The Lost Dog - Michelle de Kretser

The Clothes on Their Backs - Linda Grant

The Secret Scripture - Sebastian Barry

I’ll wait to see which titles make the official shortlist before I decide whether to read any more this year…

From A to X - John Berger

2008-09-08T03:52:00.001-07:00

We are allowed access to the letters sent from A’ida to Xavier during his time in prison. We are eavesdroppers in their story - trying to build a picture of their lives despite the non-chronological order of the letters and the lack of responses from Xavier. We cannot know everything, we are asked to read between the lines. We must bring our own contribution to this story. Berger demonstrates the principle of show not tell at its very best.

Everyday events are interspersed with feelings and thoughts. This is true communication - the art of letter writing, of love. It is writing to share life experiences, however mundane. Love is so tangible in these letters - perhaps proving that absence does make the heart grow fonder, perhaps such passionate expressions of love could only be shared through a letter rather than face to face.

The troubles in their country are inherent and referred to but never dominate and aren’t explained or justified or attacked - and they gain power for that. A’ida shields Xavier from the harsher truths, sometimes only offering him news that will comfort him. She writes the harder things for herself, but they remain unsent.

There are many striking moments that will stay with me for a long time - images and events that A’ida describes, like flying with Xavier, the isolation, the height and defying gravity. Berger captures the sensuality of this woman so well. One of my favourite letters was the one where she is eating blackcurrants and spotting small snails.

Collected quotes - ‘He walked several hundred metres down the road to one of the ancient ruins, where a window-frame was still a window-frame, even if there was no glass, and a chair was still a chair with two legs missing. There he found in an outhouse what he was looking for - a broom.’ and ‘I take a small bite for both of us. The baked wheat flour and almond dust, sweet and a little greasy, lines the top of the palette, it sticks to the curved roof of the mouth, whilst below, on the floor, on our tongue lie tiny fragments of roasted nut to shift between the teeth and bite into.’

My favourite Booker read so far - 8 out of 10 snails

and now for a short break

2008-09-07T03:26:00.000-07:00

I’ve not read a lot of short story collections - but over recent years I’ve dipped into Hanif Kureishi, Anne Enright, Bernard Schlink, Ian McEwan, and Franz Kafka among others. Only two short story books have had any lasting impression on me - The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios (Yann Martel) and The Bloody Chamber (Angela Carter). At best I find I am no sooner getting involved in a short story before it has ended. I often find little connection between the stories in a collection and they appear randomly bundled together, with quite a few appearing as padding. At worst a story can read as little more than a writing exercise that should never have gone any further than the authors notebook.

My aim with Short Story Summer was to immerse myself more fully in the form and to try to break down my barriers to enjoyment. And I feel I have succeeded. And I think the shift has come due to my redefining what I hope to get from the stories. The best analogy is the album versus the compilation. I am a fan of both, but there is a time and a place for each. If I want a complete piece, which hopefully speaks as a whole and shows progression throughout I will opt for an album by an artist. If I want variety, and am willing to accept that some tracks will be great, others less so I would choose a compilation. And this is how the short stories have worked for me. Reading them alongside novels means that if I want a sustained reading session, picking up familiar characters and plot and places I will reach for the novel. If I want a quick fix of something new I will read a couple of stories. I’ve also learned to look for my own themes to tie the collections together, and once I’ve found these the stories have felt more satisfying.

I’m not done with my journey into the land of the short story - I’m halfway through Dave Eggers at the moment, but for now, these are the ones I’ve read -

Margaret Atwood - Moral Disorder

I broke myself in gently by reading a collection by an author I like. Atwood has also chosen to unite her stories by having them revolve around one central character - meeting her at different times and places in her life. Many stories focus on relationships with friends, lovers, parents, siblings, children and animals. I particularly enjoyed ones about houses lived in and the movements between them, her as a teenage literature lover, and reading the morning news. Atwood offers vignettes of a life - some are familiar to me as a reader some not so, but the way she portrays them allows me a level of access and recognition to each.

‘She was particularly apprehensive about doors, and about who might come through them.’

Andre Dubus - Dancing After Hours

This was the most striking of the three collections I read. Dubus writes with precise, tight prose. Sentences are sparing with each word carefully placed. The stories focus closely on people and particularly their feelings. Bodies thriving and failing featured often. He seemed especially strong when writing from the female viewpoint. Three of the stories feature the same character - as if Dubus can’t quite bear to let her go. The stories are fragile, heartbreaking, uplifting and poetic. Some of the stories feel as though they are written backwards - you know what the big conclusion is going to be from the start, but the pleasure is in seeing how you get there.

‘…feared scattered her grief: it lay beside her, hovered behind her. Shards of it stayed in her body; she could touch the places they pierced in her brain and heart.’

Gina Ochsner - People I Wanted to Be

There is unreality amid the everyday in these stories - the magical sits alongside the mundane. It’s almost supernatural but never in an intentionally scary way - Ochsner’s ghosts are household ghosts. Stories focus on the missing and the lost - and some people are lost even when they are firmly present. There is a sadness and a resigned tone to many of the stories. The eastern European settings and characters in some stories seems to reinforce this. Again there are repetitions in the collection as a whole - mostly in tone, but I couldn’t help but smile as for the fourth time I read about a fish being filled with oil - once in a bath, once on a bus.

‘In Archangel he’d gotten into a face-slapping contest with a priest. When a clear victor could not be decided, the priest has stabbed Niels in the hand with a holy bird feather carved out of ice.’

Girl in a Blue Dress - Gaynor Arnold

2008-09-02T04:20:00.000-07:00

They say don’t judge a book by it’s cover - but I think its important to like something you are going to hold in your hands for a few days. And I don’t like this, the blue is too blue, that silver ‘nomination declaration’ looks tacky and was clearly added at the last minute and the paper quality is quite poor, it almost feels a bit vanity press. I know that Tindal Street is a small independent publisher but I don’t recall that What Was Lost from last year looked this bad.

I thought the parts about the public grief and mourning and mass funeral of Alfred Gibson were quite interesting as they seemed very current with the ways the public has claimed a share of private grief and the nature of celebrity.

There was a dated feel to the prose. I wonder if this is inevitable or intentional? either way I didn’t really like it. If I wanted to read a Dickensian novel I would read Dickens. Which brings me to another gripe about this - I think that fictionalised accounts of real people can be great novels - but I would prefer it to be one thing or the other - call him Dickens if he is meant to be Dickens, not something else but acknowledging at the end that its mostly Dickens. It just seems slightly lacking in balls to go all the way.

I liked the focus on the woman behind the great man. The pull of the family versus the spouse versus the public. The sacrifices that are made in the name of art. And questions about how good liberated thinking really is. How possible is it to commit to one when you are loved by many?

Another novel that seems to be an individuals account of their life, through time, writing wrongs and seeking understanding and forgiveness.

Collected quote - ‘I have to confess to a certain mute rebellion as I poured half the tea away in the potted ferns, and gave the biscuits to the dog or, when the dog refused, threw them on the fire, where they burned with a resentful glow.’

Just an ok read - rather longwinded, with lots of quite repetitive dialogue and nothing very striking. It read a quite a thorough piece of research, with a little speculation thrown in, but fell rather flat in the telling, which was rather disappointing seeing as it was about a key literary figure. 5 out of 10 cups of tea

The Secret Scripture - Sebastian Barry

2008-09-02T03:52:00.000-07:00

I call this chewy prose. I need to read it slowly, to savour it, at times to read parts aloud to hear the words dissolve in the air to get their full impact. To me it’s no surprise that this is published by Faber & Faber, I associate them with the more poetic end of prose.

Roseanne has a nostalgic voice that I could listen to for hours. She is hypnotic and lulls me into a pleasing dreamlike state.

Collected quotes - ‘There was a curious skein of whiteness on her features, like a sprinkle of halfhearted snow on a roadside. Perhaps it was a powder she used. The sunlight that they day outside virtually dumped into the room had betrayed it.’ and ‘…it all gathered together like a sea, the sea of Bet, and rose up from the depths of our history, the seabed of all we were, in a great wave, and crashed down on the greying shore of myself, engulfed me, and would that it had washed me away for good.’

I like the duet that the two narratives create. Dr. Grene isn’t all knowing despite his power and position and Roseanne fills in the gaps for us. Although at times their voices sound rather too alike considering their difference in age and circumstance, this seems rather unlikely. There is a confessional tone, it feels like they are speaking directly to the reader. This seems quite common in Irish literature.

There is a gothic tone to this novel. Rat catchers, grave diggers, orphanages, asylums, ghostly phonecalls and windswept beaches. It is the second book in a row to feature a hanging.

The relationship between psychiatrist and patient seems a popular one - and if it’s done well it’s one I enjoy. A good example for me was 98 Reasons for Being (Clare Dudman) while one that didn’t work was The Other Side of You (Salley Vickers).

This would have been higher up in my 2008 Booker favourites were it not for the ending - which came so suddenly and felt so contrived as to leave me with nothing but an ‘oh’ of disappointment! 7 out of 10 falling feathers

A Case of Exploding Mangoes - Mohammed Hanif

2008-09-02T03:18:00.000-07:00

The humour (which seems to be one of its selling points) didn’t really appeal to me - at times I felt like I was watching an episode of ‘It Ain’t Half Hot Mom’ with my parents - they are laughing, I know it’s funny, but I can’t quite bring myself to laugh.

Mostly the humour revolves around - hierarchy, procedure, religion and sex and toilets. Ineffectual men and dominant women (The First Lady was my favourite character!). Petty inner rivalries. At times I am reminded of Catch 22. I wonder what we are meant to gain from reading this book - is satire meant to carry a serious message or just to entertain?

A lot of the book revolves around knocking people down to size - important people make to look stupid and vice versa.

I liked the sections told from the perspective of Shigri more than those of Zia. Perhaps because he is the downtrodden one, and we gain more personal access to his feelings. I also likes the way the dual narratives steadily came together to a conclusive meeting point.

Hanif has a good eye to detail, which makes for some decent pieces of prose, I’d like to see what he does with a more straight novel, as this didn’t really appeal to me.

‘The scribbling on the walls is in three language and the writers have used a variety of materials. I can read two of the languages, the third I have to guess. I can make out the etchings done with nails. The dried rust is probably blood, and I don’t wan to think what else they might have used.’

5 out of 10 canny crows

The Clothes on their Backs - Linda Grant

2008-08-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

A novel with a strong focus on seeking to know and understand personal identity - which comes through both the clothes people choose to wear and their ties to their family and background. Vivien grows up by learning her place within her family and within its secrets.

The clothes theme ran throughout - a gentle but persistent theme can work very well, and tie the novel together as whole. In this it reminded me of the previous Booker nomination Sixty Lights (Gail Jones). Clothes are like fashionable archaeology, uncovering layers to discover what lies beneath - the clothes tell you as much, if not more, when they are vacated as when worn.

I enjoyed the parts about Benson Court as I have lived in a block of flats its fair share of eccentrics and lives overseen.

Collected quotes - ‘Without her, he filled himself up with the gas of his own thoughts and floated off into another dimension.’ & ‘A woman passed in an electric blue sequined gown and matching shoes whose sequins had been stuck on the white silk with glue and they fell away from her as she walked, leaving a trail like blue dandruff.’

Characters were individual, well drawn and warm. The story within a story worked well, we learn of the life of Sandor through his dictation to Vivien. I liked the 70’s London setting. At times the prose felt a little clunky, but when Grant was on form it flowed well.

My favourite Booker ’08 read so far - 7 out of 10 hangers

The Lost Dog - Michelle de Kretser

2008-08-11T07:50:00.000-07:00

The eponymous dog is lost early on, and perhaps I would run away from Tom too given the chance? The writing reminded me of Edward St. Aubyn and John Banville in that I liked the writing but not necessarily the characters

Tom being an art loving writer allowed for some striking prose as we see his world through his eye. [‘The air over the paddocks was a substance between liquid and paper. It held, on the horizon, the trace of a mountain: a watercolour blotted while wet into almost blankness.’] Although as the novel drew on I found the writing overly rich and at times cloying.

We visit India again, this time from a distance, framed through childhood memory. We also briefly witness the event of 9/11 - interesting how many contemporary novels now mention that day.

Nelly hoards strange items in her gallery and sometimes this book reminded me of her collections. A beguiling jumble that delights but keeps its overall purpose vague.

The art scene scenes irritated me. Perhaps artists are interesting on their own but put them together and they easily annoy. (Art based book I liked = Port Mungo (Patrick McGrath), art based book I didn’t = Life Class (Pat Barker)) But I liked the man and dog stuff, and the man and mother stuff, and would have preferred to focus more on these.

Tom is defined largely through his relations with others, his mother, Nelly, his friends, acquaintances, colleagues but perhaps most importantly by his friendship with the dog - ‘Love without limits was reserved for his own species. To display great affection for an animal invariably provoked censure. Tom felt ashamed to admit to it. It was judged excessive: overflowing a limit that was couched as a philosophical distinction, as the line that divided the rational, human creature from all others. Animals, deemed incapable of reason, did not deserve the same degree of love.’ 7 out of 10 orange knots

The White Tiger - Aravind Adiga

2008-08-07T05:08:00.000-07:00

As previously threatened I am abandoning the traditional review - these are the notes I made as I read, they create a vague impression of how I responded to the novel.

Pleasing matt finish sleeve and bright white pages.
Reads almost like a monologue, anecdotal, confessional. Adiga, and through him, Balram are great storytellers. They keep the narrative lively and flowing.
I like the way the chapters are the consecutive nights on which Balram sends his email - this creates a strong sense of time passing.
Animals important throughout. Is this a theme for this years Booker nominees as I notice they appear in some of the other books? is there any animal lover on the judging panel?
Do my first Booker reads always have a penis fixation? Last year it was the Irish length courtesy of Anne Enright this year Balram’s ever mentioned beak!
Reminders of The Reluctant Fundamentalist and Animal’s People and Shantaram.
Collected quotes -
‘things that drop into your mind, like lizards from the ceiling, in the half-hour before falling asleep’
‘stamping on the goat turds which had spread like a constellation of black stars on the ground.’
This is scratch and sniff India. That familiar chewing of paan and spitting of red juices but making a new kind of mess this time. Not the best Indian novel I’ve read (which would probably be something by Raj Kamal Jha) but far from the worst. Six out of ten silver whistles!

the wheat from the chaff

2008-07-29T07:24:00.001-07:00

The Booker judges caught us by surprise this year by announcing the longlist just after 2 p.m. I quickly made myself a coffee and then scooted through the list, cross checking prices at my favoured online booksellers and placing orders for the ones I fancy reading. Initial impressions are that I haven’t managed to bag any bargains like I did last year - prices quite uniform across my sellers. Bookrabbit has come out well on price on three of my chosen titles, and if their delivery speed is up to their usual standard I should be reading the first of these titles before the end of the week.

First to get those I haven’t ordered out of the way -

Gaynor Arnold - Girl in a Blue Dress

John Berger - From A to X

both of which are not yet released. I like the sound of the Berger, but the Arnold sounds a little reminiscent of the dreaded Winnie and Wolf.

Joseph O’Neill - Netherland

Salman Rushdie - The Enchantress of Florence

I’ve read reviews of both of these in the LRB. I’ve never read any Rushdie and perhaps I’m wrong to dismiss him without trying, but this doesn’t sound the best place for me to start. And I read the Netherland review only yesterday, and finished by saying aloud ‘that sounds like just the sort of book that used to be on the Booker list’. I simply don’t think I’m programmed to enjoy a cricket novel!

Steve Toltz - A Fraction of the Whole

Philip Hensher - The Northern Clemency

Both of these look quite good (and John Self’s review of the first didn’t totally put me off) but they are so hefty I don’t know if I can bring myself to make that kind of commitment.

Tom Rob Smith - Child 44

And I might / probably / perhaps get this one later on. But it just looks a bit too much like a cheap thriller to me. Hopefully someone will review it and change my mind.

So, having dismissed over half the list already, the ones I have ordered and am looking forward to receiving are -

Aravind Adiga - The White Tiger

Sebastian Barry -The Secret Scripture

Michelle de Kretser - The Lost Dog

Amitav Ghosh - Sea of Poppies

Linda Grant - The Clothes on Their Backs

Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

back on the branch

2008-07-29T03:28:00.000-07:00

My desk calendar for 2008 comes from the marvellous Audubon Society. Each day a wonderful and often weird bird appears. Today, most appropriately is a kingfisher. But not just any kingfisher, gone is the familiar green of our

U.K.

friend. Especially apt as I plan to slightly redefine the purpose of The Kingfisher Scrapbook.

I’ve come to realise that whilst I love reading, and love reading about books, I don’t particularly enjoying writing about them. Or more specifically I don’t enjoy trying to write objective reviews. I don’t like re-capping the plot, or trying to give a fair overview of what a novel is trying to do. I am an analogy addict and I prefer to wrap up my opinions in a variety of unlikely metaphors. I like to say why I like or dislike a book with little regard as to whether that information is helpful or accurate or interesting to anyone else.

Later this afternoon I shall be thoroughly abusing my F5 key as I wait for the Booker Longlist to be announced. I will then peruse the list and grab any titles I like the look of. [I’m trying not to fall into another Winnie and Wolf trap this year, and order something I don’t like the look of, only to quit it 50 pages in and feel bad about it!] Over the coming weeks I will share my reactions to those books here, but possibly in a slightly different form than recent years.

Most Booker Prize titles are hardbacks. I find hardbacks by nature hard. They are heavy to take out of the house and have sharp and awkward corners, risky for reading in bed. As such I like to read a more friendly paperback alongside the Booker books to fill those book-needy moments where a hardback won’t fit. This summer I’ve decided to challenge a long held distrust - the short story. I’ve never been too sure of the form, and have read very few short story collections that I’ve really liked. I think I am a person that needs to be thoroughly immersed in a story, and no sooner have they begun than they have ended. But I have gathered a selection of collections and am keen to see whether I can break through my barrier. So let Short Story Summer commence with one of the following -

the good the bad and the postscript

2008-05-11T02:56:00.000-07:00

I don’t have many memories of bedtime storytelling from my childhood. It’s not that my parents were neglectful, I just wasn’t particularly interested in books until my mid teens. I do remember my father reading tales of The Secret Seven to me when I was in hospital with a broken leg. But no abundance of early fairytale flavoured memories.

But when I read Jeanette Winterson I feel like I’m remembering that feeling. That primitive need to be absorbed and entertained by a crazy tale. And Lighthousekeeping is a great one. Like a vine in an enchanted forest it loops and tangles. Sometimes it catches my ankle and trips me up. Sometimes it cradles me in its coils and lets me dream.

‘It was an uncomfortable place; the wind screeched at the windows, a hammock was half the price of a bed, and a bed was twice the price of a good night’s sleep. The food was mountain mutton that tasted like fencing, or hen tough as a carpet, that came flying in, all a-squawk behind the cook, who smartly broke its neck.’

And the fact that it’s sea based is icing on the cupcake. I think that sea based novels are creeping up to sit on the pedestal previously reserved for cold-based novels.

‘…I am splintered by great waves. I am coloured glass from a church window long since shattered. I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.’

Other books fall short of the pedestal. The Other Side of You was one of those books that I finish yet remain unsure whether I enjoyed it or not. What I do know is that Salley Vickers (who I can’t resist calling Salty Knickers!) always surprises me. For some reason I expect her to write novels that are one step up from chick-lit, but actually she writes intelligent and dense stories. And that the relationship between a psychiatrist and patient makes for an interesting novel - although I have read better versions of the story, with Clare Dudman’s 98 Reasons for Being and Patrick McGrath’s Asylum springing to mind. And that while I like novels that refer to characters love of particular artists, I didn’t feel particularly interested by all the talk of Caravaggio. Perhaps you have to like the artist referred to if you are to enjoy the novel? But that my main problem was the narrator. His tone irritated me throughout and I struggled to maintain sympathy with him. This reminded me of how I feel when I read John Banville.

Both novels had one of those P.S. sections at the back where they put an author interview, lists of recommended books, and essays about aspects of the novel. In Winterson’s I was charmed to read,

‘I wanted to pile stories on top of stories, like bedcovers for a cold night.’

While I found myself quite irritated with Ms Vickers own written voice, so perhaps my tone problem shouldn’t be blamed on her character alone? Its nothing personal, she probably wouldn’t like me either!.

winter is for women

2008-03-24T04:44:00.001-07:00

The Kingfisher has been quiet of late. It’s not that I’ve not been reading, just that what I’ve read hasn’t encouraged me to say much about it. Until last week, and Wintering - an engaging, researched and accomplished book in which Kate Moses tells the story of the last few months of Sylvia Plath. I thought the book was excellent but was left with questions jumping off the page and demanding further thought, if not answers.

Striking throughout the novel is the tone of the writing , which to me has a strong Plath influence running through it - perhaps inevitable when trying to share her inner thoughts with the reader? But it made me think about whether writers think in the same way as which they write. I’m not sure that I do. I also wondered if the novel wasn’t a convenient outlet for Moses Plathesque ramblings. I wavered between thoroughly enjoying the book, and feeling a little disservice to the dead at fictionalizing / fantasizing what Sylvia might have thought and felt.

‘It is the black husk of another life that blows through her: the cold planetary blank of the crawl space, lightless beneath her mother’s cellar; the flaking of dead stars into her eye as she bashes her head against the edge of the concrete foundation.’

At times I felt as if I was reading a work of parallel fiction (by which a novel refers wholly or in part to another character or work of fiction - e.g. Wicked (Maguire) and March (Brooks) - both of which I liked). This is probably due to the mythology that has grown around Plath, at times turning her into a character more than a real individual. It was both comforting and disappointing to know from the start how the book would ultimately end - that Sylvia would never finish all those jars of carefully hoarded honey.

‘The ruin of winter. Sylvia feels the scrape of those words inside her, efficient and deadly. It’s not the abundance in her life that makes her uneasy; it’s the idea of loss that exists alongside, like some terrible hibernating animal nested within her walls.’

I am fascinated by novels that refer to other literary characters or authors, but I am torn between thinking it’s skilful to add new dimensions to a familiar story or perhaps a little lazy. When does this kind of novel cross the boundary into the realms of hero worship and fall into the pit of fan fiction? I think Kate Moses falls on the right side of most of these fine lines, but I wonder if a less skilled novel attempting to do the same could be an utter mess.

a handful of murmurs

2008-01-24T11:21:00.000-08:00

The other day I mentioned how hard it is to resist the lure of the newest books on my to-be-read shelf. There are exceptions to this rule. Those books that I let gather a welcome coating of dust, because I don’t want to read them too soon, to savour the pleasure of looking forward to them.

The Haiku Year is such a book. A personal pledge between seven friends that made it into the public sphere. I waited about 5 years after its publication before I bought a copy, and as long again before I read it. But I began it early this year, and it’s proved to be well worth the wait.

Every new year I make a repeated resolution to read more poetry. Deep down I feel sure it will open my eyes wider to the world around me and in turn enrich my own writing. The introduction of this book makes a similar call to arms. It also gently disclaims -

‘We never intended for these to be published, they were just little gifts to one another across space.’

Haiku is about saying a lot in a few words. As such I don’t want to overburden the little green book with a wordy review. Suffice instead to share a few of my personal highlights. And a little picture - there are many like this throughout the book - those little scraps, tickets, packets that we pass over mostly without noticing.

While I can’t necessarily relate to the circumstances of some of these haiku as many are strongly of their moment and place which is far from mine, I can relate to the desire to hold onto those moments as they pass, and to share them with select friends.

the time machine

2008-01-10T10:50:00.000-08:00

I claim to prefer contemporary novels. But perhaps I got more than I bargained for with Graffiti My Soul. In a settled but largely soulless Surrey town it tells the story of Veerapen and his friends, who resemble the kids from Black Swan Green grown up and a few years before they turn into the cast of Trainspotting.

‘Like fruit pickers, we’re seasonal. Summer is no good for our fun. We work better in the darkness of winter. One kid’s terrifying gloom is another kid’s safety net.’

Niven Govinden uses chapters of varying length and subtle shifts in time to build a picture of teenage life. We see Veerapen with his dad before his parents separation, supporting his mum through the lonely days that follow, we see him with various girlfriends, various male friends, with teachers and his running coach. The pieces fall both before and after the pivotal moment of the death of Moon Suzuki, the main object of his affection.

Govinden skilfully portrays both the inner and outer selves that Veerapen battles daily to unify. His struggle to settle into a singular version of himself was one of the most engaging and memorable elements of the novel. He makes a believable teenager - obsessed with girls, boys, sport, music and clothes - family bonds in the process of stretching but not quite breaking.

‘Flower-print normality papered over giant worry cracks; nothing fooling no one.’

This is a sharply British novel, acutely of the moment, liberally peppered with references to popular culture - myspace, i-pods, txting, happy slapping, pro-ana and even a passing reference to ‘insania’! And perhaps here lies its inherent weakness. Will these references mean anything to a reader who comes to this novel in 10 or 15 years time, or will the majority of the text be as incomprehensible as most small town graffiti?

the end of the affair

2007-12-31T08:03:00.000-08:00

Just time for a little round up, as we depart the festive season and get ready to enter a new year.

As hoped there were many pleasing parcels under my Christmas tree, including a bounty of new books to add to my sagging shelves. I’m pleased to welcome -

Found: the best lost, tossed, and forgotten items from around the world (Davy Rothbart)

Wall and Piece (Banksy)

A Winter Book (Tove Jansson)

How We Became Human (Joy Harjo)

Storm Damage (Brian Patten)

Capyboppy (Bill Peet)

Bogwoppit (Ursula Moray Williams)

Survivor - My Story, the next chapter (Sharon Osbourne)

Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell (Susanna Clarke)

A little something for the poet, the dreamer, the artist, the collector and the child in all of us.

As the last days fade I annually compile a summary of the best albums, films and books of my past year, to circulate among like-minded friends. This year I share part of that list with you, my virtual but well-read friends.

With the help of Goodreads it would have been all too easy to pick ten books with a 5 star rating - but looking back perhaps at times I was too generous with those stars - you just finish a book, you enjoyed it, you give it 5 out of 5, you look back months later and some that only got 4 now seem stronger and more lasting given a bit of distance. I’ve therefore picked 10 books (out of the 93 that I read this year) that appealed for different reasons -

In A Fishbone Church (Catherine Chidgey) - my favourite Compass Journey Page read of this year

Encyclopedia of Snow (Sarah Emily Miano) - my favourite form messing book, and probably my favourite cover too

The Road (Cormac McCarthy) - for seeing my old cowboy loving friend trying his hand at something different

The Gift of Rain (Tan Twan Eng) - for being the Booker novel that most surprised me by how much I liked it

Number9dream (David Mitchell) - for making me feel so excited by a book, jumping around and smiling and all

Fred and Edie (Jill Dawson) - for being my favourite new author of the year

Do White Whales Sing at the Edge of the World? (Paul Wilson) - for being picked from a charity shop on the title alone but being thoroughly splendid

This Side of Brightness (Colum McCann) - for bleak beauty and making me care about tunnels under New York

The Poisonwood Bible (Barbara Kingsolver) - for allowing me yet again to prefer the voice of the retard

Tori Amos : Piece by Piece (Tori Amos) - for being my favourite non-fiction, and for making me love her even more, despite not really understanding a thing she is on about

See you all on the other side.

tis the season

2007-12-22T06:36:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I received a delightful little book called Sei - The Glassblower’s Apprentice in the post from Canongate - they had even taken the trouble to co-ordinate the envelope to match the book cover! A festive treat and a vast improvement on the usual corporate card. And its prompted me to do a pre-Christmas catch up.

A long time on the shelves I finally dusted off Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams with the desire to sample Sylvia Plath in prose mode. Many of the pieces are awkward and not that great (although she sounds particularly strong when writing about the sea), but at times her unique eye shines through and we get phrases that would sit happily in her later poems -

‘There might be a hiss of rain on the pane, there might be wind sighing and trying the creaks of the house like keys’

I also travelled beyond the sky via Moondust : In Search of the Men Who Fell to Earth (Andrew Smith). I enjoyed the author speculation far more than the actual meetings with the astronauts, and his lunar descriptions were unexpectedly poetic, full of shadows and silence - with a moonwalker struggling to navigate the surface ‘trapped in a dusty hall of mirrors’.

I have also conquered my vague fear of Paul Auster. I read The New York Triology about ten years ago, mainly to see why so many of my friends had him high on their literary pedestals. But it didn’t help me to understand - it was ok, but nothing that special. Since then I’ve built him up into one of those ‘he must be great, it must be me that is lacking something’ writers - but I decided to give him a go again. And I genuinely enjoyed Oracle Night - despite the fact that my copy had brown speckles embedded in every other page (which distracted me far more than his use of footnotes). I still don’t think he is that special, but he writes something a bit different, and that is mostly a good thing.

For a reader like me its impossible not to give books to all my friends at Christmas. This year I have wrapped and handed over about a dozen volumes, in all shapes, sizes and persuasions. Books of pictures, books of words, and blank books for those who long to write their own. I’ve also spotted a fair few book-shaped presents lingering under our tree, so hopes are high that my shelves will be even more laden come this time next week.

At this time of magic and sparkle I like to pick appropriate books to read, things that harmonise with the season. Last year I immersed myself in a couple of the Canongate Myths, and there are two still on my shelf so over the coming week I might slip my head inside The Helmet of Horror or dip my finger into the Lion’s Honey. Or I might spend time with Geoff Ryman (Was) and see where his re-working of the Oz story lands me. And then there is The Book of Lost Things (John Connolly) apparently a fairytale for adults - but which has such mixed reviews that I’m rather wary of it.

But for now I am spending the last days of advent in the company of The Portable Virgin (Anne Enright’s collection of short stories) - aptly titled what with all that business with Mary and the donkey!

three's a crowd

2007-11-27T07:14:00.000-08:00

My absence from the Kingfisher roost is not because I’ve not been reading - if anything it’s that I’ve been too wrapped up in reading to remember to review. I’m poor at multi-tasking - I’ve always struggled to balance the ins and outs of reading and writing. It’s just the way I am - little point in trying to fight it. So no proper reviews for now but some snippets from recent notable reads.

My second RIP II challenge read was The Fifth Child by Doris Lessing. My first proper foray into Lessing Land (I have a vague memory of reading her at school, perhaps a short story about swimming through an underwater tunnel?) and surely not my last. It’s a brave woman who writes a book that questions that innate mother / child love bond and Lessing is up to the task.

‘One early morning, something took Harriet quickly out of her bed into the baby’s room, and there she saw Ben balanced on the window-sill. It was high - heaven only knew how he had got up there! The window was open. In a moment he would have fallen out of it. Harriet was thinking, What a pity I came in… and refused to be shocked at herself.’

She lulls you with her tone and her setting, not to mention that meek little granny author photo on the cover - and then grabs you with teeth and claws.

And then there was Fred and Edie by Jill Dawson. My new favourite author.

‘I could eat those flowers. I want to eat them, to fill up my mouth with things green, things alive, things which keep growing and dying and growing again. I want to fill myself up and keep out the grey in here, the fine dust, the thinness and coldness, the bloodless drinks of tea, the empty corners of the room where even light, even air is absent and only absence is present like a grey crushing blanket, a suffocating weight.’

And what to do when you find one like Dawson - read all the novels in one delicious feast or try to eek them out, to savour and to tease? At the moment I’m trying the latter but feel myself edging dangerously nearer to the former all the time.

And then most recently Into the Forest by Jean Hegland. This was the first recommendation from the first book blog I read that I have followed through to reading completion. A simple but striking tale which felt like The Road recast by Little Women.

‘there’s a lucidity that sometimes comes in that moment when you find yourself looking at the world through your tears, as if those tears served as a lens to clarify what it is you’re looking at.’

While we are on the topic of tears I’ve found that even some disappointing books have their sparkling moments, like this jewel in the otherwise dull Divided Kingdom by Rupert Thompson -

‘In recent years, Iron Vale had become home to the Museum of Tears, and it was the inalienable right of every melancholic, no matter where they might live, to have a sample of their tears stored within the museum walls. All you had to do was write to the curators, enclosing proof of identity. They would send you an air-tight glass vial, no bigger than a lipstick. The next time you cried, you collected your tears and transferred they to the vial. Some people waited for an important event - the death of a loved one being the most obvious, perhaps - but it was up to you to choose which aspect of your melancholy nature you wanted to preserve. When it was done, you sealed the vial and returned it to the museum, where it would be catalogued and then put on display, with millions of others.’

with the lights out

2007-10-23T09:51:00.000-07:00

When an American child tires of everyday routine they might gun down their school friends - a Japanese child might behead them. Always eager for something a little twisted I thought I would kick off my R.I.P. II challenge reading with a serving of horror Japanese style.

‘The return of the dead fundamentally undermines the order of the living, and I wholeheartedly shared Kei’s conviction that contact with such beings was something to be avoided.’

Sounds like common sense to most of us - not so for Harada, central character in Taichi Yamada’s Strangers. When he meets a couple who bear uncanny resemblance to his long dead parents he doesn’t run a mile, instead he slots them neatly into his social schedule, spending evenings eating with them, playing cards with them.

This novel deftly walks the fine line between what we wish (perhaps unconsciously) for and what happens when wishes comes true. The horror comes when we are shown our inability to resist returning to something highly dangerous to us - something everyone around us, except us, can see is steadily killing us.

Yamada tells a neat little story. Initially we are lulled by a setting far from typically scary - no remote country house, instead a modern developed cityscape. But one by one those essential scare boxes are ticked - the failed light switch, the empty building, the character questioning their sanity when faced with the impossible, the silence -

‘…it hit me how quiet the building was. Too quiet, I thought.’

Yamada also makes skilful use of repetition - lines, images and encounters occur again and again and grow more unsettling each time. My only concern was that the prose felt somewhat disconnected and passive but perhaps this owes more to the translation than to the original text.

All in all a good creepy read with no screaming, no hysterics, no moonlit chases - just a slow steady crawl of goose-bumps across your skin.

barely a breath

2007-10-17T09:58:00.000-07:00

The news has rarely felt so long. Edge of my seat, rubbing my hands together, smugly hoping I had predicted the winner when…

… a quick cut to Howard Davies, mid-sentence, he spits out that the winner is Anne Enright for The Gathering. (We didn’t see that one coming did we?)

She looks shocked, I look shocked. She scuttles to the stage, smiles and is gone.

That was it. All over. For another year. Thanks for reading along with me!

the end of the tunnel

2007-10-16T10:05:00.000-07:00

So here we are. Mere hours away from the announcement of the 2007 Booker Prize winner. And thankfully, unlike last year, I know I will have read the winning book, whichever the judges choose to pick.

Its been a great reading experience, with a hearty stack of titles almost all of which entertained me. The Booker Dozen (or thereabouts) was a good progression, avoiding a baggy long longlist with titles quick to fall by the wayside.

My personal shortlist would have been -

Self Help
The Gathering
Consolation
The Gift of Rain
Animal’s People
Mister Pip

- which gives an overall picture of a reader who leans toward a liking for the miserable. A fairly accurate assessment!

If I had to pick a winner that also features in the judges shortlist my prize would go to Animal’s People. It was striking and entertaining, handling a serious issue without detriment to literature. And the further I move away from reading it, the clearer it stays in my mind.

I have an inkling that that judges are likely to pick Darkmans or Mister Pip - but from now till the 10 o’clock news, I’ll keep my fingers crossed for Indra Sinha. See you on the other side.

the one that got away

2007-10-15T10:37:00.000-07:00

In most things I’m a firm believer in saving the best till last - I finish the cornet before eating the flake, open the junk mail saving the parcel. Except when it comes to a box of chocolates, when I always leave those I don’t like till last in the hope that someone else might pick them instead. (Note - contrary to recent appearance I am not food obsessed, I read far more than I eat, I’m just food analogy obsessed). But with this years Booker I took the chocolate box approach - leaving the unappealing trio of Self Help, The Gift of Rain and Winnie and Wolf till the end. The first two proved quite tasty but I choked on the latter.

25 pages in and there is a hint of nausea within - I’m feeling edgy, my fingertips plucking at the corners of the page, my eyes all over the shop. I just can’t do it, almost like an allergy, the novel repels my every attempt to focus.

To be honest I was bored by the cover blurb. I liked the sound of the Hitler content, and I was happy to accept a hearty dose of European philosophy, but the opera wass a step too far. Add in the tone of the novel - the blithering narrator and his pseudo text-book style and it was a lost cause.

I used to force myself to finish every book I started. But then I realised that life is far too short and there are too many better books gathering dust for me to spend time with ones I don’t get along with. So Winnie and Wolf will join the slender ranks of this years unfinished. Cormac McCarthy’s Suttree - which I know I will return to, but just wasn’t right on that particular day. Will Self’s The Book of Dave - which I wanted to like, having partially conquered my fear of his use of unfamiliar words when I thoroughly enjoyed How the Dead Live, but which I didn’t get on with at all. And Claire Messuds’ The Last Life - which struck me as too dreamy and too French.

It’s a huge shame that in quitting this novel I’ve failed my self set Booker challenge. But perhaps liking the first 12 used up my Booker luck, so A. N. Wilson became the unlucky 13^th.

bullets with butterfly wings

2007-10-14T05:05:00.000-07:00

Another book that doesn’t exactly shine through its synopsis and cover art - The Gift of Rain was always destined to be in the balance for me. On the downside there was war and martial arts, on the up the Eastern setting. However Tan Twan Eng cast a subtle spell that made me love all the things I usually despise. Early on, when Phillip Hutton is introducing us to Penang we learn of his love of the sea - and from that moment on I knew I was in too deep! Even the descriptions of the aikijutsu lessons welcomed me - physical activity described in terms of thought and feeling and spiritual connection.

In a similar way to The Reluctant Fundamentalist the story unfolds as Hutton relates his life story to a female visitor to his home. We are taken back to his teenage years, his struggles as a mixed race child, his friendship with his Japanese teacher, and increasingly the turmoil as his homeland is invaded by the Japanese. The tale is told with an unhurried pace, everything will be revealed in due course, but we must be patient.

‘His words had bones in them, like the flesh of fish one bites into innocently.’

Tan Twan Eng creates a strong sense of place - of people within their environment, complete with sounds and smells, of water, trees, birds and insects. But for a fair part of the novel these didn’t feel alive to me. They felt stifled and reserved - somewhat like Phillip’s fathers cases full of mounted butterflies. You can see the beauty but you can’t touch - but in time the doors are opened and the colours flood out and surround you. Eventually the characters and their surroundings warm to you, and welcome you, and then the novel truly springs to life.

‘All around, candles had been placed on my father’s collection of statues and they appeared to move like living things as the flames fought the breeze.’

And then war comes. Tearing into the idyllic home you have come to love, leaving you wincing at the brutalities. In a similar way to The Welsh Girl boundaries between friend and enemy are constantly shifting. Along with the characters our loyalties are questioned and challenged - do we know for sure whose side we would stand on?

A novel with a strong plot and distinctive characters, I’m surprised and disappointed that The Gift of Rain didn’t make the Booker shortlist. I loved it - and won’t forget certain striking passages where scenes came to life almost as if a photograph in your hand suddenly shifted from black and white to colour -

‘the Temple of Azure Cloud, where hundreds of pit vipers took up residence, coiled around incense holders and the eaves and crossbeams of the roof, inhaling the smoke of incense lit by worshippers.’

fade to grey

2007-10-14T04:06:00.000-07:00

An uninspiring cover opens to reveal a novel more typical of previous Booker lists, yet quite out of character this year. Pages of prose offer prolonged musings on the human condition. Mostly centred on one family, and their hangers on, we move between London, Paris, New York and St Petersburg - each appearing more bleak than the last. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever read a book that calls on the colour grey quite so frequently -

‘The road was striped from the centre with grey sludge - plain grey, dark grey, darker grey and black grey, churned and squashed and churned again by endless traffic.’

The cold introspective tone of the setting suited the people it housed. These characters are indulgent people - not just materially but emotionally and mentally. Happy to sit for hours stewing in their own juices - though by the last quarter I began to despair at their constant complaining and wanted to shout aloud to pull themselves together.

You may think by now that I didn’t like this book - on the contrary I almost loved it. There were moments of pure poetry in Docx writing -

‘battered Czech wrecks and tattered Russian rust-crates’

and he managed to portray time as a distinct and animated presence -

‘the worst night of his life was squatting black and heavy in the shabby courtyard outside.’

Maybe the mood of the book suited the recent change in our weather. And St Petersburg according to Docx felt far more recognisable and welcoming than Barker’s Ashford. (I am somewhat familiar with both places, from childhood visits to an Aunt and Uncle in the latter and a one day trip to the former).

Clearly a self obsessed kind of novel I enjoyed getting caught in the meandering loops of someone else’s thoughts even if I didn’t like the person very much. Unlike Darkmans Self Help seems to solidify into the memory of a great read the further I get from it - and I shall be searching out Docx other novel. Whilst not a light or particularly pleasant read, and probably not the kind of place I would want to come to often, Self Help is somewhere good to visit every now and again, if only as a warning to myself.

shadow puppets and starlings

2007-10-06T08:08:00.000-07:00

Darkmans is a very hard book to hold - at the beginning it pulls you towards the right, and by the end it starts to swing you back the other way. It dents your knees and strains your wrists. It’s exercise without leaving the armchair. It is also a hard book to review, but not, despite my fears, a hard book to read.

Reading Darkmans was a bit like changing TV channels and coming in halfway through a programme. You don’t know who the characters are or what’s going on, what type of programme it is, or how long its been on for - but you find yourself strangely drawn in, transfixed, unable to turn away.

And 838 pages later you’re not much clearer on what you’ve been reading. In fact you’re likely to be left with two main questions - what happened? and did I like it? Plot is a slippery beast in the hands of Nicola Barker. I would say that Darkmans deals loosely with a network of friends, enemies, acquaintances and relatives grouped in or around Ashford, Kent.

‘Nanna Spivey - was so old that she had hardly any teeth or skin or hair. She looked like a fractious newt or a newly born kitten. The veins in her temples and on her hands were the same shade of blue as willow-pattern china.’

History, both near and distant haunts many of the characters despite never departing from the modern day. Barkers’ skill lies in creating a novel that feels so unusual without messing with the form, mainly through loose plotting and an undying faith in the power of minutiae. Scenes imbued with fairy tale imagination (a jar of feeding fleas tethered by invisible thread) are bordered by passages of mundane realism.

‘He carefully inspected his hands. He frowned. He chewed off the jagged tip of a broken thumb-nail. He inspected his hands for a second time. He stopped frowning. He took out his phone. He re-checked his texts.’

Her descriptions are often striking and memorable, especially when writing about people -

‘As she talked, her hands neatly and rapidly dissected her third consecutive clementine, clambering over the individual segments like a pair of frantic but purposeful albino spiders.’

Although as the novel goes on it can feel like she over-describes everything. In progress reading Darkmans felt like a pleasurable and worthwhile experience. But afterwards I am left unsure - was I awestruck, or bored, confused or enlightened? Is this novel a bold and brave epic, or is Barker just trying to see what she can get away with?

To stick with my novel as food analogies, which are becoming rather frequent, I think Darkmans would be oysters - we are not encouraged to linger over the taste, or get our teeth stuck in, we just have to throw our head back and swallow.

bookish aside

2007-09-28T07:08:00.000-07:00

A rainy Friday afternoon, a quick break from the last legs of Darkmans, a quick chat about a few book related matters.

This week I discovered Goodreads, as evidenced by my sidebar. I’ve wanted to catalogue my reading online for a while, but the most recommended site (Library Thing) wanted to charge money if I input more that 200 titles. I want to catalogue everything I’ve read since 2000, which is when I first started keeping a log. Goodreads seems fairly easy to use (I’ve only input 2007 so far), at least for what I want it to do - which is just to keep track, so I can quickly check to see if I’ve read something and what I thought of it, without having to go through the pages of a notebook. You also get to see what I’ve read in a lovely little box - I’ve chosen to share my books in order of how highly I rated them.

I buy most of my books online - its almost always cheaper than any of the local bookshops. But I like to browse in bookshops - online browsing just isn’t quite the same, I tend to get too lost down those alleyways of ‘if you liked this you might also like…’. Proper bricks and mortar bookshops also allow a better inspection of cover art and printing quality, font style and size etc - good examples of which can help any reading experience.

So when I spotted the new Penguin Celebration range online I had to head downtown to check these little devils out in the flesh - and thankfully they had pleasing matt finish covers as I hoped. The only let down is that I have already read most of the titles that I fancy, but they are so appealing that I might have to try a few of the ones I don’t fancy too - especially when they are only £3.99 each at Amazon!

I prefer to read paperbacks - in fact the Booker bunch is mainly the only time I read hardbacks - unless I am particularly impatient and can’t wait / won’t wait for the paperback issue. Or unless someone gives me a hardback as a gift, clearly ignoring the fact that I don’t really like reading hardbacks. Paperbacks are easier to cram into a bag to take out and about, for alfresco reading opportunities - and less likely to cause damage if I drop them on my face while reading in bed. So I’m looking forward to getting back amongst my little papery friends once the Booker is done and dusted.

I think I might keep the Kingfisher Scrapbook in sometime operation between Bookers. And my first non-Booker aim will probably be a couple of titles for the R.I.P. II Challenge. I think I should just about have time to digest a couple of slim volumes before the Halloween deadline. After that, who knows what I’ll do here, talk about other books I guess…

four legs good

2007-09-23T05:23:00.000-07:00

Some novels stand out from the crowd based on their plot, some on their characters and Animal’s People is clearly the latter. Which isn’t to say the plot was a let down. Obviously a fictionalised account of the aftermath of a chemical disaster like that which occurred in Bhopal in the early 80’s - we encounter Khaufpur, an Indian community twenty years on, fighting to survive and get justice and compensation from the American ‘Kampani’ responsible for the leak.

‘Like drunks with arms round each others’ necks, the houses of the Nutcracker lurch along this lane…’

But Indra Sinha deftly avoids any danger of bogging his novel down with weighty issues by the masterful creation that is Animal, his central character. Born at the time of the chemical spill Animal is profoundly distorted, doubled over and forced to walk on all fours.

Animal takes us by the hand (and be careful to watch where he puts his other one!) and leads us through his world, often bending low, but sometimes climbing high like a manic monkey. We see through his eyes - just as we are the ‘Eyes’ who he directly addresses - his captive audience, unable to turn away even if we choose to. His world view is infectious, vile and hilarious in equal measures.

‘If you took a skeleton, chopped off one of its legs, removed half its teeth, dressed the result in rags and pissed all over it, this is the type of impression that Mr Saliq likes to give.’

He speaks his own language - a backwards mix of Indian, English and French, but this proves no obstacle to understanding him and the reader quickly slips into his speech pattern.

As we follow Animal through the twists and turns of his double dealing with everyone he encounters we come to learn a fundamental dilemma at the heart of his existence. The choice (which becomes a real possibility when an American doctor arrives in Khaufpur offering curative treatment) between his animal existence and potential normality. He regularly asserts his desire to be viewed as animal rather than human, and we can see that this attitude has probably accounted for his survival so far, a lack of self awareness easing the pain that full acknowledgement might bring.

‘…if I agree to be a human being I’ll also have to agree that I’m wrong-shaped and abnormal. But let me be a quatre pattes animal, four-footed and free, then I am whole, my own proper shape…’

But if Animal is to fulfil his main ambition - the desire for love in the long term, and sex in the foreseeable future - straightening up and embracing humanity might be his only option. And the call of the wild beast barely contained in his shorts is a loud one - indeed Animal easily wins the meaty battle of the penis begun by Anne Enright.

A number of the shortlist novels have struggled at their endings - most notably the McEwan and the Hamid - and while the final tying of the last few pages of Animals’ People might come as a little too ahhhh for some, the section immediately preceeding them gives all the ooohh I had come to hope for. Like an apocalyptic acid trip Animal shares his final sensory overdose, worn with a style that suits just like his kakadus.

more than a mouthful

2007-09-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

Gifted tells the story of Rumi, fourteen going on fifteen. Born in

Wales

to Indian parents, she struggles to reconcile their conflicting demands. On one hand they want her to excel in British academic circles. But on the other they demand she show due respect to her blood heritage - complete with a lack of sex before the inevitable arranged marriage.

Gifted is also the story of Rumi’s parents. Her father who struggles to find the balance between love and discipline and who tends to treat his wife and friend as though they were also children. And her mother who tries to fit in despite a hankering for the country she left behind - a woman whose preoccupation with food quickly rubs off on Rumi, marking much of her inner thought with edible references and prompting her addiction to cumin seeds.

Gifted is also the story of Rumi the maths prodigy - more at home with numbers than people -

‘Under the burning tube lights, she attacked the numbers with speed and ferocity, as though she was playing Space Invaders, devouring the figures with the hunger in her belly and spitting out the remains.’

accelerated academically to Oxford, succeeding in exams but falling at all the basic hurdles of adolescence .

There is great strength in Nikita Lalwani’s characters and plot but fundamental weaknesses in her delivery. Vivid loops and twirls add colour to her prose -

‘It was a tart globule of thought, bitter as a gooseberry gobstopper, which she sucked, waiting for it to crack up into something she could chew, digest and understand.’

but she tends to over-describe nearly everything which bogs the story down. She also fell into the McEwan trap of trying to hard to tie up all the loose ends - and I feel the novel would have been stronger had it ended with the Brit-flick style finale, omitting the epilogue.

Where Mohsin Hamid gave us tasters and left us wanting more, Lalwani overheaps our plate at every course and offers such a vast menu that all our choices become spoilt. Any one of the major storylines in itself could have made a great novel (given a slightly lighter hand with the prose) - but all together I’m overfed and a little nauseous.

half a world away

2007-09-10T02:43:00.000-07:00

If I had to name my favourite cover from this years selection Mister Pip would win. Eye catching colours fill bold shapes, printed onto pleasing matt paper. And thankfully the words within please too.

We join Matilda (aged 14) on her South Pacific island home. It’s 1991 and a time of change - war is rumbling, people are taking sides, lives are being lost. But the children of Bougainville are offered a welcome escape from the harsh realities by Pop Eye Watts, the only white man on the island, and self-styled teacher who transports them far away with his reading of Great Expectations. [Great Expectations works as a character within this novel - as such a reader needs no more previous knowledge of the book than they would have of any other fictional character they encounter]

Watts is everything a good teacher should be - knowing his limits, never claiming to know everything he calls upon the parents to come in and share their knowledge which results in lessons on such wonderful topics as the colour blue and broken dreams. As with the many stories within stories that are told in Mister Pip it’s the vivid telling that gives them their life -

“His mum got drunk on jungle juice and feel off a tree inside the house. When she hit the ground her eyes bounced out of her skull. When she lost her eyes she also lost her memory.”

Despite the ever present threat of violence this novel really tells the story of the power of literature itself. The way a book can make you think about yourself, your life - the way you can draw parallels and note differences. Charles Dickens offers Matilda a way to learn things not passed down from her parents. But the power of books also brings danger - and Great Expectations takes on the status of a holy book, it can support or denounce, save or condemn. It can also raise barriers between a mother and daughter forcing difficult choices.

I am a fan of fiction written from a child’s perspective and Lloyd Jones handles the form with great skill - Matilda is alive and believable, balancing knowledge with naivety.

“The great shame of trees is that they have no conscience. They just go on staring.”

Hand in hand with Matilda we come to understand the magic of imagination - not least in the scene where the islanders pool their collective memories of Mrs Watts, both real and fictional, and thereby bring her to a new kind of life.

As is often the case, I find it hardest to describe those things I like the most, and so it is with Mister Pip. The prose was light and poetic and in keeping with the story and Matilda’s voice and had me catching my breath at times -

“The world is grey at that hour, it moves more slowly. Even the seabirds are content to hold onto their reflections.”

Safe to say, Mister Pip is my favourite Booker read so far. I’m pleased to see it sitting tight on the shortlist and I think its become my choice to win so far.

short changed

2007-09-06T08:06:00.000-07:00

And so the Booker judges have announced their final six -

I’m pleased to see The Gathering there - good that they aren’t put off by possibly the most miserable of the 13. And a wave to Mister Pip which so far is still so good.

Animal’s People and the mighty Darkmans seem reasonable choices based on what others have said about them - and I am looking forward to bumping them up the pecking order of my still to be reads.

But On Chesil Beach and The Reluctant Fundamentalist seem this years odd choices. Perhaps they fancied a couple of short reads to offset Darkmans? perhaps they thought they better put the Hamid on so that people wouldn’t solely point the finger at McEwan for being too short? perhaps McEwan is on just to keep him sweet? perhaps Hamid purely for the post 9/11 fiction fans?

Looking forward to seeing what others think of the list - and to hear the cursing that The Welsh Girl fell at the first hurdle.

great expectations

2007-09-05T09:29:00.000-07:00

On the eve of the announcement of the Booker shortlist it seems apt to share my hopes and fears. Over the past few weeks I’ve read my way through six of the titles, and am part way through my seventh.

So far all of the novels have been good reads, none have been appalling or a struggle to finish. At no point have I felt I could be spending my time a better way. Although one or two have lulled me close to a semi-conscious state, it has been a pleasurable one and may owe more to the erratic English weather than the novel itself. But some have stood out as better.

But what does better mean? to me? or to the Booker judges? Quite possibly two different things. At this half way point in my reading I come to realise that my criteria for judging these books is far stricter than for the rest of the books I read throughout the year. Mostly I stumble across books or seek them out from various lists and recommendations, and read them with little or no expectation. But these thirteen arrive under a banner that suggests they are the pick of the crop of English language novels. And I read them as such. Some fall short of that accolade, some make the grade but don’t particularly appeal to me.

My favourite two novels from those I have read so far are The Gathering and Consolation. Both had their flaws, but told a story that engaged me in a style that felt comfortable and appropriate. Both have stayed in mind despite them being my first two reads. As such I would like to see these two make the shortlist.

I think The Welsh Girl deserves a place on the list too - despite it not really capturing my heart - because as I said in my review, I find it hard to point out a fault. And at this stage, unless it takes an unexpected turn for the worse - I would also stick Mister Pip on my shortlist too. However the other three seem a little too holey to continue in the race, perhaps in other years they might have gone further, but this year the competition is too good for anything but the best to get through. But that only makes 4 out of the required 6, so adding on the 2 most tempting titles from my remaining pile gives this as my Booker shortlist -

However, if I had to make a guess at the judges final six, based on my own reading so far, and various quality reviews from other Booker bloggers - it would look more like this -

But then again, looking at these, there is far too much overlap - I am never in that close agreement with the Booker panel, something must have gone wrong in my estimations! Till tomorrow then…

a little less conversation, a little more action

2007-09-05T04:40:00.000-07:00

I would class myself as a fan of Ian McEwan - granted On Chesil Beach seems a little slim for the Booker criteria, but I was pleased to see it waiting on my pile. The plot premise was a good one - an early sixties couple in their honeymoon suite, about to consummate their marriage, with all the hopes and fears that entails. But it fell sadly short of the mark. Admittedly there was a fair dousing of striking writing, the kind I’ve come to expect from McEwan -

‘Entering the bedroom, she had plunged into an uncomfortable, dream-like condition that encumbered her like an old-fashioned diving suit in deep water. Her thoughts did not seem her own - they were piped down to her, thoughts instead of oxygen.’

But that’s about as far as the good marks go. I found Florence and Edward largely ridiculous people. Products of their time, they show how love doesn’t always feed lust, that what may be natural doesn’t always come easily and that sex is nothing like they show in the movies. Perhaps I too am a product of my time - a snakebite snog to the B52’s - but I couldn’t help giggling at Florence’s fears of ‘the close embrace’.

On the cusp of personal and sexual liberation, a decade of new freedoms and fun to come, I somehow doubt these two would know how to enjoy it if it bit them on the arse. A spark of possibility and hopes glimmers when Edward starts to give vent to his angry side -

‘the beginnings of a darkening of mood, a darker reckoning, a trace of poison that even now was branching through his being. Anger. The demon he had kept down earlier when he thought his patience was about to break.’

But fizzles out as quickly as it ignites. More lasting was my rage at his choice of white wine to go with the beef!

A neat little afternoon read, there was a strong sense of momentum throughout the novel, steady progress that builds as we are carried along, to learn how they came to this moment. This effectively mirrors the sex that so unnerves Florence, the dreaded one-thing-leads-to-another. But sadly, before we reach the end, Mr McEwan himself falls foul of Edwards greatest fear, that of ‘arriving too soon’. He spills his conclusion rapidly and messily over the last few pages - leaving me unsatisfied and unimpressed.

counting sheep

2007-09-02T04:51:00.001-07:00

Some books stand out for how they make you think, some for how they make you feel. The Welsh Girl makes me feel like a child on a Sunday afternoon - stuffed full of meat and two veg, overdosed on gravy and crashed out in front of the telly. There’s nothing on the box but a black and white war movie and my mind screams ‘BORING’ but I feel myself hopelessly drawn in by the tale, despite the stiff upper lips and foolish costumes. Because while times and places change, people are people.

And people are what this novel is all about. The relationships between children and their mothers and fathers, between people and their birthplace and their country of origin. People dislocated by war, and people craving to break free from the limits of their roots.

All the characters and communities that Peter Ho Davies creates are peopled and alive, sparking with warm little details like the German POW who makes toy planes for the evacuee out of bed slats and bullet casings.

There is risk with any novel that adopts multiple narratives that each might be diluted by only claiming a share of the novel but this never seems to happen in The Welsh Girl. Each narrative - the surrendered German POW, the interrogator or the Welsh girl herself, Esther - seems to reinforce and elaborate on each other. This supportive narrative allows Peter Ho Davies to break through the barriers of enemy and friend, them and us -

‘She tries to decide how she feels about the Germans now. It seems important. She ought to hate them, she thinks, and she supposes she does, but she can’t quite muster the heat of anger. She doesn’t know them, after all; whatever they’ve done, it doesn’t feel like they’ve done it to her.’

I particularly enjoyed Esther’s struggles to find expression between two languages, each which seems to have a life and mode of thought of its own. She struggles to understand what happened to her in the abandoned swimming pool within the context of the word itself -

‘In the midst of it, yes, the word had filled her mind, buzzing and crackling like a lurid neon sign in a gangster picture. But not afterwards’

The novel seems almost faultless (incredible considering it’s his first), and every box ticked that ought to be. The prose is highly accomplished and vivid -

‘his nose as sharp as a beak and his cheekbones swept up like wings under his skin, as if his face were about to take flight.’

and I can see why all the reviews I’ve read speak so highly and tip the novel for the Booker shortlist at the least. It’s a well woven blanket, each thread handled with care and combined into a colourful pattern - but ultimately for me the blanket is a little too thick, a little too warm, and I am liable to find myself dozing beneath it, dreaming of sheep.

up close and personal

2007-08-28T03:41:00.001-07:00

Mohsin Hamid adopts a distinctive tone for The Reluctant Fundamentalist. Over a number of hours Changez sits at a café table in Lahore speaking to an unnamed American. Through the course of his confessional monologue we learn of his experiences in

America

before and after the pivotal 9/11 attacks.

I dislike first person narration as I don’t like to be forced into someone elses shoes - and the shoes don’t get much tighter than this. But despite my reservations I am drawn in. What starts as discomfort and a desire to tear myself away becomes a compulsion, a need to stick this out to see how it ends.

Within the novels limited length Hamid gives us tasters without fully heaping our plate. The American is never given voice, we can only imagine what he has said based on Changez reactions, but the American still manages to annoy with his constant jumping, complaining and suspicions.

Some of the warmest sections of the novel are when we are shown interactions between individuals as opposed to nations, between men and women, between Changez and Erica -

‘I had begun to understand that she has chosen not to be part of my story; her own had proven too compelling, and she was - at that moment and in her own way - following it to its conclusion, passing through places I could not reach.’

Another theme that Hamid skilfully threads throughout is the role of film. On his arrival Changez uses knowledge of American films as a currency to buy his way into social acceptance, sharing exchanges of Top Gun dialogue at a job induction. But film later takes on a negative role when the collapse of the World Trade towers appears to be almost unreal, and when America goes to war Changez again observes how they act as if in a film.

Changez disappointment and animosity towards the United States builds steadily throughout by which time he has provided ample evidence to support his change of heart. But it is only near the very end that he distils this evidence into one clear statement of accusation, still delivered in measured, calm eloquence.

‘As a society, you were unwilling to reflect upon the shared pain that united you with those who attacked you. You retreated into myths of your own difference, assumptions of your own superiority. And you acted out these beliefs on the stage of the world, so that the entire planet was rocked by the repercussions of your tantrums…’

With this neat little novel Hamid has sat us down at his table and told a warm but sad tale of isolation, of people reaching out and failing to find someone willing to grasp their hand, of a country willing to greet when it suits but quick to turn its back when it doesn’t. Hamid has kept to his chosen path throughout and has not allowed himself to get carried away or side-tracked, but I doubt I would have chosen to walk his way if not for the Booker longlist.

missing in action

2007-08-23T04:11:00.000-07:00

What Was Lost is another novel split in two by time and shared between joint narrators. This time history is 1984 contrasted with 2003 and all narrators have four letter names, Kate, Kurt and Lisa. Packed with timely cultural references, it’s a very modern novel and a very British one at that. Easy to read while being well written and tightly plotted - every character has a purpose and all loose ends are neatly tied by the end.

The standout of this novel is the tone of the writing, which is almost exclusively one of ironic observation. O’Flynn handles this tones very well, and for the most part it is genuinely amusing.

‘The school had already had a talk from a boy with one foot who had lost the other playing on the railway tracks. Kate had a gruesome image of teachers from competing schools bidding for injured children at the local hospital and ascribing a range of childhood misdemeanours to them, ‘I’ve got a paraplegic little girl here, ideal for stamping out leaning back on chairs.’ ‘This almost-blind boy, ideal for carrot promotion.’

But while this view of life works well for the jaded adults working in the Green Oaks shopping centre at times it seems a little overly knowing in the hands of the ten year old Kate. The comic tone also weighs heavily as one reads deeper into the novel, and realises that every character carries a burden of loss. In the face of more than an average share of damaged lives it starts to ring with a note of desperation, and the laughs turn to wheezes.

O’Flynn centres her novel on the watchers and the watched. Contrasting Kate with her detective notebook and monkey sidekick with the latter day 24/7 CCTV. She shows that however much we watch we always seem to be looking away at the wrong moment, and people slip through those holes.

‘Patches of scorched earth almost bleached white by the constant surveillance of so many different eyes.’

At one point in the novel the characters say they feel like subjects in a nature documentary and I felt that the novel as a whole tended to this. An overdose of minutiae, I wanted to draw back and look at the bigger picture. Up close people look alien and strange, whereas with distance people have a chance to assume a normal balanced form, with some of their misery not quite so glaring.

O’Flynn show great strength when giving straight faced descriptions of sadness and loss,

‘The climbing frame was a tubular metal igloo. The metal had rusted in parts and when the wind blew, as it did today, the rushing air found empty screw holes and fissures in the frame and played a sad tune on the pipes.’

I hope in future writing Catherine O’Flynn feels brave enough to dive into the deep end of the misery pool and less impelled to make us laugh because for me its her bleakest writing that is her best.

questionable aside

2007-08-22T02:34:00.000-07:00

As I’m nearing the end of What Was Lost, and considering the review I will write I keep coming back to thoughts about prize nominated novels. I wonder whether I have higher expectations of a book because I have been told it has been longlisted. That it has been selected by a panel of judges, who I assume know their fiction, out of 110 other nominated novels. Surely that’s got to have filtered out a lot of rubbish? Surely these 13 should be very good books? the best of their kind?

Am I overly harsh in my assessment of these books because of my high expectations? If I stumbled across one in a bargain bin, or a charity shop shelf, knowing nothing of its pedigree, brought it home and read it, would my verdict be different?

I’ve also been pondering the overlap between prizes. What Was Lost was longlisted for the Orange Prize and now for the Booker. From this years Orange longlist only one other made it to the Booker longlist (that being Carry Me Down which popped up last year). Were no other Orange listers good enough to make the Booker grade? And what of the novels on the Booker longlist by women who didn’t get a mention on the Orange list? does the Orange list set its sights lower? or seek something different from its novels? something more inherently womanly? or is the Booker still trying to be a step more high-brow that other literary prizes?

All idle speculation and no answers. Time to get back to the reading.

a tale of two cities

2007-08-17T09:14:00.000-07:00

Consolation struck me as a very traditional novel. Michael Redhill presents us with a handful of characters and lets them unroll their story for us - and when modern novels try hard to be different this old-style storytelling comes as a treat. Although at times, particularly toward the last third, the telling can feel a little long-winded.

Set in Toronto, the narrative is split equally between Jem Hallam in 1855 and David Hollis in 1997. Both are men struggling to make way through life. To stand out, achieve reputation, to make their families proud. One lives in a city just emerging, forging its place on the surface of a developing world. The other in a city re-developing, currently building a new sports arena on top of a landfill.

Redhill does not scrimp on detail - each era is alive with its own sounds and flavours.

‘Then he turned his camera to the ground and stared at horrors. Tatterdemalion children worn out from eating hard bread; mad forms against lampposts, stinking of spirits and harbouring rumours.’

Throughout my reading I felt that the earlier era seemed more alive than the later. I wonder if this is because much of it is viewed through the framing eye of Hallams camera, in the same way that modern films seem to glow with a colour and vivacity often brighter than real life?

History raises is woolly head on nearly every page as we dip between past and present. The reader must take care not to become dizzy, at times it is tempting to linger in the old days, which seem tinted with greater hope than our own.

‘A century ago, there was no past to abandon. Maybe that was better. Those citizens had only wanted to live, among their people, in places they had build for themselves.’

Consolation is well crafted, well told novel of relationships of people to their pasts and each other. It is a novel of how people and places are made and eventually unmade, a novel about living and dying within ones own time.

‘Marianne has always thought that in earlier times people took death in stride, that they weren’t as attached to each other as people were in her own. It was to be expected that, in the rude unfinished world, people would be lost.’

One morning while I read this book I watched a snail eat a peanut outside my door. The two went well together. Each, like archaeology (another theme of the novel) repay patience with a slow but sure build of pleasure and satisfaction.

something heavy this way comes

2007-08-14T03:42:00.001-07:00

Another batch of books has arrived. And they are getting bigger. Darkmans is closer to a small house than a book. Regardless of its content, physically its going to be a challenging read. Call me a coward but I’m planning to put off the larger volumes to the end.

So I’m reading Consolation by Michael Redhill next. It’s a funny little book, a very small but thick hardcover, with strangely floppy pages. The cover art reminds me of some kind of point-and-click underwater adventure game.

According to my lists I have read his previous novel Martin Sloane, but I can recall nothing about it. But there it is - August 2003. Sandwiched between If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things (Jon McGregor) which I vividly remember liking immensely and buying for quite a few friends, and Man Kills Woman (D.L. Flusfeder) which I recall as being quite naff and having an odd artistic impression cover.

So I’ll have to see if Consolation makes a more lasting impression.

a crowded house

2007-08-11T03:58:00.000-07:00

Yet another Irish family saga? The Gathering has all the key ingredients of any Irish saga (which the novel acknowledges at one point) - drinking, overcrowding, child death, domestic violence, gambling, child abuse and Catholicism. But Anne Enright manages to lift the form to a new level largely due to her central character, Veronica Hegarty.

Veronica is a modern woman, relatively successful, relatively happy - trying to make sense of her life in the light of her brothers death.

‘I could pick up my keys and go ‘home’ where I could ‘have sex’ with my ‘husband’ just like lots of other people did. This is what I had been doing for years. And I didn’t seem to mind the inverted commas, or even notice that I was living in them, until my brother died.’

To try to understand how brother Liam came to be a body in a box laid out in the family lounge, Veronica wanders back through family memory. But this is not a sepia-tinted postcard past. These are truths told with unashamed clarity, and a need to lay blame where blame is due.

We rapidly realise that the process of memory is as important as the facts it unearths. Veronica shows how memory is elusive - it can flitter, jumble and distort the things you think you know. At times, looking through the Hegarty past feels like a child’s flicker book with the pages in the wrong order.

But while the mind might play the trickster, the body never lies. And the body is an ever present character throughout this novel, with best supporting role coming from the penis! The body has a permanence which lasts even through physical decomposition. The body adds weight to anchor Veronica and to prevent her narrative from drifting into dizzy existential heights.

‘I would love to leave my body. Maybe this is what they are about, these questions of which or whose hole, the right fluids in the wrong places, these infantile confusions and small sadisms: they are a way of fighting our way out of all this meat’

I enjoyed my first longlist read. The story itself is nothing new, but the telling sets it apart. I’m not willing to commit myself yet as to whether this should make the shortlist, I need some others to compare it with. But if the mark of a good book is how long it lasts in the readers memory then The Gathering is a good book. Enright tells a story in bruises - each doesn’t hurt much in itself - but they build to a colourful mess and are slow to fade.

on your marks, get set

2007-08-09T07:39:00.001-07:00

An unfriendly face greets us most mornings. Thankfully his intrusion is often sweetened by a handful of books. This morning he handed over one Special Delivery package (a kind Amazonian marketplace seller must have realised how impatient I am!) and muttered that there would be more along later. A couple of hours on and a red van plus man hands me 4 more parcels. Two are Bookmooches, which will remain on the To Be Read shelf until after the Booker quest. And three are further Booker longlist titles.

So now I have four, and I’m ready to go. I have to choose somewhere to start, so I am opting for The Gathering by Anne Enright. It seems a gentle place to begin. I see its an Irish family saga - is it just me or are there a lot of those about? Time to choose a bookmark, brew a cup of tea and turn the first page.

a good crop

2007-08-08T03:20:00.000-07:00

Having had an evening to read over the various synopsis for this years longlisted titles, do I regret placing orders for all of them? Not at all - in fact the stories sound like a fairly mixed and interesting bunch.

Three titles by authors who I have read before - Nicola Barker, Ian McEwan and Michael Redhill. Its always good to read familiar authors as you can judge how the novel rates compared to their previous efforts.

The books seem to cover quite a lot of distance both in time and geography - so I should get a pleasant mix of flavours. A couple of themes that seem to have appeared in a few novels of late - post 9/11 reflections (The Reluctant Fundamentalist) and the disappearing child (What Was Lost).

Some of the novels seem quite lengthy, clocking in at over 400 pages, but a few are under that so hopefully it should balance out.

Initial impressions draw me towards Gifted and Animal’s People, and make me a little wary of The Gift of Rain and Consolation - but I remind myself that many a book turns out to be better than the cover blurb suggests.

Now I just need to tidy up a few loose ends with my current reading and wait for the first package to arrive.

at last

2007-08-07T11:18:00.000-07:00

After a frustrating afternoon of refreshing and waiting for the Booker judges to announce the longlist here it is -

Nicola Barker - Darkmans
Edward Docx - Self Help
Tan Twan Eng - The Gift Of Rain
Anne Enright - The Gathering
Mohsin Hamid - The Reluctant Fundamentalist
Peter Ho Davies - The Welsh Girl
Lloyd Jones - Mister Pip
Nikita Lalwani - Gifted
Ian McEwan - On Chesil Beach
Catherine O'Flynn - What Was Lost
Michael Redhill - Consolation
Indra Sinha - Animal's People
A. N. Wilson - Winnie & Wolf

This year, with the help from the scaled down longlist, I aim to read all 13 books in time for the prize winner announcement. To avoid any dangers of reading the blurb and deciding I don't fancy any particular book I have placed orders online for all the books having read nothing about them. I am now quite worried about what I may have let myself in for. I have ordered the books from various sources in the hope that at least a few titles will arrive quite quickly so I can begin my reading (although Winnie & Wolf is not yet published!). Further thoughts on the list tomorrow!

any day now

2007-08-01T03:06:00.001-07:00

The Booker Prize website states -

'The longlist of titles under serious consideration for the prize will be announced in early August. In a change for 2007 the longlist will be confined to the "Man Booker Dozen". The shortlist of six books will be announced in early September. The Man Booker Prize 2007 winner will be announced on television at the Guildhall at an awards ceremony on 16th October 2007.'

I say bring it on!!!

epilogue

2007-07-04T02:22:00.002-07:00

Wednesday, October 11, 2006 at 11:09 AM BST

So. The winner of the 2006 Man Booker Prize is Kiran Desai with The Inheritance of Loss. The one I haven’t read.

A disappointing lack of coverage of the Prize on BBC. Despite an array of channels catering to all manner of tastes they cant even schedule the usual one hour show. Instead just a brief announcement on the news.

Obviously reading and books are hopelessly out of fashion. As such I shall crawl off under my book pile. Bury myself among the paper leaves. Hibernate till next year.

waiting, anticipating

2007-07-04T02:22:00.001-07:00

Monday, October 09, 2006 at 6:15 PM BST

Only a day to go until this years Booker Prize winner is announced.

My reading experience is coming to a close.

I originally intended to read 9 titles from the longlist. I have read 6 of those. I addition I am currently reading the David Mitchell and still have to Jon McGregor to read next. From the shortlist I also read the Matar and the Grenville. A couple of books fell by the wayside never to pass my way. The only shortlister I didn’t get to read was the Desai - I shall save a curse in case it wins unread by me.

I have enjoyed all of the books in their own way - and have found reading them critically adds an extra dimension of connection with each novel.

Its hard to pick favourites when many repel comparison. But this would be my order of merit for the novels.

1) The Testament of Gideon Mack - James Robertson

2) The Perfect Man - Naeem Murr

3) Mother’s Milk - Edward St. Aubyn

4) Carry Me Down - M. J. Hyland

5) The Secret River - Kate Grenville

6) In the Country of Men - Hisham Matar

7) Theft: A Love Story - Peter Carey

8) The Night Watch - Sarah Waters

I mentioned before that my opinion often differs from that of the judging panel and no change this year. My two favourite books never made the shortlist cut. My favourite that stands a chance of the prize is therefore Mother’s Milk, but if either that or Carry Me Down win I will rest content for another year.

Until tomorrow then…

a great emptiness

2007-07-04T02:21:00.001-07:00

Friday, October 06, 2006 at 12:33 PM BST

Perhaps because I am coming to the end of my Booker reading, or because I know that in a few days these books will be compared and judged, I find it hard to read The Secret River in isolation. My thoughts constantly turn to how it connects or contrasts with the other novels I have read.

Immediate comparisons to Carey come to mind. And with humour I note how Grenville writes of the original inhabitants of Australia - the convicts arriving and trying to make good - whereas Carey brings this full circle by showing his characters, generations later, making their fortunes illicitly.

‘Up so high, he could feel the rising vapours of those below him in the court: all those bodies encased in their clothes, all those chests breathing in and out, and all those words, passing around through the air.’

Contrasts to Murr come to mind when we consider the issues of race. He showed the reactions of Americans to an Indian arriving among them. Whereas Grenville presents us with the British arrivals reactions to the native Australians.

‘Something about the way their skins were shadows among the shadows of the trees made it hard to see them straight.’

I also consider the style that Grenville has adopted. It strikes me as almost Dickensian, and I wonder if some would say that she is a woman writing with a mans style. Some feminist literary criticism suggests that women should try to forge their own style - and I wonder if some might suggest that Waters achieves this more in The Night Watch. Although if she succeeds with style it is at the expense of depth.

But most strikingly I notice how many of the other novels have been about individuals and their relations with one another, whereas The Secret River seems to focus more on the characters interactions with their surroundings. The setting and landscape are fore-grounded to a greater degree and I was left with a far stronger sense of where this novel was about as much as who. And this was its greatest strength for me.

‘He came out into a clearing where trees held an open space in a play of shifting light and shade: a room made of leaves and air…. He felt the way the trees stood around him in a quiet crowd, their limbs stopped in the middle of a gesture, their pale bark splitting in long cracks to show the bright pink skin beneath.’

scene from above

2007-07-04T02:20:00.000-07:00

Friday, September 29, 2006 at 12:23 PM BST

It seems perfect that I read this straight after Carry Me Down. The parallels between the two novels are striking. Both present a child trying to uncover the truths of the adult world. Both involve parents withholding information. Both feature a boy who tends to climb into bed with his mother in the middle of the night. We see the same bonds between parent and child - the love, dependency, truth, lies, protection and rejection.

They are similar but very different - both in their setting and their telling. In the Country of Men has a domestic setting, but one that appears exotic and dangerous - here the deceptions are political not playground. Such as the pink flowers that flash up on the screen to blot out the worst parts of the televised interrogations.

‘Nationalism is as thin as a thread, perhaps that’s why many feel it must be anxiously guarded.’

The narrator speaks with a wordy, descriptive tone - undeniably beautiful but inconsistent with a child narrator. We soon realise this voice does not come first hand from a child, but an adult looking back. Perhaps this is necessary to explain the complexities of a situation that a child wouldn’t grasp, but I wonder if I would have preferred the narration to stay purely with the realm of a childs understanding.

‘The moments before we cry the face tries to fold away, hide itself from the world.’

Maybe it took me reading Hisham Matar to know that I prefer the Hyland novel. The same amount happens in both stories - in different places, but to a different scale purely because this novel uses more words, and views through eyes that see more - but for that reason it reads as less to me.

‘Grief loves the hollow, all it wants is to hear its own echo.’

I also wonder if In the Country of Men stands a chance of winning the Booker due to its political timeliness? I hope not for that reason alone.

be careful what you wish for

2007-07-04T02:19:00.002-07:00

Thursday, September 21, 2006 at 11:40 AM BST

Carry Me Down is the simplest novel so far on my Booker reading list. And at the moment I am still unsure if that is its strength or its weakness.

It tells the story of John Egan, and the results on him and his family from his uncanny ability to detect when someone is lying. We see those around him lie with alarming regularity - sometimes in the name of protecting him, but more often to protect themselves.

‘I wait for the sound of the stone, but it doesn’t come back down - at least, I don’t hear it land - and I stand in the laneway, puzzled about where it might have gone. And still the stone doesn’t land, and I smile at the sky.’

Before reading I think I hoped for a fantastical tale of his adventures, but got something much more solid and sad. You come to realise how many lies are told to children. You recall the childhood innocence of mostly believing what you are told. You mourn that John has lost this - his gift is his curse. You ponder what you would do if you were blessed with his gift for just one day. And with dawning horror you imagine the results…

‘It is as though my brain has decided to run its own dark film with the volume on high; a film of bad thoughts, of bad memories, and every thought is worse than the one before it, and nothing will stop the film from running.’

M. J. Hyland writes with a measured pace that reminds me of many Irish novels I have read. Nothing is rushed - there is time to talk, time to think. She gives a piercing portrayal of the mind of a child - the things they notice, the obsessions they focus on. This novel is not trying to be clever. It is not trying to wow us with descriptive prose or fancy reasoning of the mind. It just tells a story. And if the Booker judges are still receptive to novels that just tell a story, then this stands a fair chance of winning.

getting closer

2007-07-04T02:19:00.001-07:00

Thursday, September 14, 2006 at 4:55 PM BST

So, the Booker 2006 shortlist has just been announced. The titles selected are -

o The Inheritance of Loss - Kiran Desai
o The Secret River - Kate Grenville
o Carry Me Down - M. J. Hyland
o In the Country of Men - Hisham Matar
o Mother’s Milk - Edward St. Aubyn
o The Night Watch - Sarah Waters

Two I have read, the St. Aubyn and the Waters - the latter of which I do not think deserves a place on the shortlist. And I am currently reading the Hyland, which looks promising so far.

Not content with spending the month between now and the prize announcement having only read half of the shortlist I have just ordered another couple of titles - the Matar and the Grenville. The Desai is too expensive and will have to stay unread and unreviewed.

a lesson in not judging a book by its cover

2007-07-04T02:18:00.000-07:00

Thursday, September 14, 2006 at 11:50 AM BST

In Week Two I named Mother’s Milk as one of my least favourite covers from my selection. By dismissing the cover, in part I dismissed the book. The blurb didn’t encourage me either - I began to question why I had even selected this book.

‘A carefully threaded thought unstrung itself and scattered across the floor.’

I was wrong. I enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed it a lot. But - and this is where it gets strange - I don’t know why. There is nothing about the characters (semi-affluent family types) that appeals to me. Equally there is nothing much about their lives that I can relate to. Apart from the very basics that constitute a life - that being birth, living, death. In that order.

‘And if he just wanted to play with his thoughts, nobody could stop him.’

Perhaps the appeal comes solely from St Aubyns writing. His acute observations, always coming in from a sly and unexpected angle. Commentary on the kind of things that I am preoccupied with - even though they are happening to someone I couldn’t care less about.

And for his keen analysis of America alone I would recommend Mother’s Milk for a place on this years shortlist (to be announced later today).

‘So much road and so few places, so much friendliness and so little intimacy, so much flavour and so little taste.’

time, which scatters at angles

2007-07-04T02:17:00.003-07:00

Friday, September 08, 2006 at 5:34 PM BST

The Perfect Man tallies with my definition of what a novel should be. Murr tells a timeless story, using vivid language and ideas suited to a contemporary novel.

We are treated to the story of Raj - an Indian boy growing up in the heart of rural America. Raj is central but not dominant - more a pivot for everyone else to revolve around.

The cast is made up of believable people. People that cry and sweat and bleed. There are lots of characters - but some are more significant to the tale than others. They connections are natural - the reader gets to know some better than others - just as in real life.

‘She was the kind of person you forgot was in the room. She was like the bad reception of her own life, at the point of breaking up into nothing but static.’

We mostly focus on children. Playing together at being the people they will become. Like young animals they play-fight and play-fuck. And then they grow up, perfectly imperfect individuals.

‘The world swallowed boys and regurgitated men in a painful, heaving articulation of bodies.’

These are normal lives of extra/ordinary people. Their stories are told with stunning beauty through the kind of striking thoughts that real people have when they take the time to truly look at themselves and those they care about.

‘Sometimes it seemed to Annie that her mom only smoked to help her remember to breathe.’

Murrs novel is my favourite so far and I will be sorely disappointed if it doesn’t make it onto the shortlist.

opposites attract

2007-07-04T02:17:00.001-07:00

Friday, September 01, 2006 at 3:34 PM BST

I have previously read three novels by Peter Carey, and I still don't know if I like him. Reading Theft has not clarified the matter. There are moments of beauty in his writing that capture me and persuade me back for more. But I find his tone weighs heavy on me and can turn reading into a chore.

This novel is a story about art. About finding the path between art for arts sake and art for money. It is told in the first person (my least preferred narrative style) by the artist Butcher Bones, and his learning disabled brother, Hugh.

Butcher Bones had the Carey tone that pushes me away. Words for words sake, talk to sound clever, making lots of noise but saying very little. The only times he had me onside was when he enthused about colours and paints and techniques. I complained that Sarah Waters characters seemed somewhat dead - but perhaps Careys are too alive?

But while the plot didn't particularly captivate me - the chapters narrated by Hugh did. Perhaps I prefer the world perspective of an 'idiot savant' over an art criminal. Perhaps Hughs words resonate with a childs honest simplicity - seeing through all the cover-ups (emotional and artistic) perpetrated by his brother.

'As a boy I could never understand why nice clean sand would cause such terror in my dads bloodshot eyes, but I had never seen an hourglass and did not know that I would die.'

I don't think Theft will win the Booker Prize this year - Carey has won it twice already with better books that this - but it's quotes like these that leave me with the knowledge that I will continue to read Carey, still not knowing if I like him.

'I took a folding chair down to the footpath and witnessed all the human clocks passing me, pumping, sloshing - there is one, there another, and each one the centre of the world. You can go half mad looking at them, like gazing at the stars at night and thinking of infinity.'

more mermaids

2007-07-04T02:16:00.001-07:00

Friday, August 25, 2006 at 12:56 PM BST

I have just read The Night Watch by Sarah Waters. A novel set during World War II focusing on a small group of interconnected people living in London.

‘She supposed that houses, after all - like the lives that were lived in them - were mostly made of space. It was the spaces, in fact, which counted, rather than the bricks.’

There were things I both liked and disliked about this book. The reverse chronology that Waters used (the story was divided into three chunks dated 1947, 1944 and finally 1941) was one of its main strengths. Knowing the outcome of events before encountering the events themselves encouraged questions that lingered throughout and allowed for a few genuine surprises in the plot.

It was also pleasant to read a war novel focusing on non-service people, and indeed mostly women. These were active, working, involved women. These women did not stand nervously by the kitchen sink waiting for their men to return home. However I found the characterisation too be a little too rigid. It was as if each person had a set role and persona to fit that role and they showed little deviation or development as the pages turned.

The novel also read a little on the safe side for me. It felt predictable and old-fashioned in style. It broke no new ground, and did not seem to challenge itself. I feel that my grandmother could enjoy this novel. It was simple book in terms of character and language. Sometimes I enjoy simplicity, but this book read more like a snack than a balanced meal and I doubt it works hard enough to be a Booker winner.

preamble

2007-07-04T02:15:00.002-07:00

Wednesday, August 23, 2006 at 11:38 AM BST

These are the novels I have chosen to read from the longlist -
o Peter Carey - Theft: A Love Story
o M.J. Hyland - Carry Me Down
o Jon McGregor - So Many Ways to Begin
o David Mitchell - Black Swan Green
o Naeem Murr - The Perfect Man
o Andrew O’Hagan - Be Near Me
o James Robertson - The Testament of Gideon Mack
o Edward St Aubyn - Mother’s Milk
o Sarah Waters - The Night Watch

7 have now arrived. One is still on order from the library. One I am yet to order.

In total I have read 8 books by six of these authors before. I am somewhat familiar with their style, so should have a fair idea whether their latest offering is up to scratch.

They say don’t judge a book by its cover - but its hard to ignore whats staring you in the face. On first impressions my favourite covers are the McGregor and the Mitchell, and those I am least pleased to carry in public are the Carey and the St Aubyn.

Anyway - time to stop waffling and start reading.

finger on the pulse

2007-07-04T02:15:00.001-07:00

Tuesday, August 15, 2006 at 3:20 PM BST

Yesterday I spent most of the day hitting my F5 key, waiting for Man Booker to announce their long-list for this year.

Early evening I was rewarded with a list of the 19 books the panel had chosen.

I then began to filter through the list, reading up on each book, and deciding which titles I would read. [If stamina and money allowed I would aim to read them all, but at this point in my life I have neither in sufficient quantity.]

I have chosen 9 that I will aim to read in the time between now and the prize award ceremony (October 10th 2006).

I then proceeded to track down where I would obtain my 9 chosen titles. 4 have been ordered from tried and trusted online suppliers, and a further 4 have been reserved from my local library, for collection when they become available. 1 remains elusive at this time.

At this point I am waiting for the first book to arrive so my reading can commence.

what lies beneath

2007-07-04T02:14:00.001-07:00

Tuesday, August 15, 2006 at 3:10 PM BST

For a good few years I have taken a keen interest in The Man Booker prize. I am intrigued by which books get chosen to be judged, and which is decided to be the best. I like to see if my own opinions of the books agree or not with the apparently knowledgeable judges decisions.

I have read 15 of the winning novels from the previous 37 years. A few of them I enjoyed immensely and rated highly enough to deserve such a prize. Others were quite forgettable. My all-time favourites have been Disgrace (JM Coetzee), The Blind Assassin (Margaret Atwood), Life of Pi (Yann Martel) and Vernon God Little (DBC Pierre).

In 2004 I decided to try to read a selection of the long-listed books while the prize was being judged. Through September and October I read 10 long-listed novels. Five out of six of those making the short-list were ones I had chosen to read. My favourites were Cloud Atlas (David Mitchell) and The Electric Michelangelo (Sarah Hall). The winner was The Line of Beauty (Alan Hollinghurst) - which I hadn’t particularly enjoyed.

Summer 2005 was a fallow season for Booker reading - I managed only two titles - both short-listed, Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro) and The Accidental (Ali Smith). Both were superb. The winner was The Sea (John Banville) which I have yet to read.

This year I am planning to return to avid Booker reading form.

time to fly

2007-07-04T02:13:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, August 15, 2006 at 2:35 PM BST

The Kingfisher Scrapbook has been a temporary roost for far too long.

I have been too content to sit amid my colours and watch my fellows as they drink tea and chat and trade feathers.

But now I spy a tree with leaves that interest me. I push myself off from the branch. I take to the sky.