2000s

Christmas BOOKings now being taken

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It’s the 25th, and you know what that means – only two months until Christmas. Yep, usually I’m there with the Grumpy Old Men and complaining that Christmas comes earlier every year, with tinsel going up as soon as the Easter eggs have been melted down for fondue. But I’ll make an exception for books, as it’s not their fault that marketing has to happen in October. Today I’m going to chat about two different Christmas books – very different, actually, but both worth mentioning.
This week, like a couple of other bloggers, I was sent Lynn Brittney’s Christine Kringle, described as a book for children of all ages. All the Gift Bringers from around the world are meeting for the annual Yule Conference, which debates such issues as whether Gift Days should be internationally universalised, or whether women can be become the hereditary Gift Bringer if a Yule family have no male offspring. This is especially important to Christine, daughter of Kriss Kringle, as she has no brothers and wishes to inherit her Yule duty. In the midst of this, the council of Plinkbury, a town in Worcestershire (hurray!) decide to ban Christmas. Off flies Christine and her Japanese and English friends to get Christmas reinstated… An enjoyable book, though not my usual fare, and was delighted to see Worcestershire get in print, as it was my homeland for thirteen years. Can’t work out if Plinkbury is based on a genuine town, though… there certainly isn’t one of that name. Unsurprising, really.
When I started the book, I was a little dubious at all the national stereotypes. You know – Italians in the Mafia; British sullen; Japanese polite and industrious; Americans saving the day. But Brittney melds these characters into a fun plot which keeps you turning the pages. I do have quibbles with the polemics Christine delivers – as a Christian, I didn’t like to see the Christ part of CHRISTmas swept under the carpet so much, quite openly, and I’m too British not to blush at some of the bits about loving ourselves and finding a hero inside every one of us and so forth. But if you’re feeling Christmassy and uncynical, give this one a go.

The second Christmas book I wanted to mention is Jostein Gaarder’s The Christmas Mystery, initially published in 1992. The book is divided into 24, being the first twenty-four days of Decemver – like a big advent calendar, in fact. The central character, a little boy called Joachim, is given a mysterious old advent calendar – each day opened provides a slip of paper and a picture. Through the story on the bits of paper, we follow Elisabet as she wends her way through the shepherds and wisemen as they journey towards Christ’s Nativity – and Joachim’s family try to connect it to the Elisabet who disappeared at Christmas 1948. This is a beautiful book, with mystery and atmosphere and the magic of Christmas without making the festival commercial or saccharine. I read it last year, a chapter a day through advent, and would definitely recommend reading it that way.

Oh, and don’t forget you still have a chance to get Miss Hargreaves!

Not Quite The Booker

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Wouldn’t you just know it? I start to dabble in the twenty-first century, and the book I read doesn’t even win the Booker. That’s gratitude for you. Hmph. Well, can’t see myself bothering with Anne Enright’s The Gathering, even with the accolades of the Booker panel, but I have now read one of the shortlist at least. My library-trainee-chum Lucy, a McEwan aficiando to the death, leant me her copy of On Chesil Beach to see if Ian could redeem himself in my eyes. For the record, my previous experience with Mr. McE goes something like this: Atonement – great, especially the beginning; Enduring Love – amazing opening chapter, kinda tailed off after that; Saturday – umm, what happened Ian? So I’m pleased to say that, while On Chesil Beach isn’t particularly like any of the others there, it met with approval from Stuck-in-a-Book and McEwan is back in my good books. There’s almost a pun there.

Have now returned Lucy’s book, so shall type my thoughts as best I can without it. I’m sure you all know the premise by now – virginal newly-weds Edward and Florence experience an awkward honeymoon, and McEwan uses this tiny canvas to present their lives and the lives of a generation. Two such fully-formed characters he’s not written since Briony in Atonement – no cliches (imagine the accent, if you will) or easy portrayals, these are real people experiencing real situations. The only issue I take is that Florence seems like a real person from about 1910, not 1962… feels a bit like McEwan flipped through his Decades of the Twentieth-Century Book and picked the first one which wouldn’t have them encumbered by a World War. Still, that’s a minor quibble, and we’ll let it pass.

McEwan (controversially) called On Chesil Beach a ‘novelette’. Controversial because this more or less disqualified him from the Booker shortlist, but somehow they managed to sweep that under the carpet. Whether or not it was wise to label the book thus, I think I agree with the term – if McEwan had only included the honeymoon scenes, then this would be a (long) short story. Since he intersperses these sections with substantial chunks of background, it’s more than that, but it still doesn’t quite feel like a novel. Usually huge amounts of back story irritate me, and here they weren’t always welcome, but generally they are woven in in such a way as give characters deeper dimensions affectively. I certainly didn’t want more – the characters’ backgrounds offer the central story, almost a vignette, poignancy and integrity, but any attempts to make this a thousand page tome would have lost all the spark and depth.

I shan’t spoil the ending – except to say that it is the opposite of Atonement in terms of effect. Much of Atonement examines the consequences of a single action; On Chesil Beach examines the single action and allows the reader to extrapolate the consequences.

Common/Uncommon

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Had a lovely time at home, soaking in the countryside, and am now back in my usual blogging spot of Oxford – specifically the desk of the back bedroom in Regent Street. While down in Somerset (or Zumm as I affectionately label it) I was able to offer my lovely Aunt Jacq. a cup of tea, for she also lives in Zumm, and she reciprocated with much more exciting gifts…

No, not my birthday of anything – she just saw them and thought of me. It pays to make your opinions known, doesn’t it?! Well, you all know I love Virginia Woolf – and I’d ummmed and ahhhed over the Alan Bennett for a while, glad the choice was made for me.

Haven’t used the mug yet, but a car journey too and from Bristol to see The Carbon Copy (the whole Clan together for a few hours at least!) allowed me to read The Uncommon Reader, and greatly did I enjoy it. Haven’t read any Alan B before, though did see The History Boys film, and have vague recollections of Talking Heads being on in the car in my younger days. It was great fun – I’m sure everyone knows the plot by now. The Queen bumps into the local library van, and, out of politeness, borrows an Ivy Compton-Burnett. Love her or loathe her (ICB, that is), you have to acknowledge she’s not a great one with which to start the long path of literacy:

‘She’s not a popular author, ma’am’.

‘Why, I wonder? I made her a dame’.
Mr Hutchings refrained from saying that this wasn’t necessarily the road to the public’s heart.

As she pursues more and more books, with the help of kitchen boy Norman who becomes her constant aide, her royal duties start to suffer… This book, as well as being witty and just the right combination of absurd and plausible, also offers some genuine insights into the realm of reading, without being too truism-y. ‘I think of literature,’ she wrote, ‘as a vast country to the far borders of which I am journeying but cannot possibly reach’. Ever felt like that?!!

And just a final word about the sketch. Not a great one today, I’m afraid, so if you need a clue just think ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

Tender is the Night

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The Tenderness of Wolves had two connotations in my mind before I’d even read the first page, and neither of them are very relevant or reverent to the book. Firstly, The Carbon Copy supports the English football team Wolverhampton Wanderers, which is abbreviated to Wolves by all and especially sundry. Though I no longer share an abode with him, I still think of Wolves as essentially a football team.

More in my own territory, the word ‘tender’ has connections with As Time Goes By. Anyone else love this sitcom starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer? Essentially very little happens, but it happens with a charm and wit which is unparalleled. The Hardcastles are given a county house, the gardener of which is called Lol Ferris – and he, for several series, refers to Jean (Judi Dench) as being ‘a tender woman’. So there you go – I started this novel with images of an overweight gardener and eleven men in football kits. Shockingly, none of these played pivotal roles in Stef Penney’s novel, which we discussed at Book Group tonight. It was my first week at this book group, which has only had three meetings in total, and I thoroughly enjoyed it – friendly and interesting people, nice pub. I wasn’t even the Token Male, which I was in my previous book group! Three of us – a whole third of those present, in fact.

So, what did I think of The Tenderness of Wolves? Really enjoyed it. Penney’s writing impressed me – nothing irritates me more than authors showing off about their research (I’m looking at you, Dan Brown… oh, and you, Mr. McEwan, for Saturday at least) – Penney had obviously done a lot of research, but never made this more important than plot or character. My main qualms with the novel were of genre – it never quite decided if it was detective, romance or literary fiction. Of course, it can be all of the above, but this left a few areas of dissatisfaction. The novel is essentially a murder, the consequent seeking for the culprit, with passages of discovery for pretty much everyone. That sounds awful, but it really wasn’t – Penney was great at making trekking through the snow interesting. Lucky, since a good three hundred pages are devoted to it – if she can make this fairly compulsive reading, then must be a good writer. Worth checking out.

I wonder how many modern books I’ve read this year… dovegreyreader had better be proud…

Don’t forget to enter BAFAB!

Beg Pardon?

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Thanks Lynne for bringing The Loudest Sound And Nothing to my attention, and thanks Faber (or should that be Faber and Faber?) for sending me a copy to review, on my request.

You may well know about my recent penchant for short stories – and I couldn’t resist reading a collection with such a great cover. Very simple-but-effective, which is the perfect recipe for a short story.

Very difficult to know what to say about Clare Wigfall’s collection of stories. What The Loudest Sound And Nothing has made me realise is that, though many collections of short stories contain a lot of variety, they always have some identifiable style or wording or topic which is unmistakably consistent. Not so Ms. Wigfall. She covers so many periods, personas, styles, situations, nationalities and (though I haven’t counted) no great imbalane in gender of narrator too. If they do share a common trait, it is the focus upon the unspoken. That’s rather a truism of all literature post-1950, but rarely have I read it done without being irritating or merely included for effect. Wigfall’s stories allow glimpses into lives, and wherever the image hinges on an untold aspect of these lives, it is the surrounding existence which grabs out attention. Sure, we don’t know, say, what it is the barman tells the girl in ‘Free’; we don’t know what Mr. Turbridge’s crime is in ‘Night after Night’ (though one can perhaps guess); we don’t know what’s going on in ‘Safe’, the most enigmatic story of them all. But in each of these cases, and throughout the collection, the portraits are complete enough to leave you satisfied. Not every story has an omission to illuminate the rest – in ‘On Pale Green Walls’, for example, understanding what’s happening, when the narrator doesn’t, is the crux.

Whichever way the story is structured, they all involve the reader in a way which I hope Wigfall can bottle and sell to potential writers. Because they’re such a varied bunch, each must stand on its own merits – and I found that all but one of them did. Within sentences, Wigfall creates a miniature landscape of narrative, and even stories which last a few pages feel like complete entities. This is how the modern short story should be written.

Reading Groups

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I re-read Jenny Hartley’s Reading Groups today, which looks very like the picture here, except I couldn’t find an illustration without Amazon’s chirpy ‘Search Inside!’ addition. Since the sentiment is admirable, I’ll let it stand.

Apparently there is an updated version available, but my 2001 edition is fascinating nonetheless. Hartley (et al, I daresay) sent out questionnaires to reading groups, and this guide is based on the 350 responses they received. If you’re like me, this information is enough to make you immediately order a copy of the book – I love book club, I do. Of course the internet equivalents are wonderful, and I think the blogging community can be pushed into this category, but this is nothing to beat a face-to-face reading group. I haven’t attended one for a couple of years, since university and moving house separated me from the one I spent a year at in Eckington. The other day, though, I discovered an Oxford book group in its initial stages, sent off an email, and shall be joining them from September – I daresay you’ll be hearing about that in due course.

Where was I? Hartley’s book, oh yes. As well as basic information about the number, location and gender of book clubs (statistically, apparently, the most common one is a rural, all-female group of 6-10) Reading Groups frequently cites questionnaires on all reading-group-related-topics. We hear why Beryl Bainbridge doesn’t find much favour, about Bristol’s four continuing book groups which were around in the early nineteenth-century, and the various reasons why men are considered miscreants in the world of collective reading. Hearing about the rituals and practices of all-male book clubs (one group sits in order of seniority, clockwise, and must consume no more and no less than two pints of ale per meeting) I’m not surprised that my gender is looked upon with some suspicion. Shame.

I could cite all the examples, but you should instead pop along to Amazon and pay the £0.01 + p&p required to own one yourself. Well, since you asked, here is another titbit: “One woman rarely reads the assignment but gives great excuses: for Camus’s The Plague she read one page only and said she does not like books about rats.”

Anyone reading this is self-evidently a peruser of blogs, and most of you will write your own – but what about your ‘terrestrial’ reading groups? Are you in one, two, twenty? And how do they compare to the blogosphere?

Pottering About

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I must start by saying that there will be spoilers in this post, so anybody who hasn’t yet read that Harry and Hermione were really the same person all along…. heehee… ok, that one’s a lie, but don’t read on if you want to keep everything else secret.

I had intended to talk about some of my other holiday reads, but they will have to wait as Mr. Potter et al get their appraisal first. I suppose the best way for me to sum up my response to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is that it is my least favourite book in the series, and that I loved it. Yes, nothing to approach Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban as my favourite (and also the first one I read), but still a compulsive dash through the hundreds of pages. It felt very strange to come to the end of a eight year journey, knowing that I’d never read new accounts of Harry again – unless, of course, I learn Chinese and read ‘Harry Potter and the Large Funnel’, which I believe is in the offing.

Any more specific response? Well, I felt the absence of Hogwarts keenly. In amongst the admirable good/evil battle, and Harry busy discovering himself and his past, I’d always loved the school atmosphere, and the lessons and teachers we were treated to. Couldn’t you just imagine Maggie Smith reading the latest book, and thinking “Shan’t bank on that film to cover the weekly shop”? The omission of Quidditch I could cope with happily, but McGonagall, Trelawney, Sprout and Flitwick were sadly underused. In their place came endless wandering through fields to rival the first Lord of the Rings film. In fact, the whole Deathly Hallows plot felt rather unnecessary – but perhaps that was only because, like most people, my mind was wholly fixated on “who dies?!” and I didn’t allow enough of my attention to be caught by the matters of the book itself, rather than the series.

Oh, the deaths. Rowling cleverly killed off characters of increasing importance, through the last few books. I mean, who cared at all when Cedric died? But Sirius… and then Dumbledore. Must confess, I kept expecting him to come back to life… more on that later. We were similarly eased in with HP7 – Hedwig was sad, as was Mad-Eye, but nothing to whip out the Kleenex for. Dobby, on the other hand… and by the time we got to Fred, I was positively inconsolable. Mostly because the twin thing is a little too close to home.

Onto Albus. What WAS that half-dead/half-alive thing? “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” was rather a clever line, but didn’t make the whole scene less confusing. Any thoughts?

All in all, a satisfying end to a brilliant series – my thoughts about the books as a whole, and Rowling’s ability, were mentioned a while ago – and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows shouldn’t just be remembered for the deaths it contains.

Being away from the blogging world for the Launch Day, I’ve no idea about the general consensus…???

7 Books You Will Have Heard About And Have Probably Read (Most Of)

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Never let it be said that I am out of touch with the populus. In a year where I’ve read more Middle English than your average preteen, I’ve also just finished a book nearly all of ’em will have read. Yup, having reached page 766, have completed my third read of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. The film’s coming out soon, and I wanted to refresh my memory…

In the early days, when JK Rowling was producing one of the series a year, Harry Potter was the same age as me. I’ve had the opportunity to overtake him now, but even so, I wasn’t there from the outset. The first time our paths crossed was when I helped out on the school’s Carnegie Prize Panel (which didn’t have any effect on the actual procedure, but was rather fun) and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Harry Potter III) was one of the choices. This was when Harry was big, but not huge. And I was hooked – part of me wanted to loath the book, but… no, I was hooked. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has read any of the series, and still dislikes it.

So what is it about JKR’s writing? Well, if I knew that, I’d probably be a millionaire by now. But we did have a lecture on Harry Potter at Oxford once, in the first week that I was at university, and the lecturer pointed out that JKR rarely used descriptive language, or anything which veered from the action-action-action. This, said Dr. Purkiss (herself, with her son Michael, an author under the pseudonym Tobias Druitt), was either incredibly clever writing, or incredibly bad writing. True, take any chunk of prose and Virginia Woolf it ain’t – but Rowling’s ability to make you read on is unparalleled. Who would have thought children would willingly read 700+ pages? And I read it over a single weekend, so that I wouldn’t have the ending spoilt by friends at school on Monday. Perhaps I’m not the best example of someone who needed persuasion to read, but you get the idea.

So. Where do my musings point? Nowhere, to be honest, except to demonstrate myself not quite the literary snob I might seem, and to hope lots of others hold up their hands in solidarity. No reason why one can’t enjoy Woolf and wizards; Shakespeare and Sirius Black; Austen and Aurors… you get the picture. Speaking of pictures, there must be a thousand sketches I could have done to accompany a post on Harry Potter. But I’m tired… so I’ve copied this one, which is hopefully the way things are heading for the next generation. Fingers crossed.

Unreckoned Responsibility

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Poor Maggie O’Farrell. Little did she know, in penning The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, that the weight of the last 50 years of literature was on her shoulders. As I detailed in a previous post, I regard modern literature with some suspicion, preferring the tried and true waters of 1900-1950. Against my better judgement, perhaps, I went to borders and purchased The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, based entirely on the review given by Lynne over on dovegreyreader. Waiting inside was not merely a novel, but the determining factors in whether or not I’d continue to give 2007 a chance, in the literary stakes.

Verdict : let’s not rule out the 21st century just yet.

Without giving too much away, O’Farrell’s novel documents the release of Esme Lennox from a psychiatric unit, into the care of great-niece Iris, who didn’t know Esme existed. The novel flits between this present day scenario, and the past events, focalised either through narrative, Esme’s recollections, or the uncertain memories of Kitty, Esme’s sister, now in hospital with Alzheimer’s.

It is the last of these methods which I found most demonstrated O’Farrell’s talent – the driftings of imprecise thoughts are presented so realistically, offering, in these sections, a discourse neither unified nor wholly disjointed. The clues are all there, and amalgamate towards a final comprehension of the history leading to Esme’s incarceration. Though intelligently written, one of the things I’d have to put in the ‘cons’ column is this reliance upon detective-fictionesque build up of clues, red herrings, and so forth. The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox is about so much more than deducing the ending, that this structure undermined the content a little. Esme is a wonderful character, as is Kitty – Iris is never quite as satisfactory, probably because of the inevitable, but ultimately unsatisfying, inclusions of love interests. Luke could have been cut from the novel without any great loss, though Elle might not have contributed their comment to the back of my paperback. Oh, and I still don’t like the use of present tense in novels. When did that come in? Probably before I was born. But I don’t want any of these quibbles to detract from the fact that this is a hugely enjoyable, cleverly written work.


So… on which path will my reading now embark? A happy compromise, methinks. There’s little sense in only reading books out in the past few months, when there is such a heritage of literature to be explored – but I suppose being alive doesn’t necessarily equate with being unreadable, where authors are concerned(!)

50 Books… but this one you WON’T read…

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8. Scar Tissue – Ruth Mary Hills

First of all, apologies to those of you whose experience of yesterday’s post was a blur of pictures dotted all over the place. That apology might extend to every post – I’ve discovered that screen definition, or some such, will alter things like where photos are positioned. Consequently, some of you will have seen my self-erasure in straight lines… some like a manic collage. Sorry!

And back to books, after a couple of days in other territories. Today’s book is a little misleading – yes, I’ve nominated it for my ’50 Books You Must Read But May Not Have Heard About’, but in actual fact, I don’t expect any of you to read this. I’d be surprised if you did.

Do you want to know why?

Well, try Googling “Ruth Mary Hills”, the author. Remember the quotation marks, so that you only get the results where her name has been written in full. I’ll give you a moment whilst you do that, and I’ll just dust a bookshelf and sweep some crumbs under the rug.

Done?

Right. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’ve come away from a total of ‘no’ results. Fear not, I haven’t made up this book, and used my limitless powers in PhotoShop to create that photo. It’s just that Scar Tissue: theological and other poems is limited to a print run of 75 copies. It’s not in the Bodleian. I can’t even find an address for the Amaté Press, who published it. I had no idea it was this exclusive when I picked it up in Blackwells, and liked the look of it. It’s a beautiful book; very white, clean, lovely font inside – all these things made me buy it. And now I’ve read the poetry inside, I can declare it an all-round success. I’ve typed out my favourite poem at the bottom (N.B. cannot find contact details for the author – but will, of course, remove if required) – but, as I said, I don’t expect anyone to read this.

So what is the point of this entry? Well, the Book You Must Read is not Scar Tissue, but what I shall now refer to as A Ruth Mary Hills, or an RMH. Hope that doesn’t mean anything nefarious. An RMH is a book only you know about, and which no-one else really has an opportunity of hearing about. Your copy is the only loanable one; you have an exclusive relationship with this work. Maybe it’s something a friend or relative has written; something you’ve written yourself; or, like my RMH, one just happened upon accidentally. I love reading books which aren’t wildly well-known, but an RMH takes that one step further – and gives you a great, unique relationship with the novel, poetry or whatever it is. I don’t usually sign up to Reception Theory, but in this case…

So, my question is – what’s your RMH? Do you have one yet?

Revelation

The Christ child came to me
In mystic mode
As if to warm
A heart stone cold

I knew not whence or how
The sudden flame
That burnt and glowed
Within my frame

Yet on the way betwixt home and town
A wondrous love was in me known

Forlorn and mean
And quite alone,
Mere skin and bone,
Was I to whom
This love was shown