The Grapes of Wrath

The great depression sure made John Steinbeck an angry man. And why not? Millions of people across the West Coast of America (not to mention the rest of the world) starving in camps, repressed by the local law enforcement, and forced to work for a pittance. This is the backdrop to the Grapes of Wrath, the story of the Joad Family.

The book follows the family from their farm in Oklahoma, where the land has been over farmed at the request of banks to the point where it isn’t possible to make a living any more. Evicted from the farm, they are forced to head west following rumours of plentiful work, excellent living conditions and a good life. From the title of the book you may be able to guess this isn’t what they find.

When the book was released it caused a huge outrage, with claims that Steinbeck was exaggerating the camps that had grown on the west coast at the time to make a profit from the book. For someone who wasn’t aware of the situation (i.e. me), it would be easy to see where these claims come from: The conditions in the book are horrific, with the Joads forced to give up everything in the hope of work, they are frequently starving, live in cramped conditions and death and loss surround them. A bit of research after reading revealed that Steinbeck in reality played down the condition of the camps in the book for fear the truth would infringe upon the story. It made me feel slightly ashamed that I wasn’t aware of this happening during the recession, not that I was around to help prevent it at the time, of course.

While the book is an angry, direct attack on the land owning classes, big business and the law enforcement, it also is a testament to the human spirit. Even when forced to go through the most degrading actions imaginable (one scene at the end of the book in particular made me squirm more than a human centipede ever could) the family do so with dignity, and they do so together, as a family.

The book is one of the most widely read in 20th Century American Literature and won the nobel prize for Steinbeck. I really cant recommend it enough. It’s tough going, and I cant promise a happy ending, but the anger that drives the book compels you to read on. Give it a shot.

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men

With David Foster Wallace’s last, unfinished, novel hitting book stores on April 15th, what better time would there be for me to review another of his books? Actually, I’m kind of misleading you. I read this book purely for the joy of it, and didn’t realise The Pale King (the new one) was coming out soon. What I found was a collection of short stories as brilliant as any of his other works, but with a newfound sense of anxiety underpinning many of the pieces.

If there’s one theme that ties all of the short stores together, it’s probably that many of them attempt to understand in very clear detail what’s happening in a large range of peoples minds. The title short story is split across the book, and simply consists of hideous men discussing their lives. These sections are often hilarious, with obscene twists, and frequently play on your expectations as a reader. This is the first book I’ve read by Foster Wallace written after Infinite Jest, and so there is a level of playfulness and inventiveness familiar to his readers, but here there is a brevity to the stories that really mark them out.

As I mentioned earlier, there is also a sense of anxiety. I first noticed this through ‘Octet’, which consists of a series of short stories which are immediately followed by a question, kind of like something from an English exam. There are two things that go wrong with this (and not go wrong as in don’t work). The second question ends with him realising that the set-up for the question has failed, and apologising for the inherent vagueness of the set up. There is a follow up question featuring the same characters, which luckily works. The final question, however, is the fifth (not the eighth), and is question nine. In this, you are asked to imagine that you’re a writer, who is attempting to write eight questions. The problem is, most of them don’t work. What follows is a bizarre insight into the writing process. Foster Wallace puts you into his position, talks you through what he’s been trying to do, and explains why he’s included 'octet' in the book. He then takes it a step further, and discusses his reasons for writing what you’re reading, explaining how much time he’s put into making it clear that the tone of what you’re currently reading has to be just right, and completely nakedly honest.

There are other examples of this kind of writing through the book, but I don’t want to ruin the whole thing. I admit I’m a huge fan of this guy, but I really feel his writing is simply better than anything else written in recent times. After reading this though, I was left with a big question. Is this anxiety real or imagined? Is his explanation of his thoughts into the writing process real, or is it entirely fictional, and playing with me? I suspect this is the real question at the heart of brief interviews.

The Corner

Regular book clubbers will be aware of my intense love affair with anything written by David Foster Wallace (If you're not aware of this, come back next week...). A little over a year ago, when I finished Infinite Jest, I was at a bit of a loss for how to follow it up. I ended up reading Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets by David Simon, the creator of the Wire. Homicide, a non-fiction title which saw Simon follow detectives in the Baltimore police department for a year, was completely different in approach to Infinite Jest, but far more readable, and intensely gripping.

Let’s skip forward to last month when I bought the follow up, The Corner. The premise is similar, although this time co-authored by Ed Burns, a former BPD detective. Together they spent over a year following around life on the street, choosing the corner of West Fayette and Monroe Streets to centre their investigation. The resulting novel follows a broken family, the McCulloughs, who consist of Gary and Fran - separated but both dependant on drugs, and their son DeAndre, who has recently taken to slinging drugs from the corner.

If I’m being really honest, the book is consistently harrowing, At frequent points I had to stop, put it down, and recover from what I was reading. Overdoses are common amongst background players in the book, characters regularly steal, even from close family, and many of the addicts spend a lot of time lying to themselves in order to escape from the reality of their lives. One scene in particular, recounting how the daughter of Ella Thompson, who runs the local rec center, went missing only for her beaten, violated corpse to be found a few days later is particularly moving. Ella channels her grief into a personal mission to try and keep as many of the kids off the corner as possible. She knows she is fighting a losing battle, but her self determination is nothing short of inspirational.

The arguments made in the book will be familiar to anyone who has watched the Wire. That so many kids go on to lead the corner life is explained in very simple terms. The failure of the government, in both their strategies with law enforcement and the school system is disected. In a recently added afterward, the authors describe how a few years after the book, a guy who was running for city mayor held a copy of the Corner up at a press conference to show he understood how to deal with drugs. When a local reporter pointed out the book argues that the criminalisation of drugs has failed, the politician admitted to having not read the book. He was elected for two terms.

The Corner is an incredibly powerful and well written argument. It humanises a set of people that can seem alien to the majority of its readers. At the same time, the effects a lifetime of drug addiction can have are made very clear. While I think the book addresses very clearly what has gone wrong with areas such as West Baltimore, it also attempts to show a path for a better system. That they don’t claim to show an easy path is a credit to the authors. Ultimately only hard work can help get kids off the corners and their parents off drugs.

Sherlock Holmes: His Last Bow (and also a retrospective)

When I was about 10 I got a giant book containing all of the Sherlock Holmes tales for Christmas. It’s pretty hefty, with 4 novels and 56 short stories. I made several attempts to and try to read the lot in one go as a teenager, but usually dropped off around the time Conan Doyle killed him off, and then 10 years later brought him back from the dead. I guess I was always disappointed when I remembered that Moriarty, the guy who is supposed to be the ultimate nemesis of Holmes, never directly appears in the books. However, about 4 years ago I gave it another go, only this time I didn’t stop short, and I’ve been slowly working my way through the collection one book at a time…

Recently I came to His Last Bow, which starts of by letting me know that Holmes is still alive and well, although retired and suffering from the occasional bout of rheumatism. What follows is a collection of his adventures mostly taken from the early years with Watson, although the continuity in these books is so strained I haven’t got the slightest clue whether this sentence holds up to any form of scrutiny. If I’m being completely honest, this particular collection of stories aren’t the strongest, although they do have all the hallmarks familiar to the Sherlock Holmes cannon. These are some of my favourite recurring happenings:

1. Watson starts off a short story by alluding to a case involving a European Royal family, a lot of money, and Holmes saving the day, before immediately declaring that it can’t be told in public so we have to settle for something much more mundane.

2. Watson does something really stupid, which puts him in a lot of danger. Suddenly the tramp/street performer/lady across the street jumps forward and saves him, and then turns out to be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock then admonishes Watson for being an idiot.

3. For some reason, Holmes can’t solve the case without creating an illusion of fallibility to Watson. It then turns out that he’s been in charge of the whole thing all along. This is best exemplified by a story in His Last Bow, in which Holmes pretends to be dying from a tropical disease for 3 days, in order to get Watson to go fetch a doctor who he knows is trying to kill him. Guess what? He’s not dying!

Even though these things happen repeatedly, I love these books. There is a wit about them, and an eye for the bizarre which provide a great hook to the mystery. I think my favourite short story (of all the ones I’ve read) is the league of red headed gentlemen. In it, a guy gets a job to write the dictionary on the basis of his perfectly red hair. After a few months of writing the dictionary, one day he can’t get in to the office. It all turns out to be an excuse to get this guy out of the house every day to help dig a tunnel for a bank robbery. Preposterous, but highly entertaining.

Although the book I just read is called ’His Last Bow’ there is still one more to go before I complete the set. I will read it one day, although I don’t hold much hope the standard will be very high. Still, when I do finish it, then I’ll be able to look back upon the stories with many great memories. A unique mixture of excitement, mystery and comedy keeps Sherlock Holmes very much alive in peoples minds today, as evidenced by all the screen adaptations. Sherlock Holmes also has a guiding catchphrase which I’d like to round this piece out with, for no reason other than my own satisfaction:

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”

The Millenium Trilogy

There’s no arguing with the success of the Millenium trilogy, handed by Steig Larsson over to his publisher shortly before his death. The main character, Lisbeth Salander, has been singled out as one of the most ‘unique’ heroines that crime fiction has ever produced. It was with this hype that I received the whole trilogy as a present over Christmas, and I set down to read the lot pretty much straight away. I wish I hadn’t.

I have many issues with the books, but I’m going to concentrate on one per book for the sake of brevity. The first is Larsson’s understanding of what constitutes a cliché. Early on in the first book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, one of the main characters has the novels central mystery described to him by an elderly man. He immediately remarks that the situation sounds like some kind of cliché from a crime novel, to which the elderly man responds by agreeing, but insisting it really happened. As far as I can tell, the book then seems to think that by addressing the fact it’s central mystery is clichéd, it has avoided this trap. In reality, Larsson only succeeds in bringing the shortcomings in his writing directly to your attention.

The Girl who Played with Fire, the second novel in the trilogy, manages to throw any lingering doubts of realism from the first book out of the window in the first 75 pages. Having made it through the events of the first book, Salandar goes on holiday, saves a woman from certain death at the hands of her abusive husband while a hurricane hits the beach, has her flight delayed by the threat of a terrorist on board the plane, and ruins a corrupt estate agent. While I understand that Larsson is trying to keep the readers attention whilst building plot for later in the novel, there is no need to do this by making every single thing the main character does some kind of incident. He only ends up creating a world where everyone who is not explicitly introduced as a ‘good person’ is essentially a devious arse-hole out to fuck someone over.

The trilogy concludes with The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest, which prefaces each section of the book with a mixture of historical fact and myth surrounding the idea of female warriors capable of taking on men. It’s at this stage when the true ideals, and limitations, behind the book are revealed. The trilogy proudly displays its ‘feminist’ credentials, taking you through an array of bad guys who deal in trafficking, or just plain like some good old fashioned rape. There are also multiple female characters who act as successful, independent role models. This in itself is a great ideal, but Larsson’s understanding of equality is hideous. His idea of proving the equality of women to men is by showing that they can beat men up. His ideal of female equality, in other words, is a distinctly male one.

I’ve not seen the Swedish film adaptations, and I’m writing this before the American remakes reach cinema screens. As a result, I can’t share my verdict with you on how this saga translates onto the big screen. My suspicion is that with a talented cast and production team, they could probably make a decent story out of this. Films often condense a novel into it’s highlights, usually by cutting out the crap. If they managed this with either adaptation, it’s bound to be a vastly improved, if considerably shortened, version.

I, Too, Am Malay

Working on the Southbank in London, I got to see a fair amount during the recent student protests in London. Helicopters flew over our office, while groups of protesters came streaming out of the station heading towards the march. Some clever UCL students set up a custom Google map, that allowed them to update the progress of the strike over the internet, allowing other students to view where any clashes were happening. This was brilliant. I can see Nelson atop his column from my desk, but couldn’t see any of the action below. This map allowed me, and the whole world, to get regular updates (roughly every few minutes) on the locations of protesters and police. Admittedly I had to question the accuracy of the map at times - I’m pretty sure the giant Godzilla icon that was placed in the Thames wasn’t real - but the map showed open, public defiance of the government.

It can sometimes be easy to forget the fact that such public opposition to the government is a right people in other countries struggle for. The current conflict in Libya is notably marked by Ghaddafi’s claims that all the people in Libya love him, an outright denial of such opposition even existing. I, Too, Am Malay, is a book written about a country where brutal force isn’t applied to those who disagree with government policy, but political ostracism is.

The author, Zaid Ibrahim, is a former minister of the Malaysian government. He resigned from his post in controversial circumstances, and was later kicked out of his political party. In this book, he recounts his life story, in which he founds the country's biggest law firm, he explains his version of events when he was in government, and sets out his idea of where the country should be going. If the book has one success, it’s in Ibrahim’s pleas for political debate to be encouraged, and for the nation to embrace it’s multi-ethnic population and learn to treat them all as equal citizens. I’ll admit I’m a sucker for this kind of rhetoric, which delves into the nations past and shows how the country was at it’s best when working together. Learning to accept each others differences can lead to a stronger society. If you don’t agree with these principles, you’re probably not worth listening to. Still, for Malaysian society, these are important principles, and are still being learned.

Where the book suffers is in Ibrahim’s treatment of his own life. While he seems to be gracious and respectful to all, he remains a politician. What I mean by this, is, that I don’t trust his version of events. He seems not to have a clue why certain events surrounding him transpired, especially when accusations of political opportunism are thrown at him. You get the impression that certain, crucial, events are being skimmed over in order for him to present himself in the most flattering light possible. It’s a shame that a book with such a positive message is, in a way, undermined by the author’s failure to acknowledge his own shortcomings. I still think the book contains enough inspiring material to merit a read, but if Ibrahim truly believes in the right to criticism, then he surely won’t mind my declaration that I don’t believe him.

The New Scientist Guide to Chaos

As a mathematician, I find it pretty easy to love science. I remember getting into New Scientist magazine during my A-Levels, and being excited by all the cool stories of scientific discovery, and the practical uses of these discoveries. A friend of mine bought a subscription to the magazine for a year, but barely read it. Luckily for me, I frequently stayed over at his after the pub (not like that, although there was a lot of tying up involved…), and as I always woke up before him in the morning I’d sit and read through his back catalogue of magazines, skipping to the best bits. I think we should move on to the book before I say anything incriminating.

The New Scientist Guide to Chaos was published in the mid-eighties, and designed as a guide to how Chaos theory was impacting many areas of science, and the importance of emerging computer technologies in driving these new theories and applications. The publishing date leads to two unavoidable, if slightly amusing, issues with reading this book now, in the early teenies. One is that most of what you’re reading is pretty dated, if theoretically sound. The other is that every now and again, some passage of the book shows up that dates the book in an extremely unflattering manner. One such passage occurs at the end of an essay on weather systems. The author begins to discuss climate change, but points out that any evidence pointing to global warming is still highly doubtful, and as such, scientists are hesitant to make any assertion that would imply the notion of climate change is real.

Despite the occasional reminder of how quickly scientific consensus can change, I really enjoyed the book. One of the reasons I stopped reading New Scientist was that, as my knowledge of Maths, Physics and science in general grew, I felt that it relied too heavily on metaphors and allusions, rather than just explaining what was going on directly. This book has few such problems, with frequent equations, experiments and direct explanations on display. The calibre of writer is also apparent, or at least I think it is - Mandelbrot, a famous Maths guy, writes one of the essays. That means I can assume everyone else is famous, right?

In terms of recommending this book to you, my loyal book clubbers (you are, after all, still loyal after the inappropriate jokes earlier on, aren't you?), it’s a difficult decision. The book is clearly dated, a relic of time, but on the other hand, it tells you a lot more about scientific processes than the last several dozen New Scientists I read. If you’re after a proper science read, Brian Cox’s book is probably a much better option, but for those of us who can't resist indulging in an old love affair, this will do fine.

Don't Make me Think!

I am a web analyst. I have been analysing the web since the dawn of September, and I don’t intend to stop anytime soon. I can analyze anything on the web, from the website I work on (Bookatable.com) to this humble blog. If my gmail account has access and the data is tracked in Google Analytics, I‘m set. Versatile, no? Anyway, I was handed a copy of Steve Krug’s ‘Don’t Make Me Think!’ by my boss, along with the advice to “read it, sleep with it and have it memorized by next week“. Sadly I failed to accomplish two of the three appointed tasks (I shall let you guess which), but I have been able to absorb enough to compile a review.

Steve Krug is a web usability expert, and the book was designed to be a short guide to giving you a better website. If this doesn’t get you excited, then you may not wish to read the book, or indeed the rest of this review. You would, of course, be foolish to adopt this opinion (and by extension not adopt mine). Krug’s principles of web usability can be extended to any creative endeavour. One such nugget of gold, that you should get rid of half the words on a given webpage, and then get rid of half of the remaining words, could easily apply to a late period James Cameron film, or a Stephen King novel.

Perhaps my favourite piece of advice, though, comes when discussing how to make things as accessible as possible. He gives a load of examples where presenting something simply allows a site to be intuitive, eye friendly, and easier for people with disabilities to navigate. Alongside this comes the point that people don’t mind having things they consider obvious explained to them, provided the explanation doesn’t get in the way. This is, of course, a crucial point that is understood throughout this book. There is a huge difference between simplifying something, and dumbing it down. It’s the same reason why Pixar make such successful films. Their stories are not dumb, they are presented simply.

Of course, you’ve read this post (you are still reading this, right?) thinking ‘yes James, you are a web analyst and you like a book about the internet. So what?’ I understand your point. You will not read this book and your life will be poorer. I pity you.

The Time Travellers Wife

I’d heard such strong opinions about the Time Travellers Wife before I read it. It seemed to divide people into two camps, the lovers and the haters. Normally when this happens to book or a film or whatever, I’ll read or watch or whatever it and decide that everyone is wrong and the subject matter is pretty average. However, there are exceptions to this rule, and the Time Travellers Wife is one of them. In other words, it’s shit.

But how did it go wrong? I think most people will agree it has a wonderfully trashy sci-fi premise (although again I know people who would object to that…). There’s a girl who falls in love with a guy, but the guy cant stop travelling through time and hi-jinks ensue. With a concept like that, I think most author’s would struggle to fail. Somehow, having done the hard work, Audrey Niffenegger fails spectacularly, and she does so for 2 reasons.

The first is that she misses out all the dark and interesting stuff in the novel. Early on it’s revealed that Mr Time Traveller is haunted by the death of his mother, who died in a car crash when he was four. As a result of his time travelling medical condition, he ends up watching this happen over and over, from a different viewpoint each time. This is a dark, brooding and really interesting idea, and is ripe for some emotional exploitation. However, having been told about all of these visits you know what happens? It never gets mentioned again. Any writer worth half their salt would have brought you back to this scene half a dozen times, and the more Hellerian amongst them would have even made him accidentally cause the accident. Missed opportunites such as this frequent the novel.

The second issue is that there is no purpose or point to the book. I learned after reading that the original idea for this book was for Niffenegger to write a metaphor for her perfect guy. As a result of this, the book is heavy on sentimentality and light on any actual moral or point. The only theme I could discern was the loneliness associated with being alone, but this is negated by one small thing: The guy fucking time travels. How am I expected to feel the loss of any character if the guys keeps jumping through time and visiting everyone?!? Regular book clubbers will remember from last week that One Day won me over with it’s charming characters and concept. Part of it tackled a very similar theme, but you know what? It didn’t have someone jumping out of time to console people!

I should probably bring this review to a close before my brain explodes. As far as I can tell people who want to read this book fall into two camps. People who want time travel and people who want a love story. My recommendation to the time team is to find some proper science fiction. For the love train, how about you read One Day?

One Day

Emma and Dexter have a night together after their graduation. This is the 15th July 1988, and they are in Edinburgh. They decide as they are heading in different directions they should be friends. Life goes on. One day shows you what happens on the 15th July the next year, and the year after that, and that day for the next 20 years of their lives. It sounds like a pathetic love story, it is in fact a wonderful book.

Quite why this book got so under my skin I’m finding hard to pinpoint. Having moved from Edinburgh to London, like Em and Dex, perhaps I found it a bit easier to identify with them. I think it’s more to do with the excellent characterisation. You’re seeing their lives, you understand where they are, how they feel and why they feel it. It’s like having two best friends who you get to catch up with once a year.

The book covers many other aspects of modern life, and I think the book is as much about being alone as being in love. The author, David Nicholls, seems to have a fantastic insight into what makes people tick. Why they make mistakes and what brings them together (or keeps them apart). It’s little moments, like Emma realising that she cant speak to someone she’s known for 15 years, not because they’ve fallen out, but because their partner’s have, and the battle lines have been drawn. Or when Dexter calls girls in the night to try and see them. You know it’s not because of his rampant libido, it’s because he’s lonely, and doesn’t know how to deal with that.

There’s one particularly brilliant section on how weddings happen in your life. The first wave is when you’re at university, and marriage is basically a rebellion against your parents. The second wave is your mid twenties. There’s still a sense of how silly having a wedding is, but people are starting to take it more seriously. The third wave comes in your thirties. By this time, all pretensions have been lost. The wedding becomes this huge planned formal affair, to be taken very seriously. The fourth wave, of course, is the second marriage…

Having wasted an entire paragraph talking about marriage (not to mention last weeks review of Pride and Prejudice), I should probably go ahead and try to salvage some shred of manliness from this review. I shouldn’t admit how much the book affected me. I know too many people who will read this, laugh and think that by never letting me live it down they’ve scored a victory for men everywhere. They would tell me to man up. Well, I probably should man up, but I feel that issue has nothing to do with the horrific mess I was through the closing scenes of One Day. Many people felt that Toy Story 3 was so overpowering because the end of Andy’s childhood was reflected in the viewer. I think One Day has a similar effect on its reader, not because it relates to the end of your childhood, but what happens next.

Pride and Prejudice

Being male, its very difficult to read Pride and Prejudice in public. People stare at you. They snigger, they sneer, they look down their noses. Why would I, a man, read a book by Jane Austin? I wasn’t sure why myself, but I paid money for it so it seemed like the decent thing to do. I set about reading the book with as much secrecy as possible on public transport. I hid the cover into the back of the person in front of me on the tube, with the pages folded sharply upwards to stop anyone sneaking a preview of what so many people seemed to find so horrifically confusing.

A lot of female people that I know discovered I was undertaking this most shocking of endeavours, and were horrified that I would refer to Pride and Prejudice as chick-lit. Of course, all of these ladies had actually read the book. Now I have too, I can see their point. The book is a satire on society - the romance story is there as relief from the idiocy of many of the characters surrounding Bennet and Darcy. Your growing suspicions are indeed correct - I really enjoyed this book.

Elizabeth’s mother is fricking hilarious. She storms through every scene, tearing up the pages with her wild inconsistencies, governed only by her emotions and ill defined opinions. Her father is equally amusing. He takes great pride in caring for his daughters, usually at the expense of his wife.

The main characters are fantastic because they are flawed. Elizabeth Bennet is refreshing (even 200 years on) because she holds on to her principles throughout the novel. When she falls in love, it’s for much deeper reasons than a happy ending. She grows in character as the story progresses, learning the importance of holding back from assumptions and speculation until in full possession of facts. Darcy is well suited as the romantic interest, but is held back from her interest for most of the book by a distinct lack of tact.

So why did I think of it as chick-lit? Well, as with many classics, it’s influence has led to many shockingly poor novelists attempting to re-create its magic (I’m looking at you Celia Ahern). It’s a bit like Nirvana drowning in a Puddle of Mudd, or the Libertines wearing the same jeans for 4 days. It’s guilt by association. As a result, I think I’m the first man I know to actually read this book (please correct me if I’m wrong?). I’m very glad to have read some Jane Austin, I suspect many men never will.

Sabbath's Theatre

I think most people really enjoyed The Dark Knight, Christopher Nolan’s epic Batman sequel. I certainly did. One of the things that made it so great was the mystery surrounding the Joker - you never knew what he had planned, or what he was going to do next. The reason for this is that his origins were not explained. If you knew what motivated him, then the mystery, and so the fear, was gone. Of course, for someone who spent so long talking about how he let chaos rule and never planned anything, he had quite a lot of elaborate set-ups that I suspect actually required quite a lot of meticulous planning, but I digress. I’m here to talk about Sabbath’s Theatre.

This was my first novel by Philip Roth. He’s got a reputation for being one of the best authors around (although that is being challenged by a lot of critics at the moment). The story concerns Micky Sabbath - a former puppeteer. He used to be wildly inventive, using finger puppets for his show’s in New York. Now he’s just an old man, and when his mistress dies he goes a bit crazy. He is also supposed to be purposefully bad. He likes trying to sleep with women, and isn’t too choosy on that front…

In case you haven’t guessed, the title is not as clever as it thinks it is. He’s a puppeteer, who manipulates puppets in his theatre. He’s a pervert, who manipulates people in the theatre of life. It’s signposted like a smack in the face with a kipper. But that’s ok, you can have an obvious set up, provided the book is worth reading. I’m, not sure this is. It’s so dull! Whenever Sabbath meets someone missing a Y chromosome you know what’s coming. What’s worse, you know why he is doing it.

You see, in this book Roth doesn’t understand what makes a good villain. You know he chases after woman so inappropriately because it’s explained to you where he got into this habit. You have recounted conversations with his mentor, who proudly boasts of his sexual prowess. You have accounts of his family life, of his despair at losing his older brother. Once you have this, the rest of the book is inevitable. Micky Sabbath isn’t evil, he’s a pathetic old man. As a result, he fails to live up to his own billing, just like the book.

Clandestine In Chile

While I was waiting for a train at Kings Cross, I began looking for a bookstore. A quick google maps exercise showed me several within five minutes walk, so I was thrilled. Unfortunately google maps did not tell me that the kind of book shop you get in this area doesn’t sell books… Luckily after making my way through the bondage (seriously - book store?) I found a socialist book store. Much better, I’m sure you’ll agree. The result of this was that I bought the first book by an author whose name I recognised: Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Marquez is much more famous for ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ and ’One Hundred Years of Solitude’, his fiction. This book takes a completely different path and tells the true story of Miguel Littin, a Chilean film director who lives in exile from Chile. Deciding to make a documentary of how General Augusto Pinochet’s fascist government has affected his country, he sneaks back into the country in a disguise and begins filming.

The book is fairly entertaining, though would probably have a much bigger impact for someone more familiar with Pinochet’s reign than myself. To get the full force of the book you have to know, or assume, that the country is under a repressive, murderous regime. Although you are reminded of this throughout the book, there aren’t any scene’s to back this view up. On the contrary, whenever Littin gets close to authority figures, as happens frequently, he always escapes without too much danger. To me, the length’s he goes to in order to maintain his secret identity seem rather extreme. Of course, this could just be my own ignorance. It could easily be the case that it was necessary, and Littin does constantly feels endangered. My point is that the book lacks evidence to back up its assertions, it assumes you have a prior knowledge yourself.

The disguise does make for some of the most touching moments in the book though. Towards the end Littin makes his way home, only to discover his own mother does not recognise him. The stories of resistance can also hit home. One man, finding out that his daughter has been sentenced to death, burns himself to death in front of the church to demonstrate against this. His sacrifice gained such public support that his daughter is saved from execution.

All of this goes to show, that while this book may fail on the bigger picture, it’s the human stories that are brought to life. The author’s most famous works are the ones that focus on people, rather than events, so perhaps this is no surprise. If I ever end up in a socialist book store again (and I would much rather this happened than ending up in a bondage store again), I think some fiction from Gabriel Garcia Marquez may be just the trick.

Glamorama

About 2 years ago I read American Psycho - Bret Easton Ellis’s satire on banking culture. Afterwards I really wasn’t sure if I would read another book by him. There’s no doubt he has a fantastic writing ability, but I really couldn’t decide if it was worth reading more by an author whose main achievement (to me) was that he was pushing literature to an extreme I hadn’t experienced before. For those of you who don’t know what I mean, let me explain: Graphic violence, graphic sex, and quite a lot of both at once. It was not enjoyable, it was extremely tough going at times, and it really took a lot out of me.

That I ended up reading Glamorama should come as a shock. Especially so, considering the advice I had from two friends who had read it. One said that they stopped reading halfway through because it was too much, the other advised they seriously considered stopping (although they remain a fan). As it turned out, I loved it.

The style is similar - all his novels are narrated in the first person, and the narrator is always excessively vain. The endless celebrity name dropping has been taken to an extreme, with frequent lists of them intentionally placed as a reminder of the narrators priorities. Victor Ward is obsessed with his own identity. The idea that forms the story is a gem: He is caught in a thriller but is too vain (and stupid) to either narrate the story coherently, or realise the importance of what is going on. Terrorist plots are unfolding in the background while he worries which nightclub to go to. The plot cleverly plays within the thriller structure, with the underlying satire of Wards sense of identity being teased throughout.

So why do people think it pushes things too far? I don’t feel it does. The scenes in American Psycho felt so shocking because they were narrated by a sociopath. In this book the shock value of the terrorist plot is largely filtered out by the narrators self obsession, it blurs the violence from the reader. The sex, while as graphic as ever, lacks the violence that made American Psycho so disturbing. I should note that there is material to offend the casually homophobic among you, although I have little sympathy for such people. I mention this more to describe that yet again, I found my self reading Bret Eason Ellis and thinking ‘I’ve never read anything like this before…’, except, this time it was kinda fun.

A supposedly fun thing I'll never do again

When I was embarking on my American travels earlier in the year, a friend of mine gave me a book called Infinite Jest to read with the warning that it would take over my life. They were not wrong. Infinite Jest has become one of my favourite books, and the knowledge that its author, David Foster Wallace, committed suicide while writing its follow up came as a hammer blow to me. He did, however, leave quite a few non-fiction books behind him, including the essay collection I’m reviewing now.

The essays cover a large range of subjects, from postmodern literary theory to tennis, from the films of David Lynch to a luxury Caribbean cruise (the title essay). For an enthusiast such as myself, this was heaven. David Foster Wallace’s ability to write means he can tackle any subject and make it fascinating. His detailed description of thrill rides at the Illinois state fair are illuminated by his deep fear of going on rollercoasters. Even watching others taking part leaves him feeling nauseous. He lists cheesy t-shirt slogans he sees and theorises at length on the motivation the wearer has to define themselves in this way. At all times, subjects are tackled with extreme honesty. He is intent on letting you in on his train of thought, at times willingly prepared to sacrifice your opinion of him in doing so,

Despite being non-fiction, the joys of Foster Wallace’s prose are the same. This includes my personal favourite: the footnotes. He turns the use of footnotes into an art form, giving the footnotes their own footnotes, and letting them wander on for pages at a time, overtaking and overshadowing the main text. This happens so frequently that while reading on the tube, I noticed some people pointing and laughing at me as I turned backwards and forwards between pages, trying to keep up with the footnotes. The use of language constantly made me giggle like a school girl, his viewpoint on almost any subject seems to come from a viewpoint so uniquely different to mine. Many of the essays were composed during the writing of Infinite Jest, yet the quality of the essays does not suffer. This, to me, confirms two things. First, that this guy has an unrivalled gift for writing. Second, that Ill never make it as a writer.

The cult of David Foster Wallace will continue to grow. I already found it to be considerably larger than I thought when buying this book - as evidenced by the snobby book assistant looking at me in disbelief that I was only just buying this book now. Of course talk of cults is nonsense, but for me, having discovered this essay collection, I’m just excited that there are more to follow…

The Count of Monte Cristo

Back in my teenage years I read a book by Stephen Fry called the ‘The Stars Tennis Balls’. It was an entertaining story with a protagonist named Ned. He was young, successful, in love and in the 80‘s. However as he prepared to go to university, tragedy struck. Three ‘friends’, jealous of Ned, caused him to be arrested. At this point a secret service agent sent him to a Scandinavian mental home for entirely selfish reasons. After spending 20 years trapped, Ned escaped to the 21st century world, and set about gaining his revenge…

Let’s cut to the real world, and to my birthday this year. I received The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas as a present. Within 20 pages of the book I was noticing similarities between this and Fry’s novel. A quick Wikipedia search revealed the two books to be almost entirely identical in plot! Now, Stephen Fry has admitted to taking the plot from Dumas, who himself based it on a true story, but he sure as hell didn’t admit it in my copy of the book. As such, I realised I was embarking on an epic story to which I already knew the plot.

Would Stephen Fry’s carelessness cost me the enjoyment of a classic? In short, No. I’m glad to report that good writing always shines through, and you can enjoy plot twists even if you see them coming.

Of course, there is more to it than just that. I remember being saddened by Ned’s 20 year imprisonment, his institutionalisation in the Norwegian mental home and his ruined life. With The Count of Monte Cristo there’s too much fun to be had in revenge for that to be a factor. When the time does come for the Count to face up to his period of incarceration, it’s done with a maturity and credibility that leaves the reader with a feeling of closure, not one of despair.

That does leave us with the question of which novel to recommend. Personally, I would always choose the source material. In these situations, the beauty of the original is that it has a charm which merited a re-make. The copy might well have the charm of the original, but then again it might well not. Why take the chance? In this case, while I have forgiven Stephen Fry for my mistake, you should read The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s quite simply a better book.

Scott Pilgrim

I’m not being a literary snob, I just don’t thing most comic books have grown up. Calling them ‘Graphic Novels’ does not qualify them as adult fiction. I've read several examples of comics claiming to show maturity in the industry, but aside from a few real life stories such as Maus or Persepolis, these claims are largely redundant. These examples I refer to contain Watchmen within their ranks. Watchmen does a very good job of creating a credible and atmospheric world. It is let down, however, by a flawed thesis and poor characterisation (Captain Manhattan’s personality is completely inconsistent). It therefore came as a bombshell that Scott Pilgrim, a story with constant deviations from the plot and more computer game references than you can shake a stick at could prove so brilliant and exciting!

The Scott Pilgrim books are unquestionably silly. They often make little sense and aren’t afraid to make a beautifully cheap joke. They are, however, also entirely consistent, brilliant realized, and funnier than your mum. The cast of the books are entirely believable, and the dialog is a class above anything I’d read with speech bubbles before. it’s a bit like reading the graphic novel of Spaced (its no wonder Edgar Wright chose to direct the film adaptation of this).

Scott Pilgrim is also wonderfully inventive. Brian O’Malley has no qualms about taking a detour from the plot for the characters to give you cooking instructions for vegan bolognaise (Not because they are vegan, they just like to be inclusive). Scott’s reward for winning a fight is a 1-up. Characters get introduced with fun facts. Room itineraries are presented. You get the idea.

My personal highlight of the saga is Wallace Wells, Scott Pilgrims roommate. They share a one bed apartment, so whenever Wallace brings a guy home for the night Scott gets shunted out for the night. He is witty, insightful, and regularly dissects Scott’s life with tenacity.

If you are afraid to buy into a six part saga - try the film to start you off. It has split critics in a way not seen for quite a few years, and it hasn’t been the most successful, but I’m convinced in 5 years it will be looked upon as a cult classic. This is fiction born out of 21st century culture. The 6 books follow the structure of a computer game. In fact, Scott’s life is a computer game. If you aren’t able to cope with frequent changes of narrative and pace you will struggle with this story. Some critics cant cope with this. Future critics will be able to identify with it much more unanimously. Get on board.

Altogether now: ONE TWO THREE FOUR!

The Dark Tower Part 1

Stephen King. I want to like him, I really do. He just makes it so bloody hard for himself. The first part of The Dark Tower shows why I feel this way better than any other book I’ve read by him (i.e. The Stand).

The plot of this introduction to the saga serves to introduce us to the mysterious hero known only as ‘The Gunslinger’, who is currently chasing his evil nemesis ‘The Man in Black’ (AKA Johnny Cash) across the desert. The differences between them are subtle, however you know who the good guy is because the gunslinger doesn’t dress in black. Let’s ignore his willingness to murder a whole town or betray children for a moment, we are told he is the hero and that makes it true.

I am not going to question Stephen King’s ability to write, he has an unquestionable knack for knocking out large sections of great prose. I am, however, going to question his plotting and editing skills. Despite years of enduring critics far greater than I pointing out to him that he has neither of the aforementioned virtues, he insists his lack of direction or a delete key form his strengths.

Early on in the book the gunslinger heroically shags a hooker. To prove his manly credentials, we are told that ‘Even the love making had been a silent thing, and only at the last minute had his breathing roughened, and then stopped for a minute’. Surely anyone can agree that a sentence of this calibre is best left in a Mills and Boone reject, and yet this book is full of clangers.

The Dark Tower goes on to form a seven part epic, with another part on the way (to fit between parts 3 and 4). With so much at stake you would imagine King has a plot outline, or even a JK Rowling style final chapter done and dusted to work towards. If you did imagine this, you are as foolish as I. In a note at the end of the book he admits to not really knowing where the story is going, or who half the characters the gunslinger needs to meet in the future are. His argument is that his strongest writing seems to come when he makes it up as he goes along. This is fair, but it doesn’t mean once the story is completed he cant go back and re-work it. Jack Kerouac famously wrote On The Road in a month, but he then spent years fiddling with the plot and re-working sections before its release, and the book is a classic because of that later work.

I don’t expect Stephen King to change his style, he’s too late into his career and has spent too much time ignoring people who made any suggestions to improve his writing. As a result I can't see myself returning to the series for a long time, if at all. This is a shame. There is enough in the book to merit a great story, but if the author isn’t going to put in the effort, then why should I?

The Hacienda: How Not to Run a Nightclub

Early in this book, Peter Hook estimates that for every person who went through the doors of the Hacienda during its 15 year lifetime, the owners lost £10. This should give you an idea of the scale of anecdote to expect in this, his memoirs of the Hacienda.

How they managed to keep the club going is beyond me (and Hooky). Staff regularly took home crates of beer as freebies. Bands, and later DJ’s were paid huge amounts of money for tiny gigs, and gangsters spent years trying to take over the club. There’s one instance when they book a secret gig for a band, but then keep it too secret, only to find 8 people show up. When the gangsters arrive, there’s a real sense of danger that seems to haunt the rest of the book. Attempts to scare them off end up escalating the violence, and at one point anyone going to the club would need to be aware which gangs operated in which corners, and to stay away.

What they lost in money, though, they more than made up for with partying. This book is crammed with anecdotes that had me in fits of laughter - even when reading it on the tube. There is the time when New Order turn up to a gig supporting the Pogues. They walk past the Pogues dressing room, spy a huge buffet and crates of beer, and get really excited. The joy soon turns sour when they go to their own dressing room, and find… a brown donkey. The solution is obvious: Set the donkey on the buffet and steal the booze.

The Hacienda also serves as an important cultural artefact. It helped create the DJ culure that was huge in the 90’s, and was important in popularising acid house. When ecstasy comes along, New Order are in Ibiza. Within a month they’ve trashed 11 hire cars. The experience helps to create the second summer of love in the late 80’s, and was the inspiration of much of the successful music later on.

Even if you aren’t familiar with New Order, the book does a fantastic job of focusing on the nightclub, so you don’t feel lost. The story of the band provides a backdrop to the happenings of the club, and Peter Hook’s wealth of stories makes for excellent narration.
Sadly for the kids of my generation, we’ll never get to go to the Hac. It shut down in 1997, and is now a block of upmarket apartments. This saddens me greatly, because when I was finished with the book, all I wanted to do was break out some glowsticks and throw some shapes.

Cookbook Collector

Contributed by Haley Pearson!

From time to time all discerning readers will come across a certain kind of book that, although devoid of material significance or complexity, is readable and perhaps even pleasurable. I myself often rely on what an old mentor referred to as "oatmeal" books when I need to unwind. I almost find it a form of literary meditation. Oatmeal books offer comfort predictability where other books demand self examination or the confrontation of troubling realities.

I wouldn't personally classify The Cookbook Collector as an oatmeal book, but it ticks many of the relevant boxes. It has been described in the press as a modern Jane Austen, with hidden love, hidden lust, obviously doomed relationships, a happy ending. Unsurprisingly, it lacks the complexities that force a reader to actually give a crap about who likes who and who loves who and all that soap opera stuff. Goodman tries to replace the complexity with plot complexity, altogether a failed effort. The novel reads like three novels squashed together in a vise.

The novel mainly concerns two sisters, one the high powered executive of a late-nineties tech startup about to go public, the other a winsome, wayward graduate student studying philosophy at Berkeley. Goodman tries to align their lives in terms of relationships but succeeds only in relying on the cliche of two sisters, seemingly very dissimilar, who in the end just want a man to save them.

I found especially disturbing the use of the 9/11 attacks as a plot device. Maybe I'm reacting too strongly, but somehow Goodman treats the event as background noise. The characters aren't given the chance to be mourners, but instead wind up seeming grotesquely self interested. Flabby protestations of loss and sadness lead directly to a sort of exultant release from the restrictions that had been posed by the now-deceased characters.

I'm not here only to criticize. I did find the novel engaging, and I found myself interested in the unfolding of the plot. The middle section focuses on the chance discovery of a cache of rare and valuable cookery books which are catalogued, examined, quoted, and treasured like poetry. Goodman does show herself to be extremely talented when alluding to the ineffable urges of the collector, the curator, and the researcher.

I would recommend the book as an easy read on holiday or perhaps on quiet fire lit evenings over christmas break. A food, antiques, and literature lover like myself might appreciate it as a thoughtful gift. However, don't pick it up expecting any true depth or literary tenderness. And don't take it on a plane