Not that I'm addicted by any means (as I surely would be if I tried the pharmaceutical).
It kept me awake. Honestly, if you kn...moreNicci French is my speed.
Not that I'm addicted by any means (as I surely would be if I tried the pharmaceutical).
It kept me awake. Honestly, if you knew how few things do that, you'd understand why that impresses me.
I read this in a day. Why a book like this has to be 450 pages long is beyond me, but they zip along, the complaint is by the by.
I haven't read the first of this series and I don't think I will read any more either. But I object to this business of suckering in the reader with story lines that go on and on.
Very pleased to be able to read something by Pullman that is good after putting down the third volume of Northern Lights way before the end.
The subjec...moreVery pleased to be able to read something by Pullman that is good after putting down the third volume of Northern Lights way before the end.
The subject matter, the treatment and the title were all likely to put me off, but S-L highly recommended it and Manny read it in a sitting - despite the scintillating option of chatting to the knitters. That sold me.(less)
Reading Smiley on the back cover of Independent People:
‘I can’t imagine any greater delight than coming to I...moreWritten as a pair with Independent People
Reading Smiley on the back cover of Independent People:
‘I can’t imagine any greater delight than coming to Independent People for the first time’ Really? I mean, REALLY????? Better than sex? Chocolate icecream??? What sort of life has Smiley lived that makes her say that. I couldn’t help thinking of this exchange on the comments of my Harry Potter review:
Brook: "I hav read every single book 14 times and i read an average of 200 books per year and have never read a better written book."
Manny: "Hey, talk about a run of bad luck! My commiserations."
And how on earth, of all the words to use of this book could you come up with ‘delight’? Conversation with Manny last week:
‘Where’s your review of Laxness?’
‘I have no idea what to say.’
‘Does it have sheep?’
‘Yes, on every page, relentless numbers of sheep.’
‘Grim determination?’
‘On every page.’
‘Death in child-birth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Incest?’
YES!!
This is such an awful book, I really don’t know where to start. The worst is, as I reeled, battered by the author’s not very interesting opinions about the world at which he was pounding away, I wondered if Perlman’s The Seven Types of Ambiguity will survive. Will it too in 80 years seem no more than the pompous heavy-handed opinionated yawnings that this one appears to me now? I very much hope not.
This, seriously, is how the whole book is written. It is the scene where the girl is in bed with her father.
At first she thought he was asleep and had not noticed anything. The moments passed. She heard his breathing and listened also to the strong heavy beating of his heart. But gradually she realised from his movements which were far too small and wary that he could not be sleeping; he was awake. And she was ashamed of herself – would he rise and strike her, angry because she had dared to turn around after he had ordered her to face the wall? In her despair she nestled even closer to him and for a while they lay thus with their hearts beating quickly one against the other. She was lying motionless now with her face against his neck pretending to be asleep. Little by little almost without her being conscious of it his hand had come nearer, involuntarily of course; all that he had done was make a very slight change of position. One of the two buttons of her knickers had by chance become unfastened and in the next moment she felt his hand warm and strong on her flesh.
She had never known anything like it. All her fear was suddenly gone. The shiver that now passed through body and soul was of a kind altogether different from the cold shivering that had kept her awake all night and in her mouth there was suddenly something that resembled a ravenous appetite, except that it was not the sight of food but his movements that had roused her hunger. Nothing, nothing must ever separate them again; and she gripped his body fiercely and passionately with both hands in the intoxication of this impersonal, importunate selfishness that in a moment in time had wiped everything from her memory. pp. 237-238
I’m sorry, I just have to say this. Fucking what the fuck. I mean, really. SERIOUSLY??? And may I reply to your usual argument before you make it, Manny Rayner, bullshit. You can’t say every time something is read in translation and not liked that this is because of the translation, any more than you could argue every time I liked something in translation that it was because of that fact. It does make me retract everything I’ve said about Larsson’s mind-numbingly dull descriptions of Swedish food. If you want them to sound like a gourmand’s delight, tuck into this book. What is it about the Scandanavians that drives them to talk endlessly about food and drink that is best left unmentioned?
So, this is it, Laxness at – so we are told - his best. Coincidentally I read Pericles immediately thereafter, the play often seen as problematical and certainly not Shakespeare at his shining best. Reviewing that list:
Sheep? Not as such, but lots of Greek men, so, you know. Grim determination? Check. Death in child-birth. Check. Incest? Check.
Pretty much, that is, the same subject matter to both stories. That Pericles nonetheless is an absolute pleasure to read and see, is maybe as great a tribute to Shakespeare as one could give. Being good at your best is easy, but good at one’s worst, that’s something we’d all give a lot for, would we not?
Maybe this is the ultimate test. A few years ago my father fell into a coma after suffering a cerebral haemorrhage. When I joined him in intensive care and was wondering what might make him talk, I came up with the idea of asking him if I should see Pericles, which was playing in Melbourne at the time. He roused himself for long enough to whisper weakly that it was a difficult play, but yes, I should go and see it. Then he went back to his seemingly unconscious world. I would bet my last dollar that if I’d asked him if I should read Laxness, I probably would have killed him for good.
I have no idea if Laxness writes accurately and well about Iceland sociologically, though this is clearly where his forte lies. He, like Singer, couldn’t paint a character to save his life. They are all wooden caricatures, not a thing rings true about them. So, I guess if you want a kind of social geography of part of Iceland set in a particular historical period, this could be the book for you. But if you want a book about human beings, look elsewhere. I am gobsmacked that the NY Review of Books says that this is ‘the book of your life’. Who wrote that? Presumably he meant the book of his life, it surely isn’t the book of mine. Poor fucker, that’s all I can think to say. And what a turnaround that he managed to escape the life of 22 hours of darkness a day, eating gruel whilst living above horseshit, illiterate with nothing but sheep for company. How did he get to NY? Now HIS story would be interesting.
Shakespeare, on the other hand, in Pericles starts with sheep, death in childbirth, incest and grim determination, but instead of turning them into a dreary social history, he manages to write entertainingly, as usual about the meaning of life, with some great characterisations in the minor characters, Cleon, his ghastly wife, the brothel owners and Boult. The main characters, Marina and her father, are good. I mean really really good, so it is hard to call them interesting. They represent how we should live as they survive the privations they face. It is rather Lord of the Rings where the main characters are so much cardboard, whilst Golem is so alive and real. And yet that cardboard is important.
After the utter humourlessness of Laxness, it was a relief to read something which could be both horrific and hilarious at the same time. Good fair Marina is condemned to be murdered by the servant of Cleon’s wife. He is about to do the deed when the two of them are beset upon by pirates who take Marina with them. The servant is simultaneously relieved that he can go home and tell his mistress that the deed has been done without having done it, but worried that maybe the pirates won’t take her. Maybe they will merely gang rape her and leave her there on the beach. He will wait, he tells us. If that is what they do, then he will murder her. Oh, okay….it doesn’t sound funny, but trust me, it is!
I came upon this in a church sale along with quite a few others of its type. The bookseller in me couldn't resist, hard cover, dust-jacket, 3CHF, even...moreI came upon this in a church sale along with quite a few others of its type. The bookseller in me couldn't resist, hard cover, dust-jacket, 3CHF, even though the reader in me has moved on. So far out I've read four of the 'bargains' and you get what you pay for. Three duds, this being one of them....
I used to really enjoy these, this one disappoints. Way too long, too much padding. As always, however, the description of Chicago are great - saying that as somebody who has never been there, but they ring true and sort of make me want to go and look, even though there is nothing about the place that sounds attractive.
Having said that, it may be that I didn't like this one because it was too modern for me, or because I'm more fussy than I used to be. I can't tell. But it seems to be an on-going tale, the writer whose work ends up seeming like there is little to it but Pink Batts.(less)
I hesitate about putting this on my better-written-than-Harry-Potter shelf. It is and it isn't.
Poor le Carre. He needed a new day job after the Cold W...moreI hesitate about putting this on my better-written-than-Harry-Potter shelf. It is and it isn't.
Poor le Carre. He needed a new day job after the Cold War made his old one irrelevant. The stuff he's churned out since is hopeless. He doesn't have a clue how to understand anybody except Cold War spies.
I bought this for 3 francs and I read about that much worth of it. Moving on now.(less)
I read this back to back with Lost Light. Maybe it was too much in a row and this book suffered as a consequence. They both get 3 stars, but I put thi...moreI read this back to back with Lost Light. Maybe it was too much in a row and this book suffered as a consequence. They both get 3 stars, but I put this towards 2 and the other towards 4. I didn't really like the technique of first person Haller and the third person Bosch. It seemed pointless and irritating. I also don't find Haller interesting, though others do.
There is a lot of 'procedural' in it, which could just be filler, but actually is done in a good way. that is said, however, from a position of ignorance. If I were more familiar with the US legal system, would I have found it dull?(less)
I guess you could say this is same, same. Harry does his thing and you like that or you don't. What struck me, and seems worthy of mention is that the...moreI guess you could say this is same, same. Harry does his thing and you like that or you don't. What struck me, and seems worthy of mention is that there aren't any suspensions of belief, none of those moments that can spoil this type of story. Every last detail fits into place.(less)
You know those washing powder tests on TV? You do something impossibly disgusting to a little white affair, pop it in the machine with Brand X and - h...moreYou know those washing powder tests on TV? You do something impossibly disgusting to a little white affair, pop it in the machine with Brand X and - hey presto, it comes out better than new.
I felt really guilty about starting this book. I'd just finished Perlman's Seven Types of Ambiguity which so moved me in every way as a reader that I wanted to turn next to something that Perlman could spoil without my caring. Sure enough, I was disappointed by this to the extent it almost got the flick. But I was fairly sure if I did that, the next one and the one after that would be spoiled too. I'm so glad I persevered.
I suspect the Seven Types of Ambiguity effect aside, there was also the phenomenon of putting Chandler and Hammett together. Forget that, put it entirely out of your head, for if you expect Hammett, having come to him from Chandler to be 'like' him, you will be disappointed, he couldn't be further apart in terms of style and, if it comes to that, content in important ways. Chandler describes things, he observes his world with a savage and critical wit. Hammett describes nothing, he could not scarcely be more minimalist. Marlow is on the outside looking in, Charles is on the inside.
Marlowe thinks, Charles drinks.
I was rather taken aback by the fact that Charles is an indolent rich person who spends his life partying and drinking before breakfast. But once I got used to the fact that he is on the inside, this is such good stuff....I'm going back for more.(less)
Four stars? Or three? This is just a Simenon. There is absolutely nothing special about it, it is putting an o...moreUpdated for Eric:
----------------------
Four stars? Or three? This is just a Simenon. There is absolutely nothing special about it, it is putting an old pair of socks on....out of hundreds of pairs. So, as Simenons go, I'm rather inclined to give it three stars only. But if I am comparing it with the rest, all the socks in other people's cupboards and drawers all over the world - well, it's probably worth that extra star.
.....................
So Manny refused to vote for this review on the basis that it didn’t have enough stuff in it. “Not even all the socks in the world?” “Not even that.”
Hence I am going to make a few observations of the type for which he might vote.
Number one. I despised Simenon as a teenager because in my ill-fated French at school we were expected to read it about day one. I’m illiterate in this language and yet I can read this book? It must be rubbish. Short sentences? No adverbs? Bah. At the time nothing made me happier than having my nose stuck in page three thousand eight hundred and fifty two of a Russian work by somebody who probably wasn’t paid by the word, but clearly wished they were.
Now I know better. Pared down, minimalist is quite my preference. I never read much Maigret even after I got over my teenage rebellion against him, but the other works, like this one, I do regard with the greatest respect.
Number two. I’m just started wondering about this. We were having an argument about this book: is Lulu ‘nice?’ Well, I don’t think Simenon meant her to be. I think middle aged male readers probabably have a soft spot for idiotic self-centered teenagers, despite Simeon’s efforts to the contrary. On the other hand, it could just be that any grown up girl was once a teenager and knows the truth. It could just be that. But I read somewhere that part of the reason Simenon writes quickly is that he doesn’t want to get emotionally involved with his characters. I can see why. Having read a gadzillion Simenons and Highsmiths (there are others, but these are the finest practitioners) where one sides with the sociopathic main character, suffers with him, barracks for him, feels injured as heartfeltly as does the antihero himself at the way in which others treat him, it has only just occurred to me that Simenon is pulling my strings. He makes normal people ghastly, so that one is backed into the corner with his star character. The incredible thing is that he does so, so little to make them this way. If he were a painter it would be some minute stroke of the brush, a dab here, a spot there, that might transform something normal into something hideous.
Either that or my first thought. People are hideous. Normal ordinary people are hideous. Sociopaths have got it right.
Maybe this deserves more. I've been spoiled, I imagine by people like Frisch and Durrenmatt. The oddest thing about this book is how so not odd it is....moreMaybe this deserves more. I've been spoiled, I imagine by people like Frisch and Durrenmatt. The oddest thing about this book is how so not odd it is.
The author, to quote from the book 'died aged fourty-two, a few days before he was due to be married. Diagnosed a schizophrenic, addicted to morphine and opium, he spent much of his life in psychiatric wards, insane asylums and, when he was arrested for forging prescriptions, in prison. He also spent two years with the Foreign Legion in North Africa...' As Manny said, it screams biopic...and they wouldn't even have to make up a thing.
Yet the book is understated, straightforward in that Swiss/German way I keep noticing. It has interesting political and social points to make about society just prior to World War Two. It looks at rural German Switzerland and makes that anything but dull.
He is, I gather a 'cult' figure in Europe and Germany's highest crime fiction award is named after him. I can see why.(less)
Some basic facts about Winnie the Pooh and the Divine Comedy.
(1) Have you ever tried looking up Winnie on proje...moreFor the final of Celebrity Death Match.
Some basic facts about Winnie the Pooh and the Divine Comedy.
(1) Have you ever tried looking up Winnie on project Gutenberg? You find that Dante gets a few thousand hits and Winnie gets none. NONE!!! And you know why? Because Disney bullied Congress years ago into being allowed to keep the copyright longer than was their legal right. And you know why they did that? Of course it is because everybody loves Winnie. Try this, if you don't believe me. Offer the copyright to The Divine Comedy to Disney for ten bucks.
(2) Have you ever tried shopping for Dante sheets? Cursor? Wallpaper - both hard and soft? Mice? Toilet paper? Colouring-in books? Dante stuffed animals? Interactive game sites?
(3) google The Divine Comedy and you get 3M hits. google Winnie the Pooh and you get 58M (numbers rounded down, to Dante's advantage).
Democracy, ladies and gentlemen. The world has voted. Celebrity death match can scarcely go against figures like these.
(4) When I was in Grade three, about seven years old, we were set as English comprehension:
"Compare and contrast the following passages"
The start of the Divine Comedy:
His glory, by whose might all things are mov'd, Pierces the universe, and in one part Sheds more resplendence, elsewhere less. In heav'n, That largeliest of his light partakes, was I, Witness of things, which to relate again Surpasseth power of him who comes from thence; For that, so near approaching its desire Our intellect is to such depth absorb'd, That memory cannot follow. Nathless all, That in my thoughts I of that sacred realm Could store, shall now be matter of my song.
and a poem by Pooh:
THOUGHTS
I lay on my chest And I thought it best To pretend I was having a evening rest; I lay on my tum And I tried to hum But nothing particular seemed to come My face was flat On the floor, and that Is all very well for an acrobat; But it doesn't seem fair To a Friendly Bear To stiffen him out with a backet-chair. And sort of squoze Which grows and grows Is not too nice for his poor old nose, And sort of squch Is much to much For his neck and his mouth and his ears and such.
I discussed all the obvious points, the sheer boredom of reading Dante, his inability to call a rhyme. Naturally I compared Pooh favourably with Shakespeare, making the point like others before me, I expect, that they were both inventors of words, that they revelled in the joyous playfullness of language.
The coup of my essay, however, was revealing the sociological experiment carried out by my mother. Whilst I was sweetly put to sleep with Pooh each night, my poor brother was served up Dante. He has never recovered from the trauma of it. To him going to bed at night is to be avoided at all costs. Anything but that. And in a truly despicable example of what happens when one is raised on Dante, my mother once found that my brother had hanged his teddy bear.
Over the last few weeks I’ve read The Luzhin Defense, followed by Bluebeard and then Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Originally I was going to wri...moreOver the last few weeks I’ve read The Luzhin Defense, followed by Bluebeard and then Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Originally I was going to write some stuff here about the central characters and compare them with the original Outsider. I was going to say things like this:
Maybe it is a contradiction in terms, to put 3 books about outsiders in the same review, but I can’t stop myself. Over the last few weeks I’ve read The Luzhin Defense, followed by Bluebeard and then Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
Originally I was going to write some stuff here about the central characters and compare them with the original Outsider. I was going to say things like this:
Maybe it is a contradiction in terms, to put 3 books about outsiders in the same review, but I can’t stop myself.
We have here a chess player, a doctor who might or might not have murdered a wife and a chickenhead. They all share a trait lacking in the original Outsider: they are all able to induce a sympathetic response from the reader. I don’t believe we have any capacity to understand Camus’s Outsider and without that, how can we have sympathy? It is easy to empathise with the others, however apart they may be from our own lives. It is impossible for Camus to put us in the shoes of his Outsider. It IS possible to become the crazy chess player, the murderous doctor, the mentally deficient chickenhead. Indeed it is Dick’s great strength that his characters slip into you; no matter that they are hypothetical consequences of a hypothetical world.
I can’t help wondering how I would have felt about Nabokov if I’d read him last instead of first. I thought he was getting away with being clever and ornate at the time. But to read the spare prose of Frisch next made me question this. And sharing with Dick the suffering of his characters meant I started wondering if Nabokov really had a clue what he was writing about. He says things that hit the mark for sure and his general thesis that chess saves the hero’s life until his dogooder wife-to-be starts interfering is completely faithful to the real world. I would scarcely be the only chess player to associate with Luzhin’s discovery of the game, a discovery that means life is suddenly tolerable. But something makes me distrust Nabokov’s potrayal of the Outsider, and I’m tired of trying to figure out what it is.
That’s the sort of thing I was going to say.
But I’d rather read. Consider me a goodreads outsider.
I don't know. I feel slightly guilty about this one, like I had at the back of my mind all the time that he's just a crime writer and his crime's good...moreI don't know. I feel slightly guilty about this one, like I had at the back of my mind all the time that he's just a crime writer and his crime's good, but what possessed him to try to move on?
That seems mean to me: how would I have felt about it if the author had been unknowned to me? Fact is, guys like Dibdin move into a rut and it is hard to be open-minded about their attempts to get out.
This is probably a perfectly acceptable book of its type. It was a snap to get through.
But still. I was left with this nagging 'I don't know' afterwards. What can I say?
Moved right away from this sort of book, after doing too many of them, at some point. Wondered early on if I should have trusted that distance, but gl...moreMoved right away from this sort of book, after doing too many of them, at some point. Wondered early on if I should have trusted that distance, but glad I didn't. Burke manages to make a happy ending so bleak that it remains moving. And I totally forgive how long it took him to get to the chase.
You either like Burke, in which case this will be to your taste, or you don't. To me he's like Connelly with class. Somebody will be offended by that. Sorry.(less)
My, was Raymond in a foul mood when he wrote this. Fine by me as I was in one when I read it.
I see this book's copped a bit on goodreads. Unfair. Tota...moreMy, was Raymond in a foul mood when he wrote this. Fine by me as I was in one when I read it.
I see this book's copped a bit on goodreads. Unfair. Totally unfair. If you get the drift, the guy's got the shits and he is looking at life from the wrong end of the telescope, he does such a good job of that.
There are two types of people in the world. The ones for whom money is everything: they need to get as much of it as possible, take it willynilly from whereever they can, make sure nobody else gets to touch it; and the ones for whom it is as trivial as something necessary can get. In this story, Marlowe is the latter, everybody else is the former.
Very early on in the story his client walks in, a girl highly motivated by money and as mean spirited as such people are.
'You can't talk to me like that,' she flared up. 'Pipe smoking is a dirty habit. Mother never let father smoke in the house, even the last two years after he had his stroke. He used to sit with that empty pipe on his mouth sometimes. But she didn't like him to do that really. We owed a lot of money too and she said she couldn't afford to give him money for useless things like tobacco. The church needed it much more than he did.'
It didn't bother her in the least to talk like that. People who think money is everything, do. But Marlowe, who couldn't be less motivated by the stuff, is haunted through the book by the picture of this miserable git surrounded by his ghastly family. Throughout he is made gloomier and gloomier by the disparity between the people who use money to get what they want and the ones who don't have it. That means the bell boy and the cop and the DA. The ones who are honest are worn out by their honesty, by fighting with so little on their side against people who don't have rules, whose word mean nothing, who think that power is its own right.
There are few of those moments in this book where Chandler makes you smile. I loved:
One of the girls was a dark beauty who had been younger.
I read that a dozen times, what a nice turn of phrase. But then, a few pages later, descibing a room:
...a tray that had held coffee.
I don't think you can get away with this. Sorry, Raymond, having the shits about something doesn't give you those sorts of liberties. Would Marlowe be that sloppy?
You know what, John? Right now I'm reading Through a Scanner Darkly. Should you happen to know it, it may explain why I'm not g...moreJohn asks for a review.
You know what, John? Right now I'm reading Through a Scanner Darkly. Should you happen to know it, it may explain why I'm not giving one.
Or maybe just this: it was too long ago and I honestly can't tell one of the early le Carres from another. I know I shouldn't say that, but.
Chandler's a real pro. This feels like it tripped off the pen, like his kick from writing it is no less than ours from reading it. His great sense of...moreChandler's a real pro. This feels like it tripped off the pen, like his kick from writing it is no less than ours from reading it. His great sense of timing isn't going to work out of context, so you are going to have to take my word for it.
Still...just this, in the middle of describing a character's face.
He had a long nose that would be into things.
I've read this sentence a hundred times now. Savoured it. Fantastic. The guy is sharp as when it comes to building pictures of people, of settings, of the world in which he lived. I wonder if he got into trouble in the witchhunts.
He is stylistically as timeless as Chekhov. I can't imagine in a hundred years he would have dated in any way.
I have no idea why on earth this wouldn't be considered literature with a big 'L'. Just none.(less)
I suddenly dawned on me, as I was wondering why nothing happens in this plotless book, that it is a police prodecural. While I do actually love books...moreI suddenly dawned on me, as I was wondering why nothing happens in this plotless book, that it is a police prodecural. While I do actually love books where nothing happens, I long time ago drew the line at police prodedurals after I read a few Ed McBains.
I did, however, before I wrote this, look up police prodedurals on the net, just to see what I was missing and ended up here: http://www.classiccrimefiction.com/am...
The interesting thing about this link is that it is written by somebody quite in favour of the PP - he writes them himself - and yet he lists the many disadvantages of them.
What I really want to do here is an investigation of the missing pizza murder - UK readers will know the one - in Wilkie Collins style. But even if I...moreWhat I really want to do here is an investigation of the missing pizza murder - UK readers will know the one - in Wilkie Collins style. But even if I were good enough to do that, I'd have to read one of the books again because I last read it when I was about eight along with all the other murder mystery stuff of pre WWII.
So if you all could just imagine I'd done a clever parody as, say, Manny would.
I read way too much Victorian stuff when I was little. Girls were always fainting and I would sit in church on Sundays, eyeing the altar boys and deci...moreI read way too much Victorian stuff when I was little. Girls were always fainting and I would sit in church on Sundays, eyeing the altar boys and deciding which one’s arms I was going to faint into. It seemed such a romantic thing to do. On the other hand, the likelihood of ever fainting seemed poor. I didn’t have a clue how or why one would, let alone time it for when a loved one was standing, arms to the ready.
Subsequently, as an adult, I have done so a couple of times and it is nothing like the books make it out to be. Sigh.
The first time was 1994. I’d got up late morning – 1pm, to be exact and when you are a card playing type that IS still morning – smoked a joint and went to the shower – an over the bath affair. I stood there brushing my teeth and it occurred to me that I was going to pass out. ‘Interesting’, I thought, and went on brushing. I know the obvious thing with this warning would have been to sit down in the bath, or get out, but I’m not very good at the obvious. And I did indeed pass out quite directly. Unfortunately I hit my face on the taps on the way down, with a couple of cuts so deep they almost went right through my cheek. Where was the gallant guy who saves you as you faint? On duty somewhere else, I guess. I shakily got myself up and dressed and went down to my local doctor who sewed me up. Romantic it was not.
The second time was last night. No loved one then either, no chivalrous man to save me from myself. What’s the point of fainting if there is no one to save you? I’m doing something wrong here. My timing is shite. But it’s like I suspected when I was little. It was all very well fantasising about fainting into the arms of the cutest altarboy…but it’s all in the timing and how on earth was I going to get that right?
Bugger it. I’m giving up fainting. Consider it a belated New Year’s Eve resolution. (less)
Update. I gave this to an English friend who read it at that hasty speed that means she couldn't put it down. One of the comments she made afterwoods...moreUpdate. I gave this to an English friend who read it at that hasty speed that means she couldn't put it down. One of the comments she made afterwoods was 'Is food really like that?' She was struck by how ordinary people seemed to have very sophisticated tastes. The answer is 'yes'. That's why I've been having so much trouble in the UK where food, not to put to fine a point upon it, sucks.
Same with coffee. I don't drink it, but judging by the impressions I get from my many world experienced friends, coffee in Melbourne is the best in the world. Indeed, a friend of mine came back to Manchester from Melbourne a while ago and has been trying ever since to teach the local coffee makers how to make coffee.
Melbourne people don't just love food and love coffee. They are fussy about it too.
So, this is the story that really says how it is. Last time I was in Adelaide, I wandered past an ordinary suburban petrol station and observed the large billboard inviting you in to have a coffee prepared by their barista. Not just any old barista, either. Their barista had a photograph and a name. Even by local standards and expectations that sort of blew me away.
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The backdrop is bushfire.
The end sees our hero – and I use that word advisedly – engulfed in flames, along with his father and brother as they fight to save their property. When all is lost they climb into the water tank: they are still going to die, presumably by boiling, but it gives them a few more minutes. Suddenly at the very last moment the wind turns, all are saved. Ah, you think. The artifice of the author. An author can do that. But the fact is bushfires do that. Water has no agency. A tsunami takes all in its path without exception. If one is saved it is because one has fought to do so. A tsunami bludgeons its way forward. A bushfire appears sentient by contrast. It is absolutely true that all properties surrounding a house might be lost, that one house miraculously standing. It is absolutely true that the bushfire of its own volition turns certain death into a reprieve. We city dwellers have not seen this, but nonetheless we have experienced it in some oddly intimate ways.
The last terrible bushfires in Adelaide. Huddled against a low stone wall are a group of people who are going to die. One of them is a reporter and he is describing what is happening on radio as he crouches as low as he can with the others. The background noise is the wailing of people who are about to be burned to death. He now finds out for sure, just before he dies, that he is a true reporter through and through. After all, how else could he do what he is doing? His sense of calm is amazing. So we are all pruriently listening to the distressed sounds of this group of people. And then, at the very last second, the fire changes direction. Certain death is still, in the grand scheme of things, certain, but not immediately foreseeable, at any rate.
Same bushfires. My sister is part of a hundred girls and staff at a retreat bang in the middle of the bushfires. There are many anxious calls to the authorities about them, but they have rescued another such group nearby and nobody even realises these kids are there as well, trapped. Eventually they retreat to the main hall, they put wet towels under the doors to futilely delay the inevitable and they pray. There is nothing they can do. They are about to be burned to death. Suddenly, at the very last minute, the fire changes its mind. It loses interest in them. Moves on elsewhere.
Of course, there are the opposite stories too, the bad luck ones. But the point is that the end of this story is the artifice not of the author, but of the bushfire.
And lips are pursed by sour-faced persons who think there is a difference between a who-done-it-thriller which is widely and enthusiastically read, and literature.
Because, you see, this book won Australia’s major literary award, the Miles Franklin. It is obvious why. It is awarded to a book which is ‘the best’ about Australian life in some way. Tim Winton has won it a hundred times, half of them in abeyance for books he hasn’t yet written but will. I’ve only read one of his books, but if it is any guide, they are richly deserved. So is this one. Quintessentially Australian. Fabulously written. (less)
Just lately I picked up a couple of crime fiction books, having given the genre a wide berth for a long time. I had an idea absence would have made th...moreJust lately I picked up a couple of crime fiction books, having given the genre a wide berth for a long time. I had an idea absence would have made the heart grow fonder, but it hasn't.
I can say this is far superior to the Donna Leon I read first, but that is merely to damn Dibdin with faint praise.
What a bore. As usual with these sorts of writers when they no longer have a plot in them they turn to political-social issues. In this case the relat...moreWhat a bore. As usual with these sorts of writers when they no longer have a plot in them they turn to political-social issues. In this case the relationship between pollution, glass-making and politics in Venice.
It isn't that I totally don't want to read about these things, but if I do, I will not choose to do so via the conduit of a murder-mystery.
So, no plot to speak of, and on top of that, dreadfully proofread. The book is laced with words hyp-enated for no rea-son whatsoever. I'm guessing something was taken out or added and nobody bothered to check the impact on the type-setting.(less)
‘But surely you know in that situation that you don’t have control’. We were talking about abusive relationships this morning and Anna didn’t get it....more‘But surely you know in that situation that you don’t have control’. We were talking about abusive relationships this morning and Anna didn’t get it. But Anna, my dear. The whole point of abusive relationships is that the abuser leaves you with this sense, just this sense that you do have some control. That if you do this, or don’t do that, or keep your desk neat, or cook this not that, then everything will be okay. They are nice to you sometimes, of course. Same thing. They need you to see that nice is possible, see what things are like if you do the right thing? Then I’m nice. They need to leave you with a modicum of self-respect because if you do hit absolute rock bottom, actually they have nothing with which to control you any more.
It’s on my mind to get this down now that I’ve spent a couple of hours talking about it, so I tell you a bit of my story because you can only sound half-convincing if you have ‘I’s in it.
Mid nineties. I’ve been living with the person in question for about nine years and I read this book, this one here, The Playroom. Probably Manny and Jordan would call it trash? I haven’t come to understand that term properly yet, but at any rate, it changed my life. All of a sudden I read a sentence that made my heart that very second drop out of my body through the chair, the floor, the earth and plummet right to the bottom side of the world somewhere. Oh. I’m in a straightforward abusive relationship.
Now, I would say I’m not completely dumb. Well, sort of dumb. I can’t imagine passing an IQ test. I’ve flunked shapes in holes since kindergarten, with the possible exception of sex. I say possible because it continues to startle me. ‘We’re going to put that in this?’ ‘You’re telling me this fits there?!!!’ As an act of faith, of course, faith in the practically infinite number of people who have done these things thus permitting the conclusion that the shapes do apparently fit in the holes I go along with it, but there is always a sense of surprise nonetheless. After sex I always feel a bit like going back to kindergarten and trying that thing they make you do with the cutout holes and the pieces you fit in the holes. I have an idea maybe I could do that after all. The feeling passes quickly enough.
So, dumb, certainly. The fact is I’d lived in this relationship for nine years and for about eight and a half of them I’d observed to myself that this was like an abusive relationshop. ‘Like’. Always ‘like’. Not for one second did it occur to me to take out that word. One might say I had particular reasons for being this dense. He was an alcoholic and that served as cover. Then when, most terribly, he gave up alcohol altogether I had what seemed a really rational idea that I was bearing the brunt of his difficult transition to relating with people sober and that things would change. There was always a reason to leave ‘like’ there. I’m sure there are always reasons for other people too. She’s (he’s) just jealous, just needs things to be neat, just this, just that. He’s (she’s) nice, really. And can’t you see things are better than they used to be? Look. As long as I do this then...or if I don't talk...or if I don't look....or when...then as long as...everything is okay. Really. Then everything is okay.
But then I read this book, read this sentence, read on and it might just as well have been my own life I was reading. I was so shocked that I hid the book after I’d read it. I guess he sensed that, sought out the book and read it. ‘That’s just like us,’ he said. With a sense of relief, it seemed obvious to me that if that was the case, that we both knew what things were like and we weren’t idiots that things would change, but they didn’t. Not one bit.
Attempt number one to get away was a dismal failure. When I went back I thought I’d die. But in fact I got a better plan together and attempt number two worked a treat.
What you understand, though, as a complete revelation if you are lucky, is that you have no control. You only thought you did. Once you realise that, then you can escape. I didn’t have anybody I was talking to, nobody pointed out the terribly obvious to me, but even if they had, I’m sure it wouldn’t have helped. You could have any number of people who love you telling you you are trapped in an abusive relationship, it really won’t help. It will come to you as your own revelation or it won’t. Those who watch you lovingly from a distance and see, can only hope for the best. That is my experience. But, then, I’m not good at accepting help. A more sensible person might – and did…
Later on after I’d escaped that person, he moved to the UK and an awfully bright but fucked up girl fell in love with him. I wanted to warn her off, but what’s the point of that? Like she was going to listen to me! But five years or so later, I knew she’d tried to get away now and then and failed. I decided to contact her like this. I wrote her an email describing in intimate detail her days, her life, conversations she had every day and ways she had of relating to the person she was trying to escape. I told her I could explain to her what she had to do to get away if she wanted. She wrote back a couple of days later, she said after she’d stopped crying and yes, she did want to know.
In one brutal email, this girl had discovered that she had no control over her life whatsoever. She had so little control that a stranger on the other side of the world who had never met her, knew everything about her life simply because I knew her life would be exactly like mine.
In a strange way we’d both realised what our situations were by reading about them. It took me two tries and a couple of years to get away. This girl was a good listener. She took everything I said to heart, did exactly what I said and got clean away before her partner could blink. It was clean, she never went back.
Admitting you do not have control over your life is a really painful thing to do. Understanding that even if you love a person and even if you think they love you, it doesn’t mean he/she isn’t an abuser, is very hard to come to terms with. I have no doubt that abusers love their victims and their victims love them. Still. Although there is good reason for the abuser to want the keep the relationship, the same does not pertain to the victim. They have nothing to gain whatsoever. They only think they do.
A bit later, I remember this. As you do take back your life and leave, he/she suggests they will kill you. Or, even harder from your point of view, kill themself. Again and again you are told you won't survive...and when that doesn't work, that she/he won't survive. You are made to feel weak and incapable on your own, or - desperation - that they are. One or other of you won't be able to function as a human being without the other. So you are made to feel.
When I left the first time, friends said to me, but how will he survive without you? When I went back I thought that's what want they all want, for me to die there. But, of course, they didn't know. Point is abusers are perfectly able to look weak if that is a useful thing to do. Second time around I just steeled myself. Ignored all those cries of sympathy for this person I was escaping. The friends all stayed true. You don't lose friends, you only fear that you will. (less)
I started this just before lunch and finished while having a cup of tea at Cacao's later in the afternoon. So, yes, it's short. And enjoyable. I'm jus...moreI started this just before lunch and finished while having a cup of tea at Cacao's later in the afternoon. So, yes, it's short. And enjoyable. I'm just trying to give myself room to manouevre with the 3 stars. I gave The Yiddish Policeman's Union 5 stars, I have a couple of others of his on the shelf and they might just need something in between. The whole stars thing is like bears eating porridge, hard to get just right.
I don't know if anybody else would agree with me that this is a children's book. People don't seem to have tagged it such.
PS: My mother read this and said the trouble with it is that the author fancies himself clever. Exactly my thoughts. I've read several Chabons now and they all run that risk, but he gets away with it in the others. This one leaves you feeling a bit like saying 'smug wanker'. Of course, certain people who haven't read the book, would say, if they had, that it is the Sherlock Holmsian character who is, aptly, a smug wanker, not the author. I beg to differ. In advance, before anybody sets forth this argument.(less)
The first of his I read and I thought I was on to a winner. But. He is so grossly blatant in his writing that I tired of it quickly. And he is heavy-h...moreThe first of his I read and I thought I was on to a winner. But. He is so grossly blatant in his writing that I tired of it quickly. And he is heavy-handed. I have an idea that watching it would be better than reading it. (less)
Warning. This review might offend easily offended people.
This is the book where Brookmyre has a graphic description of a turd early on, which I though...moreWarning. This review might offend easily offended people.
This is the book where Brookmyre has a graphic description of a turd early on, which I thought was rather unnecessary, but what would I know? More people read his books than my reviews. For now, anyway.
So, last night while partaking of tea at the Windsor, suddenly at 10pm my brother Bernard calls home. ‘Has she done it yet?’ They’ve just had a kitten, you see, called Socks and they are waiting for her to do her first poo. Not so much her first poo, to be accurate. But her first poo in the kitty litter. So far she’s been pooing in places the humans would prefer to have to themselves. The bath, the sofa. Indeed, very much the sort of places Brookmyre might lay one.
In this particular book somebody manages to shit on top of the mantelpiece. Nice.
Well, if it works for Brookmyre, maybe something scatalogical might work for me. So, please, ladies and gentlemen, might I present for your edification, Socks’ very first kitty litter poo, produced early this morning and photographed by her proud parents, there to catch the moment.
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