C.S. Boag's Blog, page 2
September 13, 2016
Reading's a drug
Reading's a drug. Used in the right quantities it can be beneficial, but over used it destroys, the world it takes you to taking place of the one that, in the end, we have to live in. We live vicariously through imagined characters. We thrill to dangers that we wouldn't dare face. We thank our lucky stars we're not the one at the wrong end of the gun.
At any rate, we all have different relationships with what we read. We identify. Or we say: Thank God I'm not like that or caught in in such and such a situation, or isn't he a bastard; I'm going to make sure I don't behave like that. Or we just escape into another world.
Harold Robbins belongs to my adolescence, a time when I did not have a clue who or what I was. I lived in a bubble: there was no world outside mine. I was safe, contained, comfortable. I didn't have any understanding of the world outside, or what other people went through, except from what i read in books. And the books of that time were those of John O'Hara, Nicholas Monsarratt, Leon Uris and Irving Wallace and yes Harold Robbins. American novels with sexy covers, so much more "real" than those of Charles Dickens, H G wells and Far From the Madding Crowd that we were forced to read at school.
We too were going to be adventurers, we were going to haunt the back streets; we were going to take wild risks and become successful; we were going to be inducted into the world of sex, and, if need be, perhaps into the world of love
.
But as we know, youth is wasted on the young. They have it all - energy, enthusiasm, attractiveness and a mind that remembers where they left the keys- yet they fritter it all away. They drink too much, or do drugs; turn over partners like pages in a book. Play, as I did, a great deal pool. Drop jobs as quickly as they take them. Make lifelong commitments with nary a thought of consequences.
Reading Danny Fisher from my septuagenarians pinnacle, I think, yeah, well... Did it do me any good? How different is it reading it today? Above all does it last? Or like some literature , is it dated?
To me Danny Fisher shows a man in a huddle with himself. There is no wider world than the streets of New York. There are no other concerns that matter other than his own.
There is a good side and a bad side to Fisher. He has good luck and bad luck. He has chances, some of which he makes the most of. others which he throws away. He is strong and he's also weak. He makes a muck of things as we all do. And in the end he dies.
>Still and all, he is real. Robbins entertains but he also teaches. Be a good boy, he says, but not too good. There is evil out there, but succumbing to its charm brings dire consequences. Be warned.
And reading Danny Fisher now, I feel warned. We are accidental, each one of us. A stray sperm How much choice about what happens to us and the decisions we make are actually up to us as individuals? If we were born black in the United States or stateless in Syria, how different would be our options. Do we decide thew course of our lives or does accident decide it for us?
What I am warned about is not to expect too much from writers, they are reflecting life as they know it, perhaps jazzed up a little.
>Robbins tells a good story, This one is about morality. But its also about the exigencies of accident. Your country, your family, your talents and then the accidental forces that come into play. Its a cautionary tale told well. We like the love bits, and caring about the character, we are appalled by the decision he takes. We are entertained and we learn from it.
Critics are snobs. They can also be vastly ignorant. Books like this one are not regarded as literature even though it does the job.
We take what we want from books and I took both the expectation of willing women and the warning of a morality tale. Would my life have been different with out such books? That is the question.
At any rate, we all have different relationships with what we read. We identify. Or we say: Thank God I'm not like that or caught in in such and such a situation, or isn't he a bastard; I'm going to make sure I don't behave like that. Or we just escape into another world.
Harold Robbins belongs to my adolescence, a time when I did not have a clue who or what I was. I lived in a bubble: there was no world outside mine. I was safe, contained, comfortable. I didn't have any understanding of the world outside, or what other people went through, except from what i read in books. And the books of that time were those of John O'Hara, Nicholas Monsarratt, Leon Uris and Irving Wallace and yes Harold Robbins. American novels with sexy covers, so much more "real" than those of Charles Dickens, H G wells and Far From the Madding Crowd that we were forced to read at school.
We too were going to be adventurers, we were going to haunt the back streets; we were going to take wild risks and become successful; we were going to be inducted into the world of sex, and, if need be, perhaps into the world of love
.
But as we know, youth is wasted on the young. They have it all - energy, enthusiasm, attractiveness and a mind that remembers where they left the keys- yet they fritter it all away. They drink too much, or do drugs; turn over partners like pages in a book. Play, as I did, a great deal pool. Drop jobs as quickly as they take them. Make lifelong commitments with nary a thought of consequences.
Reading Danny Fisher from my septuagenarians pinnacle, I think, yeah, well... Did it do me any good? How different is it reading it today? Above all does it last? Or like some literature , is it dated?
To me Danny Fisher shows a man in a huddle with himself. There is no wider world than the streets of New York. There are no other concerns that matter other than his own.
There is a good side and a bad side to Fisher. He has good luck and bad luck. He has chances, some of which he makes the most of. others which he throws away. He is strong and he's also weak. He makes a muck of things as we all do. And in the end he dies.
>Still and all, he is real. Robbins entertains but he also teaches. Be a good boy, he says, but not too good. There is evil out there, but succumbing to its charm brings dire consequences. Be warned.
And reading Danny Fisher now, I feel warned. We are accidental, each one of us. A stray sperm How much choice about what happens to us and the decisions we make are actually up to us as individuals? If we were born black in the United States or stateless in Syria, how different would be our options. Do we decide thew course of our lives or does accident decide it for us?
What I am warned about is not to expect too much from writers, they are reflecting life as they know it, perhaps jazzed up a little.
>Robbins tells a good story, This one is about morality. But its also about the exigencies of accident. Your country, your family, your talents and then the accidental forces that come into play. Its a cautionary tale told well. We like the love bits, and caring about the character, we are appalled by the decision he takes. We are entertained and we learn from it.
Critics are snobs. They can also be vastly ignorant. Books like this one are not regarded as literature even though it does the job.
We take what we want from books and I took both the expectation of willing women and the warning of a morality tale. Would my life have been different with out such books? That is the question.
February 19, 2016
A Superb Depiction of the Times
" The General" by Forester
Unsettlingly, this is a war story written before the second world war. Forester did not know for a fact there'd be a war but somehow this novel anticipates it. Of course its about The Great War, the war to end all wars, the 1914-1918 war. But the mishaps and the misdeeds and the sheer wrong-headedness of the generalship still holds good. This book's about one of those generals - a fictional general who might have been one of the better ones but still a fool.
It's a beautiful drawn portrait and the story holds things together while he paints it. There;s the cutest of love stories and it's a superb depiction of the time. The snobbery, power in the wrong hands, the way decisions are made. Such a delight to read, reminiscent of the best of Somerset Maugham.
It starts out with a man in a bathchair. Then the story deals with how he got that way - a hero talked about in whispers who ends his days being pushed along along the beachfront in Bournemouth.
The story is compelling as is the general. We feel for him, side with him but at the same time shake our collective head at him. How could he be so stupid and at the same time so successful. By being in the right place at the right time. His bravery could be construed as stupidity and his success as luck. What ever it is, this great man with the red tabs on his collar, winds up where we find him on the first page - nothing much.
The reader can take it as a portrait, as the cover picture- a painting of a group of generals - invites us to. We can take it as an anti-war piece. Or it can be seen as a sobering reflection on the way Britain worked.
But which ever way we see it, it remains a compelling piece of writing that doesn't rely on graphic action or fancy footwork, high drama, to keep you reading. It is just beautifully written, the sort of writing in which the writer ceases to exist - in other words, the best.
Unsettlingly, this is a war story written before the second world war. Forester did not know for a fact there'd be a war but somehow this novel anticipates it. Of course its about The Great War, the war to end all wars, the 1914-1918 war. But the mishaps and the misdeeds and the sheer wrong-headedness of the generalship still holds good. This book's about one of those generals - a fictional general who might have been one of the better ones but still a fool.
It's a beautiful drawn portrait and the story holds things together while he paints it. There;s the cutest of love stories and it's a superb depiction of the time. The snobbery, power in the wrong hands, the way decisions are made. Such a delight to read, reminiscent of the best of Somerset Maugham.
It starts out with a man in a bathchair. Then the story deals with how he got that way - a hero talked about in whispers who ends his days being pushed along along the beachfront in Bournemouth.
The story is compelling as is the general. We feel for him, side with him but at the same time shake our collective head at him. How could he be so stupid and at the same time so successful. By being in the right place at the right time. His bravery could be construed as stupidity and his success as luck. What ever it is, this great man with the red tabs on his collar, winds up where we find him on the first page - nothing much.
The reader can take it as a portrait, as the cover picture- a painting of a group of generals - invites us to. We can take it as an anti-war piece. Or it can be seen as a sobering reflection on the way Britain worked.
But which ever way we see it, it remains a compelling piece of writing that doesn't rely on graphic action or fancy footwork, high drama, to keep you reading. It is just beautifully written, the sort of writing in which the writer ceases to exist - in other words, the best.
Dahl's Inspiration
Oh, Dear, Forester's such a hero of mine. he writes like an angel in the old fashioned style where there are no expletives and the writer doesn't exist. As these publishers are quick to point out, he wrote the Hornblower series - the wonderful four-master, top-gallant books about a cabin boy who rose to become Lord of the seas. Incidentally, Forester was the writer who inspired Roald Dahl. Take that as a compliment or how you will.
Oh, yes, Forester can write. He chats along easily and takes the reader with him, an old-fashioned John Grisham, if you will, both of them complete masters of the narrative and fun to read. The trick is to keep the story on the rails.
The Peacemaker - the research is breathtaking - is about a scientist who hold London to ransom. But he's no ordinary scientist and this is no ordinary story. He's a mild mannered math teacher in love with his principal's daughter. Two problems - no, three. One, Pethwick, that's his name, is a genius who's found a way to disempower magnets. Two, the object of his affections - the headmasters daughter Dorothy - is a pacifist, with the result that Pethwick becomes a pacifist too. And three, poor old Pethwick is married - to a drunken sod of a woman with more tricks up her skirt than a conjurer.
The result is that Pethwick, to prove himself worthy of the woman he loves who has taken to the hills as a result of one of the wife's more heinous tricks - pretending she's pregnant - becomes what he thinks is a pacifist, too. That's why he holds London to ransom.
And that's where the thing goes off the rails. Quite clearly, as a writer Forester shares the same quirk of character that Dahl has. But where as Dahl's weirdness is as attractive as a magnet that's properly functioning to kids, Forester in the Peacemaker strains credulity just a little too far. He skids over the science and leaves the reader unconvinced that this could happen.
So there you have it. Beautiful writer, beautiful story that unfortunately goes awry. The thing lost the magnetism that should have held it together - that is , the rather delightful and convincing love story - and consequently its attraction for the reader. Making it an " Oh dear" story instead of a 'wow".
Oh, yes, Forester can write. He chats along easily and takes the reader with him, an old-fashioned John Grisham, if you will, both of them complete masters of the narrative and fun to read. The trick is to keep the story on the rails.
The Peacemaker - the research is breathtaking - is about a scientist who hold London to ransom. But he's no ordinary scientist and this is no ordinary story. He's a mild mannered math teacher in love with his principal's daughter. Two problems - no, three. One, Pethwick, that's his name, is a genius who's found a way to disempower magnets. Two, the object of his affections - the headmasters daughter Dorothy - is a pacifist, with the result that Pethwick becomes a pacifist too. And three, poor old Pethwick is married - to a drunken sod of a woman with more tricks up her skirt than a conjurer.
The result is that Pethwick, to prove himself worthy of the woman he loves who has taken to the hills as a result of one of the wife's more heinous tricks - pretending she's pregnant - becomes what he thinks is a pacifist, too. That's why he holds London to ransom.
And that's where the thing goes off the rails. Quite clearly, as a writer Forester shares the same quirk of character that Dahl has. But where as Dahl's weirdness is as attractive as a magnet that's properly functioning to kids, Forester in the Peacemaker strains credulity just a little too far. He skids over the science and leaves the reader unconvinced that this could happen.
So there you have it. Beautiful writer, beautiful story that unfortunately goes awry. The thing lost the magnetism that should have held it together - that is , the rather delightful and convincing love story - and consequently its attraction for the reader. Making it an " Oh dear" story instead of a 'wow".
February 15, 2016
Present Darkness by Malla Nunn
This book is set in the bad old days of hard-edge apartheid, a situation that viewed from afar - as we in Australia did in the seventies - was abysmal; but close up must have been hell.
To inject a personal element, I remember that , as a journalist at the time, I was offered one of those trips journalist dream about - a free, all-expenses paid trip to South Africa. I was already to go when I was called in for a conference, I didn't have clue who they were. They were three fat white men representing South Africa, by the way they said you can't write any bad about the South African government.
That was the end of the fantasy trip.
That was how it was in the 70's and that's how it's depicted in this very fine book. The main character, as detective called Emmanuel Cooper, who is white, has a girlfriend who is not. Cooper runs across a senior cop who is both racist and a bastard, qualities that seem to go hand in hand.
So the game plays out, Cooper refuses to buckle under and is eased non too gently out of the case. As a result he goes it informally. Meanwhile he continues to live in jeopardy with the beautiful Davida and their daughter Rebekah. More crime, more racism, more violence, with Cooper and his secret in the thick of it.
here is a crime story set in a time and a place of a great overarching crime - the crime of apart-living, apartheid. The writer knows her subject, the story wings along at a great pace , and the back ground, ever present, gives the narrative its resounding depth.
To inject a personal element, I remember that , as a journalist at the time, I was offered one of those trips journalist dream about - a free, all-expenses paid trip to South Africa. I was already to go when I was called in for a conference, I didn't have clue who they were. They were three fat white men representing South Africa, by the way they said you can't write any bad about the South African government.
That was the end of the fantasy trip.
That was how it was in the 70's and that's how it's depicted in this very fine book. The main character, as detective called Emmanuel Cooper, who is white, has a girlfriend who is not. Cooper runs across a senior cop who is both racist and a bastard, qualities that seem to go hand in hand.
So the game plays out, Cooper refuses to buckle under and is eased non too gently out of the case. As a result he goes it informally. Meanwhile he continues to live in jeopardy with the beautiful Davida and their daughter Rebekah. More crime, more racism, more violence, with Cooper and his secret in the thick of it.
here is a crime story set in a time and a place of a great overarching crime - the crime of apart-living, apartheid. The writer knows her subject, the story wings along at a great pace , and the back ground, ever present, gives the narrative its resounding depth.
January 10, 2016
Allured by red berets and flamboyant blue-and maroon shoulder flashes
You spend a couple of days engrossed in a book, as I did with Richard Adam's autobiography The day Gone By. Then you sit back and ask yourself, "Well what did I learn from that?"
Adam's is the least -known famous writer in the world. He wrote a book about rabbits called Watership Down ,and another about dogs infected with the plague. I've never read them because i was afraid he might have the animals talking. But I was intrigued enough to read this memoir.
At least it was honest, born in 1920, he writes at length about a childhood filled with the love of little creatures. However it seems to be an intellectual sort of interest rather than real love. He knows the habits and latin names for birds when he is only seven but at the same time he smashes butterflies' heads for his "collection".
He writes with wonder at his intellectualism at Oxford. He goes on at length about how successful an army captain he is. And then there are his affairs, innocent and not so innocent, with a boy, at a time when such liaisons were more fraught than they are now. He is the centre of his world as I suppose we all are really, only we generally grow out of the wonder of it in adulthood.
But as with all writing the more we seek to hide (or obfuscate) the more we trend to reveal. Some one takes and doesn't return some of his books.( It's wartime, for God's sake!) So in revenge he names and shames him. Yet in the very next paragraph he he himself steals, with out censure, a copy of Emma from the unit's poor, meagre, wartime library.
He has a jolly time in the army. It is all merely a matter of learning how to deal with these working-class types. ( He himself is the son of an impoverished alcoholic doctor.) He earns his stripes by educating them. For I'm a jolly good fellow. Through his own eyes he's an excellent sort of chap.
he volunteers for service in an elite corps. "What had allured me in the first place... had been the red berets and the flamboyant blue and maroon shoulder flash - Bellerophon riding on Pegasus to kill the Chimaera..." Funny reason, funny bloke. The confession doesn't endear the reader to him.
Any way, instead of relying on Adam's own rather biased judgement of himself, it's nice to hear what some one else has to say. For reasons best known to himself, he offers up one Brigadier Poett's opinion of him. "I learned from my friend Denis Rendell that one day had recollected me... as "that quite awful ass'.
Oddly, it's the opinion I gained from reading this autobiography He describes himself being' about five foot eight'. I translated this as being more like five foot six, nothing to be ashamed of but still a bit short of heroic. Other of his self decriptions, of having, for instance, to fend off women with both hands; of coming 17th in a marathon; of winning academic prizes; of excelling in giving people what they want etcetera, etcetera.
In short , the memoir makes fascinating reading for all the wrong reasons. He writes beautifully, although annoyingly, he lapses into Greek and Latin with out translations, but you read him with the morbid fascination of a child watching Punch and Judy.
Written in old age, the memoir is a mirror into which you sense he gazes with a great deal of affection (if not also affectation).
One thing's for sure, it doesn't make me lust after reading his Rabbit book, But still paradoxically, well worth reading. One senses that, it's almost a work of fiction itself. 4/5
Adam's is the least -known famous writer in the world. He wrote a book about rabbits called Watership Down ,and another about dogs infected with the plague. I've never read them because i was afraid he might have the animals talking. But I was intrigued enough to read this memoir.
At least it was honest, born in 1920, he writes at length about a childhood filled with the love of little creatures. However it seems to be an intellectual sort of interest rather than real love. He knows the habits and latin names for birds when he is only seven but at the same time he smashes butterflies' heads for his "collection".
He writes with wonder at his intellectualism at Oxford. He goes on at length about how successful an army captain he is. And then there are his affairs, innocent and not so innocent, with a boy, at a time when such liaisons were more fraught than they are now. He is the centre of his world as I suppose we all are really, only we generally grow out of the wonder of it in adulthood.
But as with all writing the more we seek to hide (or obfuscate) the more we trend to reveal. Some one takes and doesn't return some of his books.( It's wartime, for God's sake!) So in revenge he names and shames him. Yet in the very next paragraph he he himself steals, with out censure, a copy of Emma from the unit's poor, meagre, wartime library.
He has a jolly time in the army. It is all merely a matter of learning how to deal with these working-class types. ( He himself is the son of an impoverished alcoholic doctor.) He earns his stripes by educating them. For I'm a jolly good fellow. Through his own eyes he's an excellent sort of chap.
he volunteers for service in an elite corps. "What had allured me in the first place... had been the red berets and the flamboyant blue and maroon shoulder flash - Bellerophon riding on Pegasus to kill the Chimaera..." Funny reason, funny bloke. The confession doesn't endear the reader to him.
Any way, instead of relying on Adam's own rather biased judgement of himself, it's nice to hear what some one else has to say. For reasons best known to himself, he offers up one Brigadier Poett's opinion of him. "I learned from my friend Denis Rendell that one day had recollected me... as "that quite awful ass'.
Oddly, it's the opinion I gained from reading this autobiography He describes himself being' about five foot eight'. I translated this as being more like five foot six, nothing to be ashamed of but still a bit short of heroic. Other of his self decriptions, of having, for instance, to fend off women with both hands; of coming 17th in a marathon; of winning academic prizes; of excelling in giving people what they want etcetera, etcetera.
In short , the memoir makes fascinating reading for all the wrong reasons. He writes beautifully, although annoyingly, he lapses into Greek and Latin with out translations, but you read him with the morbid fascination of a child watching Punch and Judy.
Written in old age, the memoir is a mirror into which you sense he gazes with a great deal of affection (if not also affectation).
One thing's for sure, it doesn't make me lust after reading his Rabbit book, But still paradoxically, well worth reading. One senses that, it's almost a work of fiction itself. 4/5
Writing's about a communion between writer and reader, not self glorification.
Writing's a tricky business. You start reading a book, get into a groove and you don't like any surprises. This is a story. You don't want distractions. The best writer's the one who stays on the edge of things, doesn't even make observations from afar. Not, certainly like Dickens or Austen, or the worst offender of all, Joseph Conrad.
Because this is the age of unwisdom. We're used to watching television, the slick glossy images that float untrammeled before our eyes and don't need editing. Same with writing. Bugger thinking. We want the story. Hence the success of John Grisham and his ilk. Here's the story, he say's, and gives it to us- again and again and again. He's got his beliefs and attitudes but mostly they're the reader's and you can take them as read. What happens next, that's all that matters.
Well that's certainly the case with Deliverance, the book. But at the same time, there's more - a lot more. You see, Dickey's a poet, you read in the little biog in the front, "one of Americas finest", at least in 1974, if the blurb is to be believed. And if you don't believe the blurb, read the book.
Because as Dickey's at great pains to show us, he doesn't just write suspense, he's also a poet,if not one of America's finest. It fits and it doesn't. Here are our intrepid adventurers battling with a river and a couple of bastards, getting buggered and such. But here also is the poetry, as inevitable as the river and the buggerers.
And, oh dear, it gets in the way.Does it get in the way. The guy's so self conscious . Why bother with straight description when you've got a real classy image up your sleeve. It's a case of there's no bread so let them eat cake. Here's Lord Tennyson with a nasty case of the snuffles, of high Art meeting Life.
Apparently it made a great film, but it doesn't work on the page. Like a river in flood, the minutiae of what happens gets lost. He's too busy painting word pictures to notice the bodies floating past. you don't give a stuff about the characters. There's a wife or two but they rarely exist. Stuff happens but you barely notice it. he's got vaseline over his camera lens.you're meant to be impressed by the writing but that's not what writings about. Writing's about a communion between writer and reader, not self glorification.
No deliverance for Dickey - feed him to the lions, or as he might have it, the tawny-maned kings of the jungle. 2/5 (less)
flagcomment · see review
Because this is the age of unwisdom. We're used to watching television, the slick glossy images that float untrammeled before our eyes and don't need editing. Same with writing. Bugger thinking. We want the story. Hence the success of John Grisham and his ilk. Here's the story, he say's, and gives it to us- again and again and again. He's got his beliefs and attitudes but mostly they're the reader's and you can take them as read. What happens next, that's all that matters.
Well that's certainly the case with Deliverance, the book. But at the same time, there's more - a lot more. You see, Dickey's a poet, you read in the little biog in the front, "one of Americas finest", at least in 1974, if the blurb is to be believed. And if you don't believe the blurb, read the book.
Because as Dickey's at great pains to show us, he doesn't just write suspense, he's also a poet,if not one of America's finest. It fits and it doesn't. Here are our intrepid adventurers battling with a river and a couple of bastards, getting buggered and such. But here also is the poetry, as inevitable as the river and the buggerers.
And, oh dear, it gets in the way.Does it get in the way. The guy's so self conscious . Why bother with straight description when you've got a real classy image up your sleeve. It's a case of there's no bread so let them eat cake. Here's Lord Tennyson with a nasty case of the snuffles, of high Art meeting Life.
Apparently it made a great film, but it doesn't work on the page. Like a river in flood, the minutiae of what happens gets lost. He's too busy painting word pictures to notice the bodies floating past. you don't give a stuff about the characters. There's a wife or two but they rarely exist. Stuff happens but you barely notice it. he's got vaseline over his camera lens.you're meant to be impressed by the writing but that's not what writings about. Writing's about a communion between writer and reader, not self glorification.
No deliverance for Dickey - feed him to the lions, or as he might have it, the tawny-maned kings of the jungle. 2/5 (less)
flagcomment · see review
December 1, 2015
It is Life without the Corn
I suppose there's got to be coincidence. It doesn't mean anything. But I happened to pick up "A Late Education" straight after reading Richard Adam's memoir and was immediately struck by both similarities and dissimilarities.
Adams was on himself, at pains to show how clever he was and at what level of society he belonged to - Oxford and all the rest were working class.
By comparison, Moorehead's a breath of fresh air. He's delightfully uncomplicated and it shows in his writing. He wants to be someones friend and puts himself out for it. As opposed to Adams, Moorehead admits to being something of a scamp. At least, as journalists he shows his profession up as being less than ethical. The two hoodwink their respective editors. They get stories in the time-honoured way, by subterfuge.
And woven through the story in this little gem of a book is another story - deeper, darker and at the same time more wonderful. It is life with out the corn. There are one or two perplexities. A pregnant wife appears from nowhere; relationships come and go; there are loose ends.
But that's life and this little book is life. Well worth reading, (he happens to be a rather famous Australian author)
Adams was on himself, at pains to show how clever he was and at what level of society he belonged to - Oxford and all the rest were working class.
By comparison, Moorehead's a breath of fresh air. He's delightfully uncomplicated and it shows in his writing. He wants to be someones friend and puts himself out for it. As opposed to Adams, Moorehead admits to being something of a scamp. At least, as journalists he shows his profession up as being less than ethical. The two hoodwink their respective editors. They get stories in the time-honoured way, by subterfuge.
And woven through the story in this little gem of a book is another story - deeper, darker and at the same time more wonderful. It is life with out the corn. There are one or two perplexities. A pregnant wife appears from nowhere; relationships come and go; there are loose ends.
But that's life and this little book is life. Well worth reading, (he happens to be a rather famous Australian author)
It is
I suppose there's got to be coincidence. It doesn't mean anything. But I happened to pick up "A Late Education" straight after reading Richard Adam's memoir and was immediately struck by both similarities and dissimilarities.
Adams was on himself, at pains to show how clever he was and at what level of society he belonged to - Oxford and all the rest were working class.
By comparison, Moorehead's a breath of fresh air. He's delightfully uncomplicated and it shows in his writing. He wants to be someones friend and puts himself out for it. As opposed to Adams, Moorehead admits to being something of a scamp. At least, as journalists he shows his profession up as being less than ethical. The two hoodwink their respective editors. They get stories in the time-honoured way, by subterfuge.
And woven through the story in this little gem of a book is another story - deeper, darker and at the same time more wonderful. It is life with out the corn. There are one or two perplexities. A pregnant wife appears from nowhere; relationships come and go; there are loose ends.
But that's life and this little book is life. Well worth reading, (he happens to be a rather famous Australian author)
Adams was on himself, at pains to show how clever he was and at what level of society he belonged to - Oxford and all the rest were working class.
By comparison, Moorehead's a breath of fresh air. He's delightfully uncomplicated and it shows in his writing. He wants to be someones friend and puts himself out for it. As opposed to Adams, Moorehead admits to being something of a scamp. At least, as journalists he shows his profession up as being less than ethical. The two hoodwink their respective editors. They get stories in the time-honoured way, by subterfuge.
And woven through the story in this little gem of a book is another story - deeper, darker and at the same time more wonderful. It is life with out the corn. There are one or two perplexities. A pregnant wife appears from nowhere; relationships come and go; there are loose ends.
But that's life and this little book is life. Well worth reading, (he happens to be a rather famous Australian author)
August 10, 2015
Learn not to be Racist?
A Time to Kill
John Grisham can write, he doesn't try to wow you with linguistic pyrotechnics. A Time to Kill is a journey to the deep south of USA with all the troubles - and nuances- of entrenched racism .
Sure it's formulaic. There's a crime, a court case, David and Goliath lawyers and the promise( unrealised, but still) of sex. Also violence, I could have done with out the graphic details of the rape but perhaps the readership requires it. It sets up the revenge motive anyway.
A bit of escapism, and who knows, someone might learn not to be racist as a result of it, although I doubt it. What you see is what you get, and this is a racy read. Don't expect too much of Grisham and you won't be disappointed. I like him but I can't say I learn any thing from him or am a better man for having read A Time to Kill. Still, it will kill a few hours , if that's all you want.
John Grisham can write, he doesn't try to wow you with linguistic pyrotechnics. A Time to Kill is a journey to the deep south of USA with all the troubles - and nuances- of entrenched racism .
Sure it's formulaic. There's a crime, a court case, David and Goliath lawyers and the promise( unrealised, but still) of sex. Also violence, I could have done with out the graphic details of the rape but perhaps the readership requires it. It sets up the revenge motive anyway.
A bit of escapism, and who knows, someone might learn not to be racist as a result of it, although I doubt it. What you see is what you get, and this is a racy read. Don't expect too much of Grisham and you won't be disappointed. I like him but I can't say I learn any thing from him or am a better man for having read A Time to Kill. Still, it will kill a few hours , if that's all you want.
Love it and leave it- a gentle little excursion into one man's mind
The Second Curtain Oh, how delightful. Here is a man who loves language. It carries the story, which is a slight one.
A man's friend dies- he looks into it and suffers the consequences . There is no slam- bang finale and it proceeds quietly . It is a sojourn in some ones mind. You are not going to become transformed by this little Penguin crime story. It will not even have you on the edge of your seat. But it's a great example of what a poet can do. Love it and leave it- a gentle little excursion into one man's mind. 4/5
A man's friend dies- he looks into it and suffers the consequences . There is no slam- bang finale and it proceeds quietly . It is a sojourn in some ones mind. You are not going to become transformed by this little Penguin crime story. It will not even have you on the edge of your seat. But it's a great example of what a poet can do. Love it and leave it- a gentle little excursion into one man's mind. 4/5
