Levels of Life - mashing it up, Julian Barnes style

Levels of Life by Julian Barnes (JonathanCape: 2013). A book in three parts from a Booker Prize winning author. A literary mash up, exploring the history of ballooning, photography, love stories, and death. Wide ranging stuff.

What’s the saddest thing you can think of? Me, it’s always been a husband losing his wife (or a wife losing her husband for that matter). Always got me that one. Doesn’t matter how cheesy it is, that plot element has always made me choke when it’s cropped up on the screen or page.

And yet I subject myself to this. One of the world’s most decorated writers putting pen to paper to explore the grief he felt when his wife died.

I’m an idiot.

In fairness, it’s not all about that. The book is split in three parts. The first is a bit of non-fiction about ballooning and photography, the second is a bit of historical fiction centred on a bohemian love story gone wrong, and then the third part is where Barnes goes to town on his grief.

It works. Brilliantly. And here’s why.

For starts, it works because of the first two sections. They’re amazing. A quirky history of a quirky endeavour, followed by a thorough (but tastily bite-sized) love story which grows as it’s told. Both of the first two sections entertained me, set some of the structural thought which characterised the third section's grief, and introduced emotion slowly rather than simply plunging you in at the deep end.

For seconds, it worked because of the honesty and the rawness and the sheer humanity of the third section. There is no universal truth to grief, no universal experience. Julian Barnes is Julian Barnes; he felt and experienced and reacted to his grief in a Julian Barnes way. At no point does he melt into easy cliché. At no point does he pluck at the usual heart strings in the usual ways. He violently kicks against any sense of Disney emotion. He tells what happened to him - anecdote by anecdote, analogy by analogy – and leaves little out.

And for thirds, it works because this is Julian Barnes we’re talking about here. The guy can write. Every now and then, a sentence or a phrase or a structure will just knock you flat on your ass. I’ve read Barnes before and not quite got it, but I’m acutely aware pretty much everyone else has. The guy has high flung literary praise coming at him from every direction. And in this book, I get it too. I submit. Julian Barnes; you can write good.

9 GBR

One of the best things you’ll read this year. Why not 10 you ask? Because I do the scores, not you.

Next week, another story of a man losing his wife. I’m a glutton for punishment.

Amity & Sorrow - dripping in profundity

 

Amity & Sorrow by Peggy Riley (Tinder Press: 2013). Two sisters are scooped up by their mother and are taken from their lives in a remote cult commune. They run, and they land on an equally remote farm. Riley tells us their story as they struggle to leave their old lives behind, and make big decisions about their new ones.

Try and define the word “profound.” Go on, try it. Bet you stumble. I mean, you might get there eventually, but it’s tough, right? That’s why those dictionary writers get the big bucks. Some words are just kind of ethereal (which is another example, by the way). We kind of just know the meaning. And we certainly recognise it when we see it.

Which is a roundabout introduction to what I thought of Amity and Sorrow. This thing has profundity dripping off it. It’s soaked in the stuff. I seemed to be in a constant state of breath-half-drawn-in.

The story and the plotting take a lot of the credit for this. But the writing was a big part too. It was just so damned tight. I’ve whined on about how much I love good, tight, bare writing in the past, so I won’t bore you with that again. Suffice to say this was written with very little flab involved, which made the emotion and the…well…profundity stick out all the more.

And Riley does something else I loved. Having stumbled unsuccessfully through two novels myself, one of my big worries in writing was whether or not I had enough plot to fill the book. I was constantly thinking whether I should go back a couple of stages in the story to give myself more grist for the mill. 

No such amateur worries for Riley, oh no. She starts her story when most of the big stuff has happened. On page one, pretty much everything on the dustcover blurb has already taken place. Within a few pages, you know the big bits of everyone’s back story. Sure, she does spend time later going back and filling in more blanks, and a lot of the smaller back-story details get unfolded as the book goes on, but Riley wastes no time re-hashing the minutiae of the premise. That’s confident writing, and I liked it. It got me straight into the story, no messing. 

It wasn’t perfect. The high quality of large chunks made the occasional slip bark out. For example, the main three characters are so deeply drawn and so identifiable that some of the supporting cast come off as a bit cartoonish, less care having gone into them. Also, the overall story is so heart breaking and fascinating that, by contrast, some of the specific events come off as awkward; against the grain of the wider context. 

Nit picking, I know. But if there are nits to be picked, I might as well tell you about them. Wouldn’t want to send you off not knowing about the nits. That’d be impolite.

9 GBR

Woof! Just enough nits to stop short of a ten, but we’re well and truly back on the track of some good books after that dip in late Feb/early March.

Amity and Sorry isn’t out until the end of next week, (thanks go to the Tinder Press for furnishing me with an advance copy), but you can pre-order it on Amazon here.

Birdsong - a non-rambling opinion (mostly)

My good looking copy, from
the Folio Society. I think I love
 those guys (and Mrs GBR of course, who
bought it for me)

Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks (Hutchinson: 1993). Faulks gets stuck into WW1, following the life of Stephen Wraysford as he falls in a tragic kind of love before getting whisked away by the violent events of the early twentieth century. 

So I didn’t post last Sunday. Sorry about that. I felt a bit worse for wear, then got distracted by Andy Murray, then by lunch, then by napping. Before I knew it, it was Monday again.

It’s probably a good thing, because this book needed time to settle. There’s a bunch I want to say about it, but I know you guys don’t have the longest attention spans, so I’ll reign in the more rambling of my thoughts. Well, I’ll try.

The big thing to say (and it’s something I didn’t realise until a few days after I finished the book) is that Birdsong gets under your skin. I couldn’t stop thinking about it after I put it down. I finished the last page and, days later, still felt myself daydreaming about some aspect of it or other. 

I’ve talked before about how some books make that happen simply by being long, the logic being if you spend a month reading something, it’ll end up lodging in your brain by dint of its weight if not by its quality.

And, no doubt, Birdsong probably benefits from its length in the same way. But I think it’s more than that. Ordinarily, I’m a language junkie. The sure fire way to get me panting at a book is to make the language so rich it makes you short of breath (just ask Pierre). But Faulks doesn’t do that. There are no passages of explosive language. Instead, he gets you high on the detail. 

He creates a scene, picks out some of its most subtle but beautiful components, then puts them under a microscope in a way that makes the people and places slap you in the face. It’s this careful choosing and expert exploiting of detail – not any bombastic wording – that got me hooked. It made this book stay with me long after I put it down.

Sorry, that was a bit of a rambling thought, but it felt an important one. And here’s two more (put more succinctly, just for you).

The characters in Birdsong are distinct, detailed, unusual and compelling. Almost ethereal, but without losing reality.

The pacing of the book is masterful. He softens you up with love story, and just when you’re starting to get bored of it, he plunges you into the WW1 trenches. And just when you’re getting bored of that, he takes you to the 1970s. And just when you’re getting bored of that, he wraps things up with high emotion and meaning.

Ok, so maybe not that succinct.

There were (there always are) downsides. Any book of this length is going to have treacly sections you just have to wade through. Any book with the well trodden ground of WW1 at its core will feel a little clichéd in parts.

But I can’t think badly of a book that drew me in as much as this. I can’t criticize a story that stayed with me and made me daydream for days afterwards.

9 GBR

Hot dog! It’s been a high scoring start to the year. I’m enjoying my reading a lot at the moment. Possibly too much, there seems little time for anything else.

Next week, a book which comes with the "Jewish Book of the Year" accolade to live up to. Let’s hope it does.

Put out More Flags - Waugh's killer combination

The title page of my lovely old edition

Put out More Flags by Evelyn Waugh (Chapman & Hall : 1942) Between war being declared and things really hotting up, Britain went through a period of "phony war" where things didn't seem all that bad. Waugh takes his set of high society hang overs, led by the irrepressible Basil Seal, and shows their approach to this grand new folly. Driven by a sense of "what's-in-it-for-me", the jape of war has both comic and tragic effect.

At the risk of sounding like a 12-year old school girl, ohmygodohmygodohmygod! DBC Pierre emailed me yesterday. Subject line: Cowabunga. Apprently, "at the sweet end of a piss-up a friend brought your review of my book up on his phone." That's me he's talking about! He liked it. He said he'd raise a drink to me.

That's it. I'm done. I can stop this whole shebang now and die smiling.

What? You don't care who emailed me? It's Sunday morning and you want your weekly GBR review? Oh, OK then you demanding lot, here it is.

I went to the British Museum a couple of weeks ago. The first thing I saw when I walked through the door was an exhibition with a 5,000 year-old pot in it.

Five-freaking-thousand years old. Damn if that's not impressive. And this thing was elaborate. It blew my mind a little. All that time ago, someone made this, spent time on it, drank out of it, and there it was in front of me in a glass case.

A pot that had survived everything.

Whoever JAC Rupert was, he
bought this in '42

That’s how I feel about old books. Anything written in an entirely different circumstance to the one I’m reading it in. Words that someone wrote down a while ago, and there they are in front of me, surviving.

I say all this as it’s pertinent to Put out More Flags (I promise). You guys know I love a bit of Waugh. And so I was always going to love this too. The guy flaunted every aspect of his writing that I enjoy. It was satirical, slap-stick, absurd, flat-out funny, but with a heavy dose of poignancy as well. It was Wodehouse with purpose. And it was typically easy to tread. Waugh writes like he invented language, and knows exactly how it should be used.

So there was all that. Obviously. But there was something else as well. Put out More Flags was published in 1942. I know this because I was very kindly bought this old edition of it for my birthday, and it says 1942 right at the front. 1942 is a time that just plain fascinates me. In the grip of a war that has turned terrible. No idea if we’re going to win or not. Everything up for grabs.

And amongst it all, here’s Waugh with his cartoonish social set. A largely fictional upper class who are tripping from one aspect of the war to another. There’s truth in some of their reactions, albeit highly caricatured. And between the lines (which is where Waugh shines), there’s all this heavy heavy context of a war.

I know we won. And you know we won. But the words on these 70-odd year old pages had no idea. These words and the imagination that delivered them were entirely ignorant of how it would all play out.

The beautiful spine of my edition. Aren't
books great!

That was enough for me. I was sold. The painful contrast of Waugh’s humour with a deep pathos that’s just beneath the surface never stops fascinating me. I saw it first in A Handful of Dust (which was the 2011 GBRBOY by the way…). And here, it blew me away again.

In short, this guy has a killer combination. Funny as heck. A magical and distinct way with words. And the ability to sneak up on you and make you cry with a single phrase.

Now, I just need to figure out how he does it.

9 GBR

Why not 10 after a write up like that, I hear you cry? Honestly, because A Handful of Dust was my first Waugh blow out, and I guess it can never be quite as good as the first time.

Next week, I'm not quite sure as I'm currently trudging through a biggie.

The Casual Vacancy - my two-cents

The Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling (Little Brown: 2012). Pagford Parish Council is locked in bitter in-fighting as it tries to jettison the less desirable parts of the village. An unexpected death opens a seat which could make the difference. The ensuing debate provides a backdrop for profound and often tragic changes to the lives of a handful of protagonists.

Time to bend the knees and jump on a bandwagon. Everyone else has done it, so why not GBR? Why not read The Casual Vacancy? Why not tell you what I think about it?

Because you’ve probably had your fill of people telling you what they think about it, that’s why. It’s probably the biggest book event of the year, and the biggest since the last Harry Potter came out. Love or hate her, Rowling is doing something right.

So I’ll keep it short. If you don’t want to, you don’t need to read beyond the next paragraph. For what it’s worth, here’s the GBR take.

This is a good book.

For those of you still with us, I might as well give you a bit more detail.

I was ready to plough through 500-odd pages of mediocrity. That’s what most of the early reviews set me up for. Something above average, that would have probably been published with or without Rowling’s clout, but not something that’s going to go down in literary history on it’s own merit. The reality, though, was a notch or three above that.

Its strength is (quelle surprise) the plotting. Strip all the blockbuster sales, all the hero worshipping, and all the circus away from Rowling, and you’re still left with an unnaturally good story-teller. Her characters are so tightly drawn, their motivations so subtly soaked into the narrative, the flow of the story so naturally constructed, that you can’t help but get sucked in. Any dubiousness I had when I opened the first page was gone by the time I got to the fiftieth.

I was immersed, willingly or not, in the world Rowling created. I wasn’t constantly looking for the next twist, or skipping ahead to the dialogue - I found myself feeling the plot unfold quite patiently, simply content to be a spectator on a detailed but easily consumed little universe.

There was a slight jarring I felt throughout the book though. It came in the cartoonish nature of some of the main characters. Large swathes of The Casual Vacancy are so supremely authentic that it is a bit of a jolt when the larger than life Howard breezes through his chocolate box delicatessen, or when gossipy Maureen turns up to a party in a shorter than short skirt.

It could be on purpose. It could be these caricatures are inserted to make the darker parts of the novel stand out in greater relief. It could be Rowling is trying to make a point about the real life that lurks underneath the faces we put on for the rest of the world. In fact I’m sure that’s it, I'm sure it's all a device. But nevertheless, I still found it a little inconsistent. This switching from gritty realism to CBBC soap opera didn’t quite work for me.

That is nit picking though. How can I be anything other than positive about a book that absorbed me so much. I honestly looked forward to picking this book up and flicking through a few pages. I was genuinely sad to turn the last page and say goodbye to Pagford. I believed in the world Rowling created, and was absorbed by the goings on in it. So what if every now and then I felt awkward at the use of a few trite stereotypes.

9 GBR

Anything less than 9 GBR, and I’d suspect myself of marking her down just for being famous. Anything more and I’d have to slap myself in the face for being a push over.

We're on a run of good scores at the moment. Next week, I go back to the Booker Prize shortlist to try another one of them out. Populist? Moi? Non!

The Yellow Birds - back to form

The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers (Sceptre: 2012). A novel centred on Private Bartle as he trains for, fights in, and returns from Iraq.

You all know how I feel about war novels. I’ve spoken about it before. Conflicted is probably the best word. Stuck between their importance in a “lest we forget” way, and their frequent straying into war voyeurism.

This (let’s be straight right from the very beginning) fits into neither camp. It neither makes all American heroes of those at war, nor does it distil war into a game. It does what few books about war can - it gives a new perspective.

OK, maybe not entirely 100% new (what is?). But new in the context of 21st century wars. It’s intensely focussed on the turmoil of the central protagonist, and it explores that through his pre-war, war, and post-war experience. It’s not full of “Scotty took point whilst I scanned our right flank for enemy snipers.” Nor is it full of “Jonny put his body on the line for us; for freedom.” And it leaves much of the political rhetoric that dominates most writing about 21st Century wars behind. Instead, it paints small, personal pictures of genuine, honest too goodness experience.

Sentiment. That’s what I’m getting at here. There’s absolutely no faux sentimentality in this. It’s entirely raw, Private Bartle opened up on every page recounting his candid reactions to the situations he’s in. Powers does a fantastic job of conveying confusion and loss and emotional disorientation, but conveying it sharply and showing (usually between the lines) what impact all of this has on Private Bartle.

The result is a beautiful little book. Read a few reviews of this, and that’s the word you’ll start to get sick of. Beautiful. But it is. There’s no getting around it. The stages, the relationships, the emotional breakdowns, the flashes of tenderness - it all adds up to beautiful.

Some of the other reviews will also tell you this is an “important” book (another phrase I hate - aren’t they all?) That lessons can be extrapolated from the story of Private Bartle. That wider political and societal lessons could be learned.

But that’s missing the point if you ask me. That sort of debate can easily obscure the book itself. Turn it from a gem into the tool of an agenda. I’m not saying those points and those lessons shouldn’t be debated and disseminated. I’m just saying don’t let them make you forget just how stunning this book is.

I don’t want to go overboard. I don’t think you’ll read this and reach some sort of epiphany, about war or anything else. The chances are you have heard much of this before. There are some recognisable footsteps being walked in here. Young men being emotionally destroyed. Survivor’s guilt. The shock of returning to normal life. Discomfort with hero worship. We’ve been to these places before, but not often, and rarely as poetically as in Yellow Birds.

Does it help that Kevin Powers is a former soldier? That he served in Iraq for two years? It probably does. It probably gives this book credibility. But it’s a piece of information worth forgetting when you’re reading this. You’ll tie yourself up in knots thinking of which are the snippets from his own war, and which are the bits he’s made up. Instead, focus on the writing. On his talent. On the fact that he shapes his language around emotions better than most other people out there.

9 GBR

Shake that one off. A return to form after last week’s debacle. And (fingers crossed) an interview with Kevin Powers could be coming to GBR soon (if the questions I’ve posed via his agent make their way through the Hotmail highway loudly enough).

Next week, something light hearted from a guy apparently everyone knew about but I only found a couple of weeks ago.

Scoop - Waugh-tastic

Scoop by Evelyn Waugh (Chapman and Hall: 1938) An absurd comic novel in which an identity mix up sees country loving William Boot dispatched to the African country of Ishamlia to cover the impending civil war for the Daily Beast.

Evelyn Waugh has fast become one of my favourite writers. It’s a shame, because saying that makes me sound pompous. But I don’t care. He writes fun stuff, and I enjoy reading it. So there.

In Scoop, it feels he’s in full flow. He’s funny. Not just funny, it’s a particular brand of funny - witty, satirical, slapstick, a few different funny-genres in one. There’s definite Wodehousian echoes, but it tackles more than Wodehouse ever does. Waugh’s characters are less cartoonish, but equally fantastic.

I’m not putting Wodehouse down. I’m a massive Wodehouse fan too. He got the first 10GBR after all, an accolade I’m reliably informed greatly pleases the custodians of the Wodehouse estate (though they’d never admit it, so don’t bother asking them).

But Waugh does more than just thoroughly entertain. He creates these amazing characters, with endearing personal flaws and comic outlooks, and he bangs them up against each other in settings that help reveal some of the absurdities the real world.

The result isn’t just amusing. It’s heart-warming. It’s depressing. It’s worrying. It’s sad. Achieving that in the context of what is basically a comic novel is some trick. He packs so much between the lines that you need to take a breath after each page.

A Handful of Dust is perhaps the novel where he achieves all of this most perfectly, but Scoop comes a close second. He makes a serious point about the power of the press, and the influence it wielded over 1st and 3rd worlds alike. He explores the relative merits of city and country life - each are presented with huge flaws, but each are inhabited by characters so skilfully suited to them that you can’t help but hanker after both. He explores loneliness, manipulation, unrequited love, the trappings of power…the list goes on. It really does. I wrote a list, and it went on and on. Then I deleted it because I know how you hate lists. But trust me, the man explores so many themes so expertly that you carry on thinking about Scoop long after you’ve put it down (once you’ve finished laughing at it).

And all of this is, or course, achieved with Waugh’s unsurpassed feel for language. Phrases, sentences and paragraphs are constructed with such economy that it blows you away sometimes. If ever you want to read language that qualifies as beautiful, pick up Waugh.

I’m painting myself into a 10GBR shaped corner here, so let’s try paint out again.

A Handful of Dust deserved a 10GBR. It’s one of my favourite books ever, and I’ll go on recommending it to everyone I meet. Scoop has a lot of the same qualities. I loved the sets he built - The Daily Beast newspaper, the African country of Ishmalia, and the rural seat of the Boots. I love the characters that filled the stage and I love the story that engulfed it. But it falls short. It falls short because he did it before.

He did it in A Handful of Dust (which directly preceded Scoop). And he did it better there. He raised the bar, and couldn’t quite jump it a second time. Only just nicked it with a trailing toe-nail, but un-cleared nonetheless. It wasn’t quite as heartbreaking. Some of the elements were a bit too recycled. It fell short by about 1 GBR point.

9 GBR

Pretty darn fantastic. Might need to cut myself off Waugh for a month or two.

Next week, a third run at a graphic novel, this time one recommended by Brother-of-GBR.

King Leopold's Ghost - history!!

King Leopold's Ghost by Adam Hochschild (Houghton Mifflin: 1998) A history of King Leopold II of Belgium's reign in the Congo, and the individuals involved in bringing the truth of his rule to the world's attention.

Most history books tell you stuff you don’t know. Otherwise you really would get bored of them quick. But this, this told me about a major piece of the world story that I had no idea existed.

Sure, I knew about slavery. And I knew about the scramble for Africa, and knew that wasn’t a fun era for the locals. But this, this is something other.

This book isn’t just about the horrific cruelty of an imperialistic regime in a foreign land. It’s about a major worldwide movement against it. It’s about crusaders and explorers whose story exploded out of Africa and on to the world stage in an incredibly loud way. And then along came World War I, and it seems their voices got lost. Largely forgotten.

Maybe it has something to do with the shame of the imperialists, trying to forget a piece of history we’re not too proud of. Or maybe I was just off the day they taught this in school.

I had no idea, not an inkling, of the events in the Congo in the mid to late nineteenth century. I had no idea of the calculated barbarism of King Leopold II of Belgium. I had no idea of the regime he built in the Congo, of the smokescreens he threw up to mask its true nature, and the extraordinary lengths gone to by a few men and women to bring a spotlight to it. I had no idea of the international politics and public outrage that the episode threw up. I had no idea of how much the struggle was stamped into the public consciousness.

If I’m not being clear enough, in short, I was amazed.

The good history books, the really good ones, ordinarily get the cookie-cutter praise that they “read like a novel.” It’s important to take history and relate it in an entertaining way, with plot and drama and structure. Otherwise it won’t get read. And that’s exactly what’s done here.

Hochschild is helped by being given a great cast of characters, and a shocking narrative, but he stitches it together seamlessly. A little repetitive at times, and he dwells in one place for a few seconds too long here and there, but in all, it’s pretty neat and tidy.

It’s not dispassionate - he injects his own values and his own judgements at will. But they’re almost always correct. And they give the book an energy that it would be lacking otherwise.

It’s all left wonderfully open ended as well. It’s history, so there aren’t absolute winners and losers. There’s no neat resolution. Every character is flawed. Which means you put the book down at the end and you’re hungry for more. You want to discuss it and pick at it and understand it from other places.

This is good history. It’s essential history, really. It’s entertaining history. It enlightens. It twists your perspective and your gut and your soul as you read it.

I have to retrain myself here. I loved this. But the GBR scores are about whether I think you’ll love it too. Despite everything, this is still history. It’s slower than fiction. It’s more interrogative. It’s more detailed. And that’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

9 GBR

I clearly have no self control.

We seem to be on a good run GBR scores at the moment (9, then 8, then 7, then 8, now 9) Maybe I’m getting soft. Or maybe books are getting better.

Next week, a visit to Baker Street to see if they can keep up the pace.

The Last Werewolf

The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan (Canongate Books: 2011) - A novel following the world's last werewolf as he finds new reasons to live a life he'd given up on.

Writing a book review blog is not all champagne flutes and red carpets. There are some real hardships involved as well.

Take for example the open ridicule to which I’m exposed every Sunday morning when a new post goes up. Or the delicate social situations that arise when you’re forced to review a book that’s been recommended by a friend.

But worst of all, the absolute pit of the sufferings to which your faithful book blogger avails himself on your behalf, is the damned enforced variety. The need to read something from a different stable week in week out. Sure, it broadens horizons and makes for a broader blog, but it also keeps me away from the books I love for long periods.

I am of course speaking about Glen. You GBR regulars will know Glen. I’ve talked of him before, usually with a hopeless look in my eyes. If I could have, I would have read all his books by now. But I’ve resisted, because you lot don’t want review after review of Glen Duncan.

But after last week’s wash out, I thought I deserved a treat. And Glen Duncan was it.

And he didn’t disappoint (as if he would). This is his offering from last year, and it’s punctuated with the same powerful, thought provoking prose that is the hallmark of all his books.

This is, let’s be honest, a book about werewolves. It could easily descend into absolute farce. Laziness could kick in, and it could be all "frenzied roar" and "blind fury". But not in Glen’s hands (yeah, I’m calling him by his first name now. We’re serious).

Glen still makes room amongst the fast paced plot for his intelligence, using his painfully human approach to dig down and get to the essence of what it is to be a werewolf. It becomes real. You start forgetting this is the world of fantasy authors, and just get lost in the humanity of it. It doesn’t stick out, it’s not the obnoxious guy at the dinner party - Glen manages to discuss love, life, and existence in a thrillingly clever (and often beautiful) way without gate-crashing the story. It hooks you. Or at least it does me.

Which is why I wilted a little in the second half (or maybe even just the last third) of this book. It feels like Glen blew himself out a little in the first chunk. The plot eventually conquers all. The wit and charm of his earlier philosophizing disappears under the juggernaut of getting-the-story-told. Where he does try to revisit some of the earlier themes, it’s done fleetingly and (dare I say it) a little repetitively.

This is the most Hollywood of his books (or the ones I’ve read, anyway). It’s more of an obvious page turner. He uses cliff hangers with less restraint. He’s getting more commercial, I can feel it. But his voice is still there. And it still blew me away in sections.

I can’t help but continue to love Glen. Really, I can’t help it. I’ve tried. And I can’t.

9 GBR

You, without a book review blog to write every week, go use your freedom to read all of Glen’s books now. Take it from a man who has to ration himself.

After that reconnection with an old flame, I might just return to Wodehouse next week. After all, I’ve only written about him once. I’m due another ration.

Before I Go To Sleep - sandwich making paperclips

Before I Go To Sleep (Doubleday: 2011) A novel following a woman who wakes every day without any memory of the previous twenty-something years. She needs to piece together her life every day, only to start from the beginning again the next. The more she learns, the more she questions things, and the more suspicious she is of those close to her.

Some things just work. Paperclips. BBQ tongs. Really well written books. If it works, it works.

This book achieved pretty much everything it sets out to. And it does it for two big reasons. The first is the plot. It’s brilliant. It starts from an incredibly intriguing jumping off point, one that opens up a huge array of possibilities and has a truly fascinating quality. But it’s then worked hard. Watson doesn’t let the plot sit back for a breather for more than a few seconds at a time. It’s driven so energetically and expertly that it grows all the way through.

It does what Room didn’t – it continues to build and change and twist and turn from beginning to end. Watson makes sure it never gets contrived, never leaves you too disoriented, but never gets static or stale either.

I said two things, right? The second is the writing. It’s beautiful. It’s heartfelt and powerful and simple. And it floats by without intruding on the story. It looks like an easy thing to do. Simple things often do. Like a paper clip. Or BBQ tongs. They’re the kind of things you look at and think, yeah that’s pretty simple, must have been thought up of in about two seconds flat. But (and I’m sure you guys know this) they weren’t.

Giant paperclip

A hundred and fifty years ago, our poor sods of forefathers had to make do with attaching papers together with their spit (I assume). It took someone to have a moment of inspiration and follow it up with hard work. And it’s the same with this writing. It’s really and truly amazing, because it achieves so much with so little. The language is stripped back and simple, not a word wasted. But it tells the story powerfully. Easily.

That’s a pretty effective one-two combination. Brilliant story, brilliant writing. Knocks you back a little. It meant that I burned through this book pretty swiftly. First book in a long time that I found difficult to put down. I even stayed up past bed-time to continue reading it, making me a bit tired and grumpy the next day, only to do it again that night. Yeah, that’s right, I have a bed time and this book made me miss it. That’s an endorsement right there.

If I’m going to be picky (and I’m going to be) then there were one or two things missing. Firstly, I really didn’t like the main character. Which wouldn’t be a problem if I wasn’t meant to like her. But I think you’re supposed to like her, to sympathise and identify with her. But I didn’t.

Also, no doubt this is a page turner, but it fails to do much with the attention it demands other than entertain. It never introduces much that makes you go away and think (other than about what might happen next). It succeeds big time in grabbing you, but once grabbed, I think it misses a bit of an opportunity to do more with you. I put the book down breathless and thoroughly entertained, but not changed. It didn’t make me look at the world differently. Which is something that I want a book to do to me.

I guess that’s not what this is about though. Maybe if you inject a bit more something into it, you could spoil what’s brilliant. Maybe there’s only enough room in here for a great plot and great writing. Which isn’t the worst thing in the world.

This book entertains massively. It does amazing things in a very simple way. Asking it to do everything else too is probably a little unrealistic. Like expecting a paper clip to also make me a sandwich.

9 GBR

Go read this book. Soon.

Next week, a short story or two from a guy I’ve wanted to read for a long time.

The Farnsworth Invention - nuthin but talkin

The Farnsworth Invention by Aaron Sorkin (Samuel French: 2009) A screenplay following two driven men as they race to be the first to invent television. For one, the invention itself is the Holy Grail; for the other, harnessing the power and control that the invention will give is the motivation. 

I have an admission to make. There are a number of men for whom I have inappropriate feelings (sorry Mrs GBR).

Matt Smith for instance. Probs my favourite actor. I know what you're thinking, and no, it's not because of Doc Who, I was on this bandwagon well before the T.A.R.D.I.S. appeared. I bear no responsibility for my actions should I ever find myself in the same room as him. None.



Matt Smith, pre Doc Who. I need no excuse.



Aaron Sorkin is another. And yes, I know he’s a bit of a fuck up. And I’m not impressed by his cocaine struggles. By all accounts, I understand he’s a bit of a jerk. But the man wrote The West Wing, and that’s enough for me. He need do no more.

So when I saw this screenplay on Amazon, I was one-clicking it in a heartbeat.

Now, this isn’t entirely new territory for GBR. I’ve reviewed a screenplay before, The Sunset Limited by Cormac McCarthy. But I’m no practiced reader of scripts, so I thought this would be quite fun to try out.

And to be honest, it didn’t take as much of an adjustment as I thought it would. The layout, dominated by dialogue with the odd stage direction, means you read it with a picture of the stage and actors planted firmly in your mind’s eye. With novels, I find myself picturing the story as it may be in real life. With this, I was picturing it being played out by actors in a theatre.

The danger is that you therefore lose a bit of the realism. But there are two strong factors that keep that from happening.

One is the nature of this screenplay. I have no idea how much of this really happened, but I’ll bet some of it. And that “based on a true story” factor helps inject a bit more believability to it all. What’s more, it’s a story that we can all immediately identify with - the invention of TV. For starts, we’ve all got one. And for seconds, we can all identify with that feeling of desperately trying to figure something out, trying to work out how something works. And if you can’t identify with it, Sorkin writes it so smoothly that you will find yourself right there alongside these guys whether you like it or not.

But the second factor is the one I really want to hammer on about. It’s the dialogue. Nothing’s more real than two people talking with each other. And this whole thing, save the odd bit of direction in italics, is dialogue. The most immediately engaging parts of any book are when people are speaking, and a screenplay by its nature is nothing but that.



The West Wing - they were all
the smartest guy in the room



And this isn’t just any dialogue, this is Sorkin dialogue. I mean, drug addiction and anti-social tendencies aside, he has a gift. It’s just so sharp. True, he has a weakness for a smartest-guy-in-the-room-hero. Everything he writes has that brilliantly flawed genius character in it, sometimes more than one. But he creates them and their voices so perfectly that I can’t help but love them every time. It happens again here.

The characters aren’t real people, they’re better than real people. They’re what you want the world to be filled with. Every one of them. The genius, the business visionary, the humble hard working student, the smart strong women, the honest sidekicks – you want to be every one of them. They’re each different types of perfect person, and they’re all created through nothing else but what they say.

And that’s what’s real. There’s no long passages describing someone’s character – it begins and ends with speech and actions. And to create such perfect people with just that is impressive.

Me and Aaron, it’s a platonic admiration thing. If I’m honest, it probably drifts into a bit of hero worship when I let my guard down. So difficult to score this objectively.

Reading screenplays is fun, I’d recommend it. It’s a change of pace and a different structure to wake you up. They’re packed with nothing but talking, and in the right hands, that’s a great thing. And there are no better hands than Mr Sorkin’s.

9 GBR

Falling short of a ten for two reasons only. One, it’s not the West Wing. And two, however brilliant his characters are, I can’t help thinking he’s created them before.

Next week, either that German novella I promised you last week (well done the eagle eyed amongst you that spotted that mistake) or my second graphic novel. I haven’t decided yet. But it’s Sunday, and I refuse to make decisions on a Sunday. So there.

Death of an Ordinary Man - making up with Smuggy Smugerton

Death of an Ordinary Man by Glen Duncan (Scribner: 2004). A novel following Nathan Clark as he navigates the disorienting experience of being recently deceased. He follows his family and friends during his funeral and wake as he pieces together the facts of his life, his fate being revealed to the reader as his memory is spurred on by the thoughts and actions of his nearest and dearest.

This is the third Glen Duncan book I’ve read this year, and the second I’ve reviewed. He’s the only guy that I’ve read that many times since starting this blog. And, to be honest, I’d have read more if I didn’t think you’d get sick of reading reviews of Glen Duncan every week.

I saved this one up. It’s been sitting on my shelf for quite a while, but I saved it until I had a bit of time off work. I saw it as a treat that I wanted to enjoy when I had a few long days that I could spend with it.

And there’s good reason why I see Glen Duncan books as treats. I have my issues with them (which I’ll go into), but I’m always inspired by them. I always come away feeling that I’ve just read a book that justifies the art form. He creates stories that grow and grow from the very first page, and by the time you’ve turned the last one your head is just so full of ideas and people and emotions that it’s enough to make you want to pick up a pen and join the club yourself.

It’s not always been unconditional, my love of Glen Duncan Books. I’ve had my problems with them. And they are problems that this book wasn’t immune to. He has a tendency to be too clever sometimes. Every now and then, he shows off just a little bit too much. He writes confidently and with style, but there’s the odd point at which, between the lines, you can see him typing away with a smug look on his face. “God I’m swell at this writing stuff, everyone’s going to think I’m just about the greatest person in the world” he’s muttering as he’s thrashing his keyboard. “I think I deserve a cake.”

It keeps his writing from becoming relatable at times. You’re made to feel, (only very occasionally to be fair), that you’re trespassing on his story.

But, between you and me, I’ve decided not to care. When I first read him, it really troubled me. I loved the book, but I struggled to get past Duncan’s over-confidence. When I read him the second time, it seemed to matter less. And in this book, well I’ve decided to get over myself a little and just enjoy it. Because there’s a huge amount here to be enjoyed.

Death of an Ordinary Man starts with a great premise. A man haunting his own funeral. But (as I’ve said before) great premises are two a penny. Most of us can come up with great premises. It takes an artist to turn it into something more than that. And Duncan, love or hate him, really is a great artist.

He turns this premise into something beautiful.

He gives us so much time with each of the characters. They each become huge. They don’t quite become real – they’re too introspective and self analytical to relate to in any sort of a real world way – but they are compelling and they are, all of them, a massive presence.

There’s mystery in this book. And there’s sadness. There’s a little bit of Duncan smugness, but it’s overshadowed once and for all by his talent.

All things, considered, it’s bloody good.

9 GBR

Short of the 10 GBR mainly because of those chinks of smugness. I’m over them, but they’re still there and I still recognise them, and they irk me just enough to stop short of a ten.

That’s it, I’m cutting myself off of Duncan for the rest of the year. Three of his and two reviews is quite enough attention.

Next week, something very different. A first for me. A graphic novel.

Misery - not such a bad emotion

Misery by Stephen King (Hodder and Stoughton: 1987). Classic King, centring on a writer who is kidnapped by his psycho number one fan, who takes him to hell and back as she forces him to turn out one last book in a series that he’s come to hate.

Well, this feels apt. Right after going through an emotional roller coaster watching Scotland give a traditional so-close-yet-so-far performance against Argentina, here I am reviewing a book called Misery. Yeah, that pretty much sums up it up.

That’s life though I guess. Emotion followed by emotion. It’s why we follow sports – to buy in to the highs and the lows. It’s why we go on roller coasters and ghost trains – to tap into a little bit of terror. And it’s why we read book (to some extent) – to be made to feel something by the words on the page.

And most of the time, it’s those negative emotions that we chase the most. Tension. Anxiety. Heart break. Fear.

Which brings me nicely on to Stephen King. There’s a guy that knows how to stir up a nice big pot of fear. He’s done it I don’t know how many times, and he does it again here.

It’s the way he builds his stories that really sets him apart. Misery starts with a pretty terrifying situation. Not too many pages go by before you grasp the situation at hand. Where some writers would build up it up gradually, King lands you right in there and then spends the rest of the (fairly long book) building on it and building on it. He creates honest to goodness fear not by lulling you into a false sense of security then shocking you. Instead, he explores a horrific situation so completely that you’re locked inside it.

He goes off on enough tangents to give you a breather, to let you learn about the characters (all two of them), to put the fear into context. But he never lets you completely escape.

I kind of enjoyed how dated the book is as well. There are a few cultural references that remind you that this book was written in the 80s (none more so than the prominent  typewriter). But it’s more than just the references, it’s the way it’s written too. It just sounds 1980s. It’s like watching The Goonies. And I love that about it.

Main area the book falls down in? It’s the area most horror stories fall down in. (Ever so slight spoiler alert here – not really though. I knew I said I wouldn’t do spoilers, but hard to make this point without it). You knew all the way through that everything would turn out alright. There were one or two moments you started doubting it a little, but King never really makes you believe the absolute worst could actually happen. You always knew that the psycho wouldn’t win.

Otherwise, this was great. But then we all knew it would be, right? It’s Stephen freakin’ King. No surprise the guy can write. No surprise he can craft a good story. He’s done it dozens of times.

9 GBR

When you fancy reading a good book and don’t know where to turn, pick up a King. Dead cert every time.

Also, a quick note on my copy of this book. I got it as a FlipBack book – a teeny tiny book smaller than your phone (unless you're my dad), with the pages in landscape rather than portrait. Cigarette paper thin pages. You can fit it in your pocket, and you get used to the way it’s printed pretty darn fast. I’m a fan.

Next week, another claustrophobic one about people who spend most of their time in one room. Bit of a theme developing here, huh?