GBRYIR 2012 - because Christmas is all about giving

Because this is what comes up when
you Google image "GBRYIR"

I hope you’re all enjoying your December and (like me) using the festive period as your annual excuse to eat, drink and be lazy.

And as if Christmas wasn’t enough to blow your mind once a year, now it’s time for the GBRYIR!!!! (That’s "Gav’s Book Reviews Year in Review", because we continue to love acronyms). Consider it my present to you, because I'm not getting you anything else.

It’s been a big year at GBR. We’ve diversified. We’ve had cards made. We’ve doubled our readership. We’ve started talking of ourselves in the third person. All major milestones.

But no one cares about milestones. You care about awards, right? Here you go then, you impatient, loveable lot. I've even gone link-crazy with it, because I'm so web-savvy.

Best “first”: This year saw a number of firsts for GBR. First book fair covered. First mid-week show review. The first ever 0 GBR score. But by far my favourite first was the first GBR Author Interview, with non-other than my personal man-crush Glen Duncan. He left me a voicemail when we were setting the interview up, and I still listen to it every now and then, misty eyed. Which sounds creepy. And probably is.

Most read review: For some reason, City of Thieves got a lot of love. I think it may have been because, for a short time, the pic I used came up at the top of Google Images results. So I may have to discount that as most read review. The most genuinely read review was How I escaped My Certain Fate. The first of the year, so it has a slight advantage in that it’s had more time to accrue readers, but we can’t blame it for that. In its defence, it did get an unholy amount of hits in its first few weeks as well.

I’m pretty happy with that. Maybe Stewart Lee will notice and we can become best pals now. It'd save me having to stalk him so much.

Most read post: This year’s diversification meant my most (genuinely) read post wasn’t even a review. It was the write up of seeing Wilbur Smith at the Edinburgh Book Fair. You guys couldn’t get enough of that. I’m fairly certain it was because of my very cheesy photo with him. Shame I had to spoil it all by really panning his book.

Got me weak at the knees, this one

Best book: No contest. There were three 10 GBR scores this year. One for American Gods. One for Vernon God Little. But the one book I can’t take my eyes off when I look at my bookshelf is Lights out in Wonderland.

It’s not a new book, just one I caught onto late. But I’m glad it’s in my life now. If anyone can knock Glen Duncan off top spot in my author affections, it might well be DBC Pierre. The guy can flat out write. His is the kind of writing that literally leaves your spine tingling and your heart racing. It's books like this that remind me why I read in the first place. I had to take rests to calm down. Honest to God, rests. You may have a different reaction. Because you may have bad taste in books. Which may not be your fault, but is something you should be ashamed of.

So the GBRBOTY (Gav’s Book Reviews Book of the Year) award for 2012 goes to Lights out in Wonderland by DBC Pierre. *crowd roars*

Worst book: Again, no contest. It goes to the only book I’ve felt compelled to give a 0 GBR score to. A book I found absolutely no merit in. A book I felt the need to warn you off. A book I felt guilt about panning, but thought it was the only thing I could do if I was to be entirely honest.

That book is Those in Peril. Let’s not waste any more time on it.

Best comment: GBR went comment-tastic this year, with a bunch from people I’ve never even met before. To be fair, there are an awful lot of people I've never met. The word, it seems, is spreading.

My favourite? To be serious for half a second, it was all of the ones left on this post. I was nervous writing it, but felt the need, so decided not to worry, and instead just write and see if it made me feel better. It didn’t.

Worst comment: Sorry Garth H Bairstow, but you’re a winner here. Mainly because of your apparent inability to Google a question to find the answer yourself:

Can you help. I am trying to find out in which of Wilburs books Sean Courtenay was killed by his son. Yours Faithfully Garth H. Barstow on Wilbur Smith at the Edinburgh Book Fest - "Don't tell anyone, but I've got a Kindle"

Remove content | Delete | Spam Garth H. Barstow on 05/10/12

So that’s that. Year two of GBR in the history books. We’ve come a long way since the first tentative post. (Yeah, I even linked to that one. POW!) Here’s to bigger and better things in 2013. And if not bigger and better, then at least more of the same.

HAPPY NEW YEAR CHRISTMAS HOLIDAY TIME EVERYBODY!!!

Talulla Rising - spoling myself

Talulla Rising by Glen Duncan (Canongate Books: 2012). The second in Glen Duncan’s werewolf trilogy, following Talulla Demetriou as she tells us of her new, dark life. She gives birth to the baby she was left with at the end of The Last Werewolf, and from then on, everything seems to go wrong. Or more wrong, anyway.

I missed last week. Sorry about that. I was living it up in Toulouse, courtesy of Mrs GBR.

Just an apology this time though. No poem I’m afraid.

And something else to apologise for too. This is the last time I’ll do this to you this year. I promise. I’ve shown a shameful lack of self control when it comes to reading stuff I like in the last few months. I’m supposed to diversify for you. But I’ve indulged myself lately. I know this, and I admit it freely. But for one more GBR in 2012 at least, I’m going to tell you about Glen Duncan.

This time, it’s the second of his werewolf trilogy, Tallula Rising. I reviewed the first of the trilogy here. So I won’t go on about that.

I also told you here how Duncan is forcing himself to be more plot driven in his writing. “Injecting more story” as he put it, to try and win a wider audience. The result is a distinctly different Duncan to the one I fell in awe with initially.

I’m conflicted about this. It has all the hallmarks of a Duncan book that make me go gooey eyed. There’s flashes of stunning, literary pontification. The observations he makes, and the insight he gives to human (and monster) character still blew me away every now and then. His wit was still sharp, and his ability to create deep characters and draw complex but relatable links between them all was also still in attendance.

But then there’s all this plot. This bit he’s doing to try and take his talent to a wider public.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s good plot. It’s brilliant plot really. There were some genuinely surprising twists. There was high action. It was paced well, with tempo being switched up and then dialled down, plot rushing by in places and pausing for contemplation in others. And his action scenes even left room for nods towards astute emotional observances in amongst the silver bullets and the ripped out thoraxes.

But there were places which jarred as well (which breaks my heart to say). As the second book of a trilogy, it’s painfully difficult to juggle all the strands of plot and keep the reader up to speed without repeating too much of what’s gone before. Yes, remind me of who Jake Marlowe (the protagonist from the first book was), but I squirmed when Duncan resorted to regularly quoting passages from Jake’s “diary” (in reality, the first book). There was a clumsily inserted two paragraph explanation of the entire first book’s plot at one stage as well. All of which re-treading over old ground spoils the first person narrative a little.

The plot-driven Duncan and the literary Duncan seem in competition with each other. Golden passages of reflection in between rushing passages of story.

No, that’s too much. It doesn’t get switched on and off and on and off. The premise of this series, its structure, its characters, the way it’s all explored - they ensure there’s a constant hum of Duncan brilliance throughout the story. You’re never far away from his intelligence, or the complex thoughts and emotions which he relates so well. But there’s so much stuff happening that I also found myself willing the plot to resolve itself quickly so I could just be left to luxuriate in his prose. I wanted to forget the action and just read more about what being a werewolf is like. About the process of mourning Tallula is going through. More about feelings and thoughts and the human (werewolf) condition - less about how exactly they would all get out of the latest impossible situation the plot had put them in.

I know. I’m asking for the moon on a stick. I want Hope. I want I, Lucifer. I want Death of an Ordinary Man. And to be fair to Duncan, he has given me all of these already. Now he’s giving me something new. Which I respect him for. I don’t doubt this will win Duncan more fans. He deserves every single one of them. He’s performing a fine balancing act incredibly well. Literary fiction on one side, genre fiction on the other. But I don’t want balanced. I want 100% literary Duncan.

8 GBR

Which is as low as I’ll ever go for Duncan. The gems of old-Duncan are still there to be found on every page. And I’d still rather read a plot driven Duncan than just about anything else.

Next week, I get on the JK Rowling band wagon.

The GBR Interview: Glen Duncan – the danger of headshots

That’s right. GBR does interviews now. Edinburgh got the appetite whet. You seemed to like it (I have the graphs to prove it). So let’s do this a little more often.

The first non-festival interview is with Glen Duncan. GBR regulars (I know how you are) know exactly how I feel about Glen Duncan. Man-crush. He’s up there as one of my favourite living authors.

But I had to keep this pro. Keep my head. Be a book blogger, not a fan. So (of course) I opened the interview by telling him how much I love his work. “That’s very kind of you to say.” A gracious response, and when we both got over the awkwardness of the early gushing confession, we settled into a revealing chat.

I’d caught him off guard. “Actually, I’d forgotten you were going to call. Don’t worry though, that’s not unusual for me.” It turned out I had no reason to worry. He needed little prompting to speak intelligently. Entertainingly. Honestly.

In fact, it seemed almost like I was listening to a Glen Duncan spoken word book, all entirely off the cuff. I know this because of my notes. You know when you sit through a lecture or an interview or a meeting or whatever, you paraphrase what’s being said into your notes? You’ll translate the general point being made into your own language, using your vocabulary rather than the speaker’s.

Looking at my notes, I know I didn’t do this when speaking with Glen Duncan. I know I didn’t do this because there are some phrases in my notebook that clearly came from him, not me.

“I’m fascinated by the human capacity to bear suffering and still honour the bond of life.”

“All big cities give you the opportunity to self destruct.”

“Short stories are bursting off the pavements – there’s a human stink to London that’s appealing.”

 “Life is amazing; we need to be reminded.”

That’s Duncan. Even when caught unawares by a surprise telephone interview with a blogger he’d almost certainly entirely forgotten about, he still spoke how he writes. Thoughts came out fully formed and deeply considered. He has a natural turn of phrase which makes you think he doesn’t need to try too hard to achieve the prose I’ve grown such a fan of.

Despite the talent though, Duncan doesn’t live full time on the sunny side of Easy Street. He’s had (and continues to have) his challenges.

He picked up the pen (or opened the laptop, or whatever) to start I, Lucifer when down to his last £50 in the world. And flirting so closely with the breadline informs his approach to rights as well. He drops all artistic pretension when negotiating film options for his books, going unashamedly for big studios over art house treatments. “I need to pay the bills. Give me some money; Barbara Windsor can write the screenplay for all I care.”

He’s also faced the challenge of almost any writer inclined towards the literary – the difficulty of building an audience. It’s a challenge that has seen him work to change his MO in recent books. “I’m not a natural plotter. My books usually have more talkers than doers.” But in attempt to reach more people, Duncan is working hard to insert more plot to his books. It’s an approach which gave rise to The Last Werewolf, a book Duncan sent his agent off to pitch to the publishers with the last minute whim to “tell them it’s a trilogy.” They bought it, and the deal was done. Duncan was on the road to becoming a different kind of writer – a genre writer who did books in threes.

He only partly succeeds in this mission. He still turns out unmistakeably Glen Duncan books. No doubt, he’s drifted slightly away from the pure literary fiction of Hope and Death of an Ordinary Man. But he’s still in sight of the literary shore. He may write about werewolf adventures now, but he does so with a wit, intelligence and complexity of character that bear the hallmarks of a cross-over writer. Someone capable of bringing good writing to a mass audience.

We spoke about other stuff as well. About how film is dying. “People aren’t looking to movies for depth of experience anymore – they’re looking to shows from places like HBO as the dominant narrative.”

About his Roman Catholic upbringing. “My grammar was formed by the trappings and architecture of Roman Catholicism. It’s why I drift towards the magic in my imagination.”

About what books can do. “All literature worth its salt is concerned with how we manage to get through our lives. About people who survive and people who don’t.”

We ranged and we detoured and we chatted. For 30 minutes, we covered quite a bit.

That damn headshot

It’s a conversation which has (finally) cured me of the last obstacle in my Glen Duncan worshipping. His head shot. The one that made me bill him as unbearably smug early on. It’s an awful headshot. He has silly hair in it and a silly faraway artistic expression on his face. But that isn’t Duncan.

He was honest with me, a trait he admires. He talked of the moment he realised he needed to work harder at reaching a bigger audience. “It’s so important that I have an honest agent. I’d written seven literary novels. My agent told me straight that if I did another one, it would be difficult to publish. So I went for a page turner instead.” He didn’t throw an artistic strop. He didn’t go shopping for another agent. He went away, knuckled down, honed his plotting skills, and wrote The Last Werewolf.

He’s so far away from smug. I’m not saying he’s on-his-knees humble. But he is open. He’s keen to continue growing. He’s interested in and open to the world. He’s not afraid to work hard at what he does.

None of which comes across in that headshot, but all of which is true.

And if that’s not enough to get you on the Glen Duncan band wagon, maybe this is. I tried to draw him out on common themes amongst his books. After skirting around it for a minute or two, Duncan became blunt.

“Listen,” he said. “I always write about the same things.” He then reeled them off without pause for breath. “Love, sex, memory, betrayal, forgiveness, cruelty, compassion, death and survival. With jokes and friendship thrown in so readers don't feel like killing themselves at the end of the ride.”

If you don’t want to read about that stuff, go find another blog to read. We’re done.

THE COMMON QUESTION: I’m going to ask all authors in the GBR Interview series the same question; what was the last book you read. For Duncan, it was Fahrenheit 451. “One that had been on my reading list for years but that I only got around to recently.” I’ve read it too. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Glen Duncan and me, we both liked it. Which I’m hoping means we’re now best buds.

Tallulah Rising, the sequel to The Last Werewolf, is available in hardback and coming out in paperback on 4 October 2012 (and will be reviewed on GBR imminently...)

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Talulla-Rising-Glen-Duncan/dp/1847679498

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.

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.

I, Lucifer - move over Matt Smith

I, Lucifer by Glen Duncan (Scribner: 2002). A novel in the first person. With the final "good vs evil" battle looming, Lucifer is given a chance to redeem himself by living a sinless life as an every-day human. Lucifer, though, takes the opportunity to indulge in worldly pleasures to an unhealthy extent.

I, Lucifer is brilliant. Go buy it and read it.

Sometimes, that’s all the review that’s needed. But I guess if you want to find out a little bit more about why it’s brilliant (and a fairly significant possible downside), feel free to read on.

I picked this up after reading one or two books that really didn’t grab me. It had been a while since I had that real thirst for reading something. That feeling you get when you’re fully engrossed and racing through the pages. This was one of those books for me.

It’s well written. It’s entirely in the first person, and the characterisation is (as far as I can tell) pretty flawless. The premise is wonderful, and the voice that Duncan gives to Lucifer is arresting. But it’s more than a good plot and a good protagonist. Duncan weaves in some massive themes, some incredibly intelligent reflections, and some thundering insights. And he does it all whilst ensuring your eyes don’t roll. When most people write something smart, it can come off as show offy (possibly because it often is). When Duncan writes, he achieves something very genuine.

He’s clever. And he does it in a way that is not ostentatious. It’s simply honest and engaging. It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be intelligent. It just sounds like the way he speaks, or rather, the way Lucifer speaks.

The only problem with the book is I don’t think it lives very long after you put it down. I finished this a couple of weeks ago now. At the time, Glen Duncan was my new hero (temporarily replacing Matt Smith). It wouldn’t be too strong to say that, if I was, I would.



Photo Credit: Richard Whitehead



But give it a week, and cracks start to appear. Give it a bit of distance, and (quite gradually) I started to think of the book as a little bit up its own you-know-what. What’s more, I made the fatal error of looking at the headshot of the author (see pic on the right) and reading his I’d like to thank page (complete with a dedication to the friend that conceived the sound track to the book). I found it difficult to shake from my head the image of this guy sitting mired in his own sense of self brilliance.

The problem is, I think Glen Duncan is brilliant. Can I blame him for agreeing with me?

This novel is outstanding when you're smack bang in the rough and tumble of it. But as soon as you let it go, as soon as you break the spell that Duncan casts and think about it using only on your own imperfect recollection, it suddenly becomes (a little) pretentious. Distanced from Duncan’s talent, it’s difficult to fully recreate the tone he achieves. You can’t remember how Duncan had you gripped the way that he did. You can’t remember how natural he made the Big Questions sound. All the wit of the book starts to fade and begins to look instead like something approaching smugness.

So, what to believe? Is I, Lucifer a giant of a book, or was I temporarily blinded by something new and shiny, mistaking a smug know-it-all for a witty intellectual?

Either way, I loved it when I read it, and that has to trump everything else, surely.

For the way this book made me feel, for the way Duncan’s writing set my own brain firing, for the way in which it achieved something I can barely believe once the immediate memory of it fades, I give I, Lucifer...

9 GBR

Oooooh! That’s close. Not ten? Well, was it perfect? No. Just very, very, very, very good.


p.s. Glen Duncan has a new one out at the moment as well, The Last Werewolf.