Shakespeare's Local - crossing over

Covers photograph badly in Kindle. Fact.

Shakespeare's Local by Pete Brown (Macmillan: 2012) - A history of the George Inn in Southwark, telling it's remarkable tale over many hundreds of years as it played host to some of histories greats and survived where many of its more famous contemporaries failed.

Crossover books are books of a specific (and usually niche) genre which win over a  general audience. 50 Shades of Grey is probably one of the best recent examples, taking erotica to the masses. Harry Potter did a similar thing for Young Adult fiction. Lord of the Rings for fantasy.

In that sort of company, Shakespeare’s Local won’t set the world on fire. But it deserves a serious nod of appreciation. How do you make local history more appealing to a wide audience? Focus it on a pub, throw in (often drunken) anecdotes of some of history’s luminaries, and hey presto, you’ve got a crossover hit on your hands.

Well, that’s the thinking anyway. But does the UK’s most famous beer historian and commentator pull it off? I think so. Mostly anyway.

For starts, he doesn’t write like the historians you read in school. This is not a text book, with a “and then this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened” approach. Pete Brown is way more conversational and entertaining than that. He warns you from the outset, giving you fair notice that he’s going to jump around a bit, include a few assumptions, litter the text with amusing footnotes. 

In reality, he doesn’t jump around the timeline as much as he perhaps thinks he does, but he keeps it lively nonetheless. As soon as you think you might be hitting a sticky patch, where he might be forced just to recount a few dry historical happenings in order to make sure the book has some proper context, he whizzes off into another anecdote or another rant or another character portrait. 

Maybe that's easier in a local history book anchored on pubs than it would be in a local history book about agricultural processes, but kudos nonetheless.

It’s all relative, of course. This is no thriller. Brown does what he can to inject drama, and an amusing analogy or quip is never too far away. But this won’t having you on the edge of your seat or rolling on the floor laughing. It’s a lively, colourful, entertainingly disjointed local history book, but it’s still a local history book.

So, if I’m 100% honest (and why wouldn’t I be), I reckon you still need to have at least a pilot light’s worth of interest in the subject matter before you pick this up. 

Me, I enjoy a bit of history. I enjoy it more when a crossover historian like Brown is at the helm, and I enjoy it more when it’s about something fun (like pubs), but I enjoy the dry stuff sometimes too.

I’m not saying you need to be a popular history fanatic, glued to Simon Schama every time he’s on telly. Just that you need at least a little spark of interest, even if it’s been largely suppressed. If there’s ever been a tiny voice at the back of your head which sounds like a history geek but has struggled to make itself heard, this could be the book to let the little guy out on.

8 GBR

I originally gave this a 7, then remembered my Kindle-era rule of only buying the hard copy of stuff I give 8 or above to. At which point I realised I really wanted to own the hard copy of this, so it MUST be worth an 8. (Impeccable logic, which I defy you to pick apart).

Interesting aside on this – Brown had his laptop with ALL his work on the book stolen when he was 3 months away from deadline, so had to start from scratch. Still churned out an 8 GBR though. I’m pretty darn impressed with that.

Next week (if I finish it in time) a new release from the Tinder Press, which they were kind enough to send me an advance copy of (which makes me feel smug).

Train Dreams - not compatible with Come Dine With Me

Train Dreams by Denis Johnson (Granta Books: 2012). The story of a labourer in the American mid-west at the turn of the twentieth century. He leads a simple, happy life until tragedy strikes, and he recoils into an even simpler way of life on the edges of a rapidly developing country. 

I felt bad for a few days after last week’s post. I mean, giving such a low score when at least a chunk of the blame for not enjoying the book was mine. I’m not saying I felt terrible; I’m sure Toibin will lose no sleep over it. But there was guilt there, no doubt.

So I made an effort with this next one. It’s another novella. Something that shouldn’t really take more than two or three sittings to read. So I made some time, and instead of five minute chunks here and there, I read this over a few hours. And hot dog, did it pay off.

This always had pedigree. It’s right there on the cover. “Shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize.” That doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when a good writer is slap bang at the top of their game. It happens when an unholy amount of thought and craft has gone into a piece of work. It happens when something seemingly simple is given an indefinable, magic quality. It happens here.

Train Dreams reminded me in a pretty loud way of Steinbeck. And I’m a Steinbeck fan. I’ll tell you more about that one day (it still irks me that the one Steinbeck book on GBR is perhaps the only one of his I didn’t enjoy). But for the time being, suffice to say this book had a lot of the same qualities as Steinbeck’s best writing; a gritty American nostalgia, simple but huge characters, emotion packed between the lines like gun powder. All of that.

Not a lot really happens in this book. Well, maybe that’s not true. There are life changing events. But they’re presented in a stripped down, simple way. There’s very little quickening of pace, no dramatic crescendos. And the central protagonist is a hermit who spends most of his life living alone in the woods. I have no idea how, with such a style and with this sort of plotting, books like this don’t just end up being boring. Bad ones do I guess, but the good ones (such as this) sink you into their pages with such irresistible skill that you hoover them up, content simply to be part of this slow moving world. They have an authentic quality that entertains without needing to fall back on cliff hangers or plot twists or car chases.

And if I accept some blame for not enjoying The Testament of Mary, I’m also going to grab some credit for allowing Train Dreams to flourish. I sat and I spent time with this book. Quality reading time. And I’m fairly certain all that stuff – the magic atmosphere, the subtle emotion, the character depth – none of it would have come through in such a powerful way if I read a few pages at a time whilst Come Dine With Me is playing in the background.

8 GBR

Go get this, clear your Sunday afternoon, and enjoy. If your Sunday’s are booked up for a while though, don’t bother.

Next week, I turn back to some non-fiction (if I finish it in time). It’s pretty boozy non-fiction though, so that livens it up a little. (You’re intrigued now, right?)

NW - Zadie Smith is probably a witch

Yeah, I have a Kindle now. What of it?

NW by Zadie Smith (Hamish Hamilton: 2012). Zadie Smith tours North West London, introducing a series of characters whose identities are tied up in their surroundings. Hopping forward and back in time, Smith explains their lives as they try to grow out of the boundaries they were born into.

WITCH! Zadie Smith must be a witch, for there is magic here. Just a few drops, but enough to take something which, on the surface, shouldn’t be all that compelling, and make it a little bit brilliant.

Low grade witchery, maybe, but impressive.

First things first - forget the plot. There’s not much of it. There’s more  in a paragraph of Grisham than in the whole of NW. Sure, there’s the odd spike of drama, and it speeds up towards the end. But it never feels dramatic. No screaming, no explosions, no cliff hanger moments. It all just melds into the pages like so many other words before it. And in between the spikes, we have long passages of such exciting adventures as "some guy buying a car" and "a suburban dinner party".

But Smith isn’t relying on plot. It’s not that kind of book. It’s the kind that successfully recreates a world which you become trapped in.

Trapped? OK, maybe not the best word. I don’t mean like Fritzl trapped. Trapped in a good way. 

NW is, in large sections, inescapable. And it’s not because you’re desperate to find out what happens next. Not much ever happens next. It’s because the feel of the book is so complete and so authentic that you find yourself switching off from everything else and simply living there. Living with the North Londoners as they go about their daily business and reveal their dreams and fears to you drip by drip.

And make no mistake, it’s the place and not the people that is the star (calling the book NW was probably the giveaway there, genius). The people are interesting enough. They have dilemmas. They have under-the-surface emotional tension. But Smith doesn’t go to town in explaining every nook and cranny of their lives. This isn't a Kilburn version of EastEnders. In fact, she leaves a few blanks. 

But the place, North West London and its social fabric – that is pretty complete. Not because of reams and reams of overt description, but because of the magic I mentioned. The witchery Smith uses to make you feel the place. Not just know it or understand it, but feel it.

It’s tough to explain, which is why Zadie Smith is Zadie Smith and I am not. I know when I talk about the power of atmosphere in a book, it can be interpreted as shorthand for boooorriiiinnng. Another way of saying not much happens. And to an extent, that could be true. I didn’t dive at this book in every spare five seconds I had. It didn’t scream “read me” with excitement. But whenever I did pick it up, I got trapped again in a place that felt worth spending more time in.

It’s not boring. It’s powerful without being explosive. It’s meaningful without being bombastic. It’s forceful without being shocking.

Which is tough to do. Magical even.

8 GBR

A pretty high score, stopping short of anything higher because the 9s and 10s are reserved for those books that leave you breathless and hungry. NW is special. But breathless and hungry? Not quite.

Next week, a bit of old school Waugh, because it’s been a while and I miss him.

Puppet Shows - small and absurdly formed

Puppet Shows by Michael Frissore (Writers AMuse me Publishing: 2012). A collection of short stories by a writer the Tuscon Weekly describes as “a very funny weirdo”. All of them are bizarre, and feature sock puppets regularly.

Last week, I got a bit grumpy at Kurkov. I fell a bit in love with his dry absurdity a few years ago, and felt he’d sullied what we had by trying to drag it out over a full length, epic novel. Such Tom-foolery doesn’t seem to be able to hold attention for long periods.

It’s like the original Star Trek in that way - fun and intriguing, but ultimately a bit boring if you’re forced to watch it for a full hour. (Yes, I’m very definitely on Team Picard, not Team Kirk. Unless you’re talking about the modern Krik. But I digress…)

So, in the search for something new and fresh and absurd and short, Twitter told me to pick Puppet Shows up.

Like a lot of Twitter suggestions, this is not mainstream fiction. It’s not mainstream anything. This guy is weird, and the stories he tells are every bit as bizarre. But from page 1, they’re fun. The stories are so far off the wall they’re in the garden somewhere.

Frissore should be praised for more than just his sense of humour though. There’s an incredibly fluent turn of phrase here; you can hear every word smoothly, without effort. The language is spare in places, but often lively and always interesting. It’s conversational, but if that conversation was being held by the two sharpest, wittiest people you know (who also happen to be loony tunes).

I don’t know if Frissore bangs this stuff out without sweat, or if he agonises over each syllable, but the effect is prose that’s as rewarding to read as it is funny.

There are sacrifices for such spoonfuls of farce, though. Lay your self down on such a silly alter, and there are things you have to throw out the window. For example, believability, and with it any lasting connection with characters.

In his zeal for the absurd, Frissore also slips into a random-word-generator trap sometimes. There are elements inserted sometimes simply because of how out of place they appear. It only sticks out very occasionally. For the most part, Frissore manages to keep these in the realms of relevance, but occasionally my eyes rolled ever so slightly at attempts to insert a wacky ingredient.

It’s a difficult plate to spin though, creating something both worthwhile and absurd. And in many of these stories, Frissore nails it. One or two heart strings are even plucked subtly, with a three word flash of emotion dropped in amongst a chaotic tale.

But let’s not take for granted the most important point - the funny. Every story amused me, and all of them were cut off at just about the right time. There were one or two which could even have been longer. After Kurkov’s long disappointment, Frissore reaffirmed my belief that such whimsy (that’s right, I used the word whimsy, what of it?), screams loudest and most perfectly in rich, short bursts.

8 GBR

Really fun.

Next week, it’s the GBRYIR (Gav’s Book Reviews Year in Review). I know it’s the highlight of your Christmas. Don’t even try to deny it.

The Hundred Year-Old Man Who Climbed out of the Window and Disappeared - maybe the title's too long?

The Hundred Year-Old Man Who Climbed out of the Window and Disappeared by Jonas Jonasson (Hesperus Press: 2012). A bizarre tale of a man who traversed the 20th century, inadvertently influencing world events as he goes. As he turns 100, he escapes from his own birthday party to embark on a last adventure, involving a criminal gang, a suitcase full of money, an elephant, and multiple murders.

I’m never sure with translations. I’m a mono-linguist - I can order a cup of coffee in Germany, but that’s about it. So I have no idea how the process of translating a book goes.

Surely the translator takes on a lot of responsibility for tone and style? “Feel” is an important (if unhelpfully vague) characteristic for a book. How do you make sure you’re getting the same one in both languages? How do you make sure you achieve in English what the writer was going for in Swedish?

I bring this up because as far as “feel” goes, I loved this book. It reminded me strongly of another writer who also relies on translation - Andrey Kurkov. Both Kurkov and Jonasson write with an incredibly spare, matter of fact, short, punchy, frank style. I love it. It’s unadorned and achieves an innocent effect.

It fits perfectly with the straightforwardness of the main protagonists, and it contrasts neatly with the surrealism of the story lines - the bizarre twists and turns. Nothing is heralded with a chorus of trumpets. Everything is simply related as if it’s the most ordinary tale in the world (though of course it’s not).

But are Kurkov and Jonasson two writers with the same style, or do they just have similar translators? Or maybe Swedish and Ukrainian are simply very economic languages, and all Swedish and Ukrainian books are like this? Somebody could probably tell me the answer, but as of right now, I do not know.

I probably shouldn’t care. I should probably have stopped at “I loved this book”.

Whatever the reason for the style and tone, it grabbed me and it didn’t let me go. It’s a long-ish book (around 400 pages), but it didn’t grow old for me (pun entirely intended). I smirked every time Allan Karlsson got out of a tight corner with nothing more than a brand of naïve logic. I was intrigued every time he met another world figure without showing an ounce of awe. I grew fonder of him every time he related his incredibly simple outlook on life. His quirks and the quirks of those around him entertained me from beginning to end. The end itself was perhaps a little drawn out, with Jonasson continuing to mutter on for a few pages after the story itself was clearly finished, but I'll forgive him that.

I know people who disagree. I know people who got irritated with the lack of plausibility. People who feel this is a book with a neat trick which it plays far too many times. And I can see their point. That’s the problem with absurdity - it can have a short shelf life. But tell that to Dickens and the Pickwick Papers. Tell that to Evelyn Waugh andto  P.G. Wodehouse. If it’s done well, a little farce can go a long way.

I really enjoyed Andrey Kurkov when I first found him. Jonasson seems a pretty close contemporary of his. OK, so I don’t have the same feel that I’ve uncovered a hidden gem - this book has been in the hand of a lot of commuters in the last few months. But that didn’t take the shine off for me.

Bottom line - I enjoyed reading this, and I hope you will too.

8 GBR

Deserves at least as much as Death and the Penguin.

Next week, I may have to enny-meeny-miny-mo it. I have another Kurkov lined up waiting to be read, and Tom Wolfe is staring at me menacingly from my book shelf as well.

The Lighthouse - you only get what you give

The Lighthouse by Alison Moore (Salt Publishing: 2012) Futh, recently seperated from his wife, decides to take a walking holiday through Germany. Along the way, he briefly meets Esther, a bored wife who runs a hotel with her husband. The Lighthouse explores the lives of both through a series of flashbacks to their formative experiences.

See the GBR interview with Alison Moore here.

There are a few words that pop up in a lot in reviews for The Lighthouse. “Atmospheric”. "Melancholy”.

They're all well earned descriptions. This is a sparse book. There are absolutely no explosions, no glorious resolution. Just the slow exploration of two characters whose only links seem to be their deep rooted sadness and their affection for a lighthouse shaped perfume bottle.

Not the stuff to make you jump out of your seat.

But these 192 pages made their way to the Man Booker Prize Shortlist. And I can see why. There’s a great deal of simple power about the way Moore writes. That's something which constantly fascinates me about good writing. When someone is able to create such a specific and complete mood using only the black and white of words on a page. Moore writes incredibly economically. The language is simple, the sentences clipped. But they're so carefully chosen and put together that there's a consistent and effective feel from beginning to end.

Moore is also continually playing a game of tag with the reader's imagination, leaving truck sized gaps between the lines for you to fill in. There aren't page long descriptions of exactly how someone is thinking. No long running sentences on the minutiae of scenery. The odd plot point is left unsaid, trusting you'll infer it properly.

Which sounds like a jerk thing to say. "It's not about what she writes, it's about what she doesn't." I know that sounds like an up-yourself, painfully art-house observation, and I can honestly say I've never fully grasped the importance of the concept before. But Moore plays the card so expertly that I think I get it here. She weaves a tale which, on the surface, is fairly pedestrian, but because of the mood she creates and the questions she poses, I found myself nontheless gripped.

The issues in play and the emotions attached to them grow under the influence of Moore's writing.

There's a danger here, of course. Let this pathos, this between-the-lines beauty pass you by, and you're left with a pretty bland narrative. Read this on a crowded train for ten mins every day, without giving it your full attention, and you could easily miss the value of it. I'm not saying it's too obscure, that Moore has hidden the nuggets too deeply; just that you need to engage your own brain a little when reading this. This isn't a book where you can just sit back and expect to be entertained. It isn't a thriller or a crime novel. You need to put a little of yourself in it as well. Only a little, not a lot, but some, all the same. 

It's totally worth it though. Let yourself get hooked at the beginning, and you'll be treated to some highly individual characters. Some fascinating and well developed psychology. A building, barely under-the-radar tension that remains taught thoughout.

Fail to get hooked at the beginning though, and you'll get bored. No doubt about it. But it's a pretty short book. So totally worth taking the punt.

8 GBR

I need to read something bad soon. There's been a glut of good scores in the last month or so. Maybe we all deserved it after the Wilbur Smith debacle. But if I'm not careful, you'll start thinking I don't mean it when I give a high score. I do. 8 GBR is a mark of a book that I hugely enjoyed. One that I'll pick up again at some distant date and re-read. One that will stick in my mind. A book I think you should pick up too (which is, after all, the point of all this).

I just seem to be reading a lot of them at the moment.

Next week, another interview+review double header. Bet you can't guess who.

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.

Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk - gently bizzare

Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk by David Sedaris (Little Brown: 2010. Paperback version published in 2012). A series of short stories from one of America’s most popular comic writers. Each story is a snippet from the life of different animals, as they go about the business of dating, queuing, hunting, illness, etc.

It was by complete accident that I came across David Sedaris. I was looking for things to go see, trying to find something else to post an Occasional Mid-Week Show Review about, and I saw his name listed somewhere. He was set to appear on stage, reading out some of his essays. I wondered why that was even a thing, so I looked him up. Ten minutes of Googling and a watch of an old Culture Show interview later, and I’d Amazon one-clicked my way to owning a bit of Sedaris material.

He’s just a funny guy, who notices funny stuff. That’s his whole entire thing. But rather than become a stand up, he wrote essays. And he’s become a super star at it (everyone else in the world discovered him long ago). He’s done radio shows that attracted listeners by the millions, sold out big venues with readings, travelled the world - all on the strength of being an amusing little man.

And this little collection is no different. Well, it’s different insofar as it isn’t a collection of essays, it’s a collection of short stories. Parables might be more apt. Take a couple of animals, give them human characteristics, and put them into a situation that we can learn a lesson from. That’s the structure of all of these tales. They’re told with wit and simplicity, and they hit home more often than not.

One or two of them stand above the rest entirely. I was a particular fan of the one about  The toad, the turtle and the duck. Similarly, some fell on their face. Some seemed to be cut off just as they were getting interesting. Some felt as if the moral they illustrated could have been more overt. Some felt as if they lost their purpose about half way through. Some felt as if they never really got going.

But they were all (and this is meant 100% as a compliment) pleasant. They were all relaxed and comfortable and amusing. The aisles were never in danger, I didn’t once feel the urge to roll around, but there was a consistent thread of warmth and drollness running through the entire thing.

This is the first thing of his I’ve ever read. I have no idea if this is his usual style, or if he’s mellowed as he’s gone on. Maybe it was just the fact that the scenes were being played out by badgers and butterflies rather than New Yorkers and Londoners. Maybe it’s just that I was reading it as the nights were starting to draw in. But this book felt like a cozy jumper.

I don’t want to belittle it. This whole blog-post sounds patronizing. I know it does. I’ve used the word “little” a bucket full of times. I’m in danger of turning into Cheryl Cole* and calling it a “little star.” I don’t mean to do that. I promise. I put this book down with genuine affection, and I think you should pick it up with eagerness.

But I can’t bring myself to yell from the roof tops about it either. It didn’t leave me breathless in the way DBC Pierre and Glen Duncan did. It didn’t have me zooming through pages with a constant smile in the way Wodehouse does.

I fell in love with this in a more gentle way. The way I feel about custard creams. Yeah, sure, a Yorkie Bar or a Jammie Dodger or a packet of Pringles are all fancier snacks. They’ve got more jazz. They’re louder. They more of a feast for the senses. But custard creams? I’ll always go back to them. They’re pleasing in a quieter way. And so is David Sedaris.

8 GBR

Go read some Sedaris. You’ll fall into a calm kind of love with him.

Next week, the second part of Duncan’s Werewolf trilogy. Thought you deserved it after being kind enough to read the interview. I promise to cut myself off of Duncan for a while after this though. At least until Christmas, anyway.

*I am not in danger of turning into Cheryl Cole

Bring up the Bodies - unsuccessfully stalking Hilary Mantel

Bring up the Bodies (Fourth Estate: 2012). The second in a three part series following Thomas Cromwell’s career. Cromwell was one the major players in the Henry VIII saga. Usually portrayed as a cruel schemer, Mantel sets Cromwell up as an ambitious but ultimately misunderstood character. This second book explores his role in the downfall of Anne Boleyn.

Huzzah, I went to the Edinburgh Book Festival!

Booo, I arrived after Hilary Mantel left.

Which is a shame. I just finished her latest. I’ll try get over my disappointment at having missed her with a nice, soul cleansing confession. (Not an awkward segue at all).

My name’s Gavin, and I’m a historical fiction fan.

I said it. I admitted it right out in public and no lightening struck.

Historical fiction is cool now. Honest. Not the preserve of closet geeks any more. All sorts of genres, it seems, have emerged sleepily from public ridicule to respectability in the last ten years or so. Sci-fi, graphic novels, young adult fiction, fantasy - they’ve all caught the mass imagination at one time or another, hanging on to block buster serials and Hollywood mega-movies, riding them all the way to the mainstream.

Boo! - Hilary Mantel has perhaps my
favourite ever author headshot
(which I'm aware is an odd thing
to have a favourite of)

For historical fiction, Hilary Mantel is one of the biggest names in this newfound trendiness.

I read Wolf Hall a couple of years ago. It was one of GBR’s first reviews. Reading the review back now, it wasn’t one of my best (but who enjoys reading something they wrote nearly two years ago? Not me, that’s who).

The next instalment in the Thomas Cromwell series has the same hallmarks. Same rich writing style. Same expert scene setting. Same skill at guiding you through what is, in places, a fairly intricate plot (if you can call history a plot?)

But this book brings more as well. I felt closer to Cromwell than I did in Wolf Hall. I felt closer to all the people Mantel put down on her pages. There seemed a conscious decision to focus more tightly on a few key players and give us more time with them. Let us see them from a few different angles. It made for a more human narrative. Meant it was easier to just switch off and happily suck up the words, tasting each of them more keenly. (Bit of a stretched metaphor. Sorry. Not changing it though. I quite like it).

It feels like Mantel is really getting into her stride. She’s worked out the Cromwell she wants to portray. But more than that - she’s worked out the world she wants him to live in, and the relationships she wants him to have. Much of that was there in Wolf Hall, of course (the lady probably did her research first time around). I’m just saying in Bring up the Bodies, it all comes through so much more powerfully.

Which is just as well. The Cromwell she paints is a controversial one. Not the man judged with furrowed brow by historians, not the man defined by his actions, but a more nuanced image. She takes creative licence. She asks the “what if he was privately a really nice guy” question. She puts his choices in contexts not widely considered before. She makes much of his rags-to-riches career arc, and uses it in part to redeem him.

I’m no historian (obviously), but I know Cromwell was supposed to be a bad man. Mantels’ Cromwell is not. Ambitious, industrious, ruthless in pursuit of his agenda - all those things, but caring too. Loving. Complex.

Sorry. I know it’s time to start winding things up when I start using words like loving and complex. If I go on much longer, I’ll disappear entirely up my own behind.

8 GBR

I enjoyed reading this. I’m painfully aware it won’t be for everyone though. It’s the thoughtful kind of historical fiction, not the swashbuckling kind. It assumes you’ve got a bit of interest in the subject matter to begin with. It guides you through it expertly and entertainingly, but not swiftly or blood-rushingly.

I’m not saying it’s one just for the fans, but it’s not going to convert a die-hard critic of historical fiction either. Hence the 8, rather than 9 or 10.

I'm sure Hilary will be devastated.

City of Thieves - Game of Thrones meets Leningrad

City of Thieves by David Benioff (2008: Viking) Set in a starving Leningrad during WWII, circumstances put two very different strugglers together as they are sent into the countryside to collect a dozen eggs. Or die.

Sometimes you buy a book after a recommendation. Sometimes you see a good review, recognise the author, get your eye caught by the title. And sometimes you hurriedly grab a book off the shelf at WH Smith because you’re about to get on a plane and you need one more book to put in your bag and this one looks about the right size and it’s been marked down from the original price.

And sometimes that works out, and sometimes it doesn’t.

I may have stumbled on him by accident, but David Benioff is a bigger deal than my first encounter with him suggested. If I’d looked closer, I’d have seen that “David Benioff is a Hollywood screenwriter...” (which is a pretty cool start to a bio. It’s a horrible bio. One that makes me insanely jealous. After the Hollywood screenwriter punch comes, “He lives in Los Angeles and New York City” – he’s shot to the top of my life-swapping wish list). You might also recognise his name from Game of Thrones. He’s the lead writer on many episodes of the big budget HBO success.

David Benioff - "Hollywood screenwriter"

But at the time, I knew none of this. My jealousy didn’t get in the way. I opened this book with zero expectations, a clear mind, and on holiday. That’s the best way to open any book. No distractions, no preconceptions, just a straight and un-muddled connection between Benioff’s words and my imagination. It’s what books deserve - the chance to be experienced on their own merits.

And the merits of City of Thieves are many. It read like a book written by a Hollywood screenwriter. Benioff creates big ballsy stages. Detailed, but not in a granular boring sort of way. More in a glowing, fiery way. He introduces recognisable characters, but with enough held back about each of them to be revealed slowly as the story moves on. You feel like you’re getting to know them, understand the different sides of their personality - all the while with a firm grip of their central, clear, un-shaking motivation. The plot too, the plot feels Hollywood. It’s gritty, shocking, twisting.

All of this thoroughly entertained. It kept me gripped and meant I put the book down intent on recommending it to others. It means when I look at it on my bookshelf, I want to read it again.

But then that other side of me kicked in – the side that’s always a little uncomfortable when Hollywood engages with war themes. The side that’s not sure it’s an appropriate topic to mine for entertainment. The side that feels people in war should be shown with more complexity than easily graspable film characters.

Sometimes it’s easy. The ones that glorify war. The ones that hold it out as a great adventure, with absolute good and absolute evil. They’re easier to be sure about, easier to denounce, easier to take the moral high ground against. But Benioff doesn’t do that. There’s no glory here. It has a cinematic quality, but it’s clear Benioff is making a genuine effort to present a bit of realism, put forth the horror without the gloss. It’s a story with relevance for Benioff, and he treats it with respect.

I could write another thousand words of this. It’s a whole thing that I can never make my mind up about. But it’s Sunday morning, and you don’t want to hear about it. Next time we’re around a table and there’s a drink or two coming, let’s chat it through. But not now. Now let’s stick to the book.

And in the GBR spirit, I need to focus on one thing. Not the moral ambiguity of war as entertainment. Not the thin line between lest-we-forget and war-voyeurism. Just enjoyment. Just the was-this-book-a-good-use-of-time scale.

And on that measure, I direct you back to paragraph seven of this review.

8 GBR

I know, I know, three 8s in a row. I was going to give this something else, but it’s a genuine 8. It deserves an 8. It’s not Benioff’s fault there’s been two 8s in the last couple of weeks.

Also, the book I’m reading at the moment is pretty dire. So I think GBR’s recent run of above-average reading may be coming to an end. Might as well stock up on 8s while we can.

Joy - tell your mum about it

Joy by Jonathan Lee (William Heinmann: 2012) Joy is a high flying lawyer on the verge of making partner. She's also thoroughly depressed. Her decision to end her life affects those closest to her in different (and often surprising) ways.

I’ve previously rattled on about how we judge what we read. About how books can be good for a bunch of different reasons, and the only real measure once we put the book down is whether we can look our mothers in the eye and say, hand on heart, “I enjoyed that.”

I bring this up again because, if I’m 100%, strike-me-down-if-I’m-lying honest, I didn’t think I’d enjoy this book. It’s about office life. In a law firm. I work in an office. At a law firm no less. And I was worried I’d spend the whole book either picking holes in the portrayal, or being bored at having to spend my own time reading about my working environment.

At times, I did pick holes. And at times, it did feel like I was sat back in the office. But (and I’m imagining looking my mother straight in the eye here, unable to lie to the woman who brought me into the world) I enjoyed it nonetheless.

There’s a bunch of reasons why.

First (always first) is the writing. Lee plays with language and perspective expertly. He's able to get thoughts and feelings down on the page in an authentic, engaging way, using little flurries of literary technique where useful, but sitting it down between more direct sections so it never becomes too pretentious.

He doesn't just tell you what's happening - he creates rhythim where it's needed, imagery to bring emotion off the page, distinct voices to connect with. You really do get the impression as you're reading this that you're in the company of someone who loves language, and is so in command of it that he's able to reveal every corner of the plot fluently and without fatigue.

Then there’s the story itself. It’s not original. It’s about a bored office worker, haunted by her past, and determined to end it all (I’m giving no spoilers there by the way, that’s all pretty much on the dust jacket). But it is compelling. The way it’s explored and prodded and teased out. Lee takes some well trodden paths and breathes something new into them. Something I didn’t expect to get. Something I can’t quite put my finger on, but something that gripped me. As soon as I figure out what it was, I’ll let you know. Or I’ll steal it myself and write my own book. One of those two things.

Joy also has an impressive structure to it. Which sounds like something a pompous jerk of a critic would say, but stick with me on this one. I may well accidentally slip into pompous jerk mode every now and then, but when you finish the last page of this book, you'll see it too.

You almost don't realise it as you're going along, but when the crescendo is reached, you see how much pathos, how much humour, how much reality, how much everything is packed in here. You don't notice it until the end because it's all packed in with impressive talent. Everything's in the right place, no emotion overblown, nothing underplayed - just built in exactly the right way to leave you with a sense that you've just read something rich.

This kind of writing, with a plot fragmented amongst different voices, addressing some meaning-of-life flavour questions - stitching that all together without losing the readers’ interest is a tough gig. A massively tough gig. But one that Lee is up to.

There are downsides (there always is, right?) There are things I wanted more of. There were a few absurd twists that sacrificed some believability. There was the odd over-explained plot point.

But there was also originality. And discipline. And fluidity.

And (crucially) entertainment.

8 GBR

Two 8s in a row. Tracking just the right side of average.

Just as well. I got in touch with Jonathan Lee a few weeks ago and he was kind enough to take time and give me some great advice on a few things. Would have been terribly embarrassing if I ended up not enjoying his book.

Next week, something from the archives I think. I may have eventually caught up with myself.

Pure - not as bad as spam curry

Pure by Andrew Miller (Sceptre: 2011). It's 1785 in Paris, and a young engineer is given the task of turning an ancient church and its graveyard into a new market square. Much bone excavation, labour relations, community engagement, and wine later, he begins to reevaluate his life and his place in a world on the bring of revolution.

Some things have all the right ingredients. Rocky road for example. Chocolate plus marshmallows plus biscuits (plus toffee if you get a deluxe version). All mmmmm. All the right ingredients. Simple maths.

But it’s not always a guarantor of success. Sometimes, you can squidge a bunch of good ingredients together and end up with something less than the sum of its parts. Case in point - I once tried to make a spam curry. I thought it couldn’t fail. I love spam. And (mild) curry. But it did fail. It failed a lot. It was awful, and everyone who was there will tell you the same.

It’s my spam curry experiment I tend to channel when I see something which, on the face of it, looks like it’s going to be brilliant. I approach with caution, certain in the knowledge all the right ingredients don’t always lead to greatness. Sometimes you get rocky road. Sometimes you get spam curry.

Pure is a historical novel (which I love). It’s been praised for its atmospheric narrative (another big check for me). And its epic qualities have been likened to the Ken Follett classic Pillars of the Earth (which I read years ago and still have fond memories of). Good ingredients. I hoped it wouldn’t let me down.

Well, you can stop holding your breath. It wasn’t quite a spam curry. It came together nicely. It had a bunch of quirks and tools and stylistic flurries to keep me happy. It had some deep themes, none of which were yelled in your face. There was a heartening subtlety to the whole thing. Especially in the character portrayals. Some were huge and larger than life, whilst others were barely sketched in pencil. There were figures upon whom very little time was spent, but their mystery and their shadows dominated parts of the story in a highly effective way. That’s pretty tough to achieve. Pretty impressive.

Most of all, I loved the recurring use of some consistent scene setters. There are a few factors that keep popping up, never on the main stage, always just off to the side. Always giving a hint of context, a unifying thread.

For example, the interplay of the characters with candle light pops up pretty regularly. Their dressing habits, and the significance of them. Little physical constants that aren’t part of the plot, but often point towards deeper issues. Almost like hidden keys woven in amongst the narrative.

I loved that. I felt I was discovering my own story all the way through. Which of course I wasn’t. It was just being revealed to me expertly.

So not a spam curry then. The ingredients worked well together. But could we stretch all the way to rocky road?

Not quite I don’t think. Some of the balance wasn’t quite right. Some excitement was sacrificed in the effort to create atmosphere. Some plotting was sacrificed in the effort to philosophise. Not big criticisms. Getting the balance between those types of things is nigh on impossible. But they were off by enough for me to hold back with any rocky road proclamation.

Before I get mired down in this metaphor (if indeed it’s not already too late), let’s skip to the score.

8 GBR

Really enjoyable book. The kind you’ll get more out of every time you read it.

Next week, either a book by an ex-lawyer (if I finish it in time) or not a book by an ex-lawyer (if I don’t).

The Ask - Suzi Hightime's favourite ever book

The Ask by Sam Lipsyte (Farrar, Straus and Giroux: 2010) A comic novel following the slow decline of Milo, a middle class American struggling to keep afloat emotionally, economically and socially. His life gets taken wildly off course after an old college chum asks for a favour.

A recurring point of discussion between Mrs GBR and I are the one-line endorsements on movie posters (we lead unbelievably exciting lives).

You’ve seen them, right? The big quotation marks, hugging an out of this world thumbs up from some respectable observer.

Except that’s the thing. They’re not always respectable. Too often, a film will be sold with a six foot high “this will change your life” quote. Then, underneath, you’ll find in size 8 font the quote came from Suzi Hightime, a painfully chirpy cub reporter at the West Pontefract Weekly Review who thinks the whole world and everything in it is just brilliant.

So Mrs GBR and I have learned to take these one-line endorsements with large doses of salt (and often openly point and ridicule them in public). All the more so since I learned Jonathan Ross once had a competition with a fellow reviewer to get his quotes on the movie poster for Godzilla, and won by calling it the “best film I’ve ever seen - period” (or something like that).

The Ask has five such quotes on its front cover (and a bunch more on the inside cover), all saying this is one of the funniest books of all time. To be fair, the sources are more respectable than Suzi Hightime. No less than Vanity Fair said this is "so funny you might lose an eye". Despite all my cynicism of this marketing tactic, I still opened the first page expecting to have a laugh.

I did not. Do not be fooled - this is not a fall-out-of-your-chair-laughing book. It has comic qualities, and it’s witty, but roll-in-the-aisles funny? No.

It’s a shame they marketed it this way, because it has so many other good qualities. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s been lauded by critics the length and breadth of the internet. It’s been compared to Joseph Heller, acclaimed as one of the great books of the modern age, and Lipsyte has been labelled as a voice that will define the next decade.

I’m not sure I’d go that far. It’s good, no doubt. The satire is brilliant and is couched neatly into the story. It never oversteps the mark into pomposity or arrogance. There’s a lot to agree with in his view of things, and plenty about the flawed central character with which to sympathise.

Lipstye also pulls of one of those great author tricks - he makes you see the world differently. Only a little, and it wears off, but he touches on so many of the nerves in modern society that you can’t help but look at the world through his eyes for a few days.

But the plot meanders without much noticeable point. Lipsyte struggles to juggle the page-turning author in him with the societal critic - the two sides of his persona fight for room on the page, and neither ever gets a satisfying victory.

And there’s no real wow factor to his prose. It’s neat and it’s tight and it’s bold in places, but nothing really leapt off the page and smacked me in the face. And everyone likes a refreshing face smacking every now and then.

Above average. Way above average, really. But a generation defining novel? The next legendary comic voice?

8 GBR

No. Really good. But not "a masterpiece" (Dazed and Confused review, circa 2010)

Next week (if I finish it in time) a bit of history.