Simon Smith and The Amazing Dancing Bear

Findings found

2008-05-08T04:56:00.000-07:00

I thought that my first encounter with Kathleen Jamie’s writing had been her enlightening book Among Muslims, which documented her travels in Pakistan. In fact, it had been a postcard popped into an envelope holding something else from the SPL (Scottish Poetry Library rather than Scottish Premier League). It was a lovely poem called The Puddle which evoked damp days in St Andrews with a sparkling sense of wonderment.
Findings is published by the truly excellent Sort Of Books and printed in Italy by Legoprint with a lush matt laminate cover, French flaps and a high quality paper (speculating will make me look like either an idiot or a know-it-all: perhaps Munchen 80gsm). It is a book that has been on the periphery of my vision for about two years now – friends and family have read it and sung its praises, given it as a gift and referred to it lovingly in conversation.
A collection of essays, rooted in Scotland, primarily its wilds (with occasional trips to Edinburgh and the hospital in Dundee), it highlights Jamie’s fantastic ability to look and see. Like the difference between hearing and listening, Jamie looks and understands, reflects and considers. Her ready sensitivity to things that so often go unnoticed brings magic to the everyday and her quiet contemplative consideration gives time and space to fully appreciate those moments of wonder.
She describes a comet weathervane in Charlotte Square that I pass almost every day. She’d never seen it before, despite having worked in the area in the past. I had noticed it many times before, but it had never occurred to me that I was looking at a comet – that it was beautiful, dynamic and unique. I think that demonstrates perfectly Kathleen Jamie’s rare talent.

The Comedians

2008-05-01T05:33:00.000-07:00

OK, so clearly I do like Graham Greene. I seem incapable of stopping and I enjoy them all.
The tragic tale of The Comedians is set in Haiti during the reign of Dr. François Duvalier, known as "Papa Doc". Narrated by Brown, the story follows the fate of Haiti through the eyes of Brown, Smith and Jones (purposefully sounding like the characters at the start of an old joke). Brown is a luxury hotel owner and has seen his business crumble to nothing since Duvalier’s instatement. Returning from a failed attempt to sell his hotel, he meets the naïve American Mr. Smith and the mercurial, blustering Major Jones. Now his only bond to Haiti is his awkward an unsatisfying affair with an ambassador’s wife.
Mr. Smith and his doting wife arrive in Haiti with ambitions to found a centre for vegetarianism. They believe that meat eating is the cause of that horrendous human temper, ‘passion’ – without which there would be no violence, hatred or war. The Smiths have a painfully optimistic opinion of human nature, only dented slightly by the sight of horrendous acts of violence committed by the Tonton Macoute (Duvalier’s secret police).
Major Jones is a habitual liar and consummate performer and entertainer. He comes to Haiti and soon finds himself in trouble with the Tonton Macoute after trying to corrupt the corrupted. He is forced to rely on the sanctuary of Brown’s mistress and her husband. His charm ignites the jealousy of Brown, who is convinced that Jones is sleeping with the ambassador’s wife.
Brown contrives to trick the boastful Jones into joining the rebel forces in the border territories of Haiti. At considerable risk, they both escape to the appointed rendezvous point and Jones admits that he is entirely incapable of leading any guerrilla force (he is a flat-footed former member of the entertainment corps in the war). Jones, however, finds redemption in the end – dying as the enthusiastic, bluffing, and loved rebel leader.
Brown escapes, penniless across the border to the Dominican Republic, where he is met by the Smiths who have given up all hope in Haiti.
The three main characters are described as ‘comedians’ by Brown, who sees that they are all living a false reality in order to survive…
The novels of Graham Greene: every one a killer; none a filler.

George Mackay Brown: The Life

2008-04-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve been struggling to write up this read. It is a beautiful, entertaining and poignant book, which opens a life up to considerable exposure. Written with love, affection and (apparent) honesty (and just enough detachment), the reader is treated to details of a life that the subject clearly didn’t want the world to know. GMB was a private man, with a fair few demons to contend with, but he was also generous with his time and appeared to find a balance between hospitable host and misanthrope for much of the time.
Maggie Fergusson’s lyrical prose is charming and evocative, and extracts of GMB’s writings stand out like sea-polished stones on a sandy beach – something to pick up and touch, hold and put in your pocket as you continue your walk just above the waterline.
In all paintings and photos of George Mackay Brown that I’ve seen, he has held what appeared to me a rather ‘writerly’ pose: eyes looking into the distance, wistful, determined (that lantern-jaw set solid) and a little melancholy. After reading this book, I feel that this was no writerly affectation; just the way he was.
RIP GMB

Brighton Rock On!

2008-04-15T07:52:00.000-07:00

For somebody still uncertain as to whether he likes Graham Greene, I seem to read quite a lot of him… Brighton Rock rocks, by the way. None of your quiet, Catholic, middle-class navel-gazing from Greene this time, oh no. From the opening chapter, this is an edge-of-your-seat novel of pursuit. There’s a tortuous inevitability about Pinky’s fate and the teen-gangster’s gradual acceptance of it leaves the reader both exasperated with, and bizarrely sympathetic towards, this nefarious hoodlum. Pinky really isn’t a likable character, but perhaps his youth and immaturity make us hope for his salvation. Salvation is, as so often with Greene, a pertinent word. I still don’t understand Pinky, but I think Greene does – Pinky remains in control of his senses right up to the end, but seems to act nonsensically. Something to do with his ambition, his pride and his faith means that he can’t bring himself to just leave Brighton – run away for real – despite the opportunities offered. The amateur sleuth, Ida, pursues and torments him ruthlessly, apparently driven be her secular sense of morality, and I found myself thinking ‘just leave the poor sod alone!’ I guess my secular sense of morality must be just as warped as Pinky’s Catholicism. It’s certainly a tragedy that a kid with nothing to show but a history of violence and intimidation isn’t given the opportunity to atone for his sins in this world before charging off into the next. But Pinky’s stubborn: he would never have changed…

Torture by book

2008-03-14T08:23:00.001-07:00

I stole a book from my mother’s shelves when visiting in January. I haven’t told her this yet, so if she was wondering where her copy of W.G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn has gone, ‘sorry’. Anyway, I suspect she has noticed and successfully put a curse on it: every page I turn falls out. When reading the recto the page appears securely fastened but as I go to turn the page, engrossed as I am, to view the verso, the bugger just falls out. At first I thought it was just the first half-dozen pages, then the first 30 pages, but now I’ve decided it’s the whole book. As I read further into the book, holding the loose pages on the left of the book in place becomes increasingly difficult and the effort of picking them all up, sorting and replacing them as they occasionally fall onto the floor becomes ever more demoralising. Finally, last night, in disgust and dismay, I gently laid the book down for the last time. I didn’t make it past page 50. The content was hugely engaging, but I started to feel like Prometheus having his liver pecked out by vultures every day. ‘Exaggeration’ you might say, but I was pretty close to tears over this the other night… my obsession with getting a fix of anything with Saturn in its title led me to this: Yesterday whilst idly wondering through the gents’ underwear and hosiery department of Marks & Spencer, I saw a set of seven socks on which text of some kind was woven in different colours on the soles – the first slightly obscured by the packaging read, in red, ‘Satur…’. “Look”, I said, “they’ve got socks for each of the planets in the solar system – there’s Saturn! How cool is that?!”
“That’s Saturday, you pillock. There are nine planets in the solar system (if you count Pluto) and even if the socks did represent the planets, surely Mars would be the red one,” was the sharp, enlightening reply immediately given to me. What a dunce.

Jews With Swords

2008-03-12T08:14:00.000-07:00

Michael Chabon’s working title for Gentlemen of the Road was ‘Jews With Swords’, but he claims nobody took him seriously – I think we can all see why. As races go, Jews are probably one of the most stereotyped and of the many adjectives which have been rightly or wrongly attributed to them, ‘swashbuckling’ ain’t one of the most common. I guess this was Chabon’s beef when he chose to write Gentlemen of the Road, and fair play to him on that front. I didn’t much care what race or religion the protagonists were, so long as they buckled a fair bit of swash. This they did with aplomb in this speedy and adventure-laden romp. Set in the Khazar Empire 900ADish, we follow two comically contrasting characters, together on the road as apparent swords for hire: An Abyssinian Jew and a German Jew, one black, one white, one giant, one rake-like etc etc. They fall into helping a young prince regain his deposed and executed father’s throne. Cities are razed, horses are stolen (and stolen back), empires collide, elephants charge, Emperors’ deaths are faked, men are exposed as women and evil tyrants brought to justice – exactly what you’re after in an adventure story. The pages fly by, aided admirably by the handsome illustrations which played perfect homage to the pulp adventure stories of the ‘20s and ‘30s (an era and area we already know Chabon is fond of thanks to the fantastic The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay) the book emulates. The only thing that caused me to occasionally stumble and lose the pace of the plot was Chabon’s excessive use of overlong sentences. We already know that he’s capable of popular literary tomes and I really feel he should have slightly tempered his style for the sake of the tale’s cohesiveness and (genre) authenticity.

Avast! There she blows!

2008-03-04T03:26:00.001-08:00

I just finished reading Moby Dick – thus the prolonged (and usual) silence. Moby Dick is bloomin’ brilliant, by the way. I fully expected subjection to some great marathon of tedium with a final moment of excitement as the whale unleashes his justified fury on his pursuers. I was wrong. This was less a marathon than a very long and thoroughly enjoyable stroll with much to enjoy along the way. I feel something of an expert both in whaling and the Sperm Whale now and will gladly bore anyone unfortunate enough to get me started on the topic.
Interestingly (to me anyway), the book has forced me to revise some preconceptions I had about whales and whaling. As a child I had a ‘Save the Whales’ sticker proudly adhered to my bedroom window and a great diagrammatic poster of all the whales up on the wall. The Blue Whale was my favourite – it being so huge an’ that. The Sperm Whale not only had an embarrassing name, but also looked so ugly, small and unwieldy in comparison to the great Baleen family. As far as I was concerned, whalers were barbarians, mercilessly exterminating these peaceful leviathans. Whalers were evil caricatures – toothy pirates filled with a bloodlust for these innocent floating Buddhas. I would now like to say that my view has changed slightly – whalers aren’t sea-faring fox-hunters; they are fishermen. Modern whalers with their giant, explosive harpoons are no worse than trawlers that dredge and destroy marine habitats, catching indiscriminately, suffocating smaller cetaceans and throwing back any fish that won’t fetch a value at market. Now I’m certainly not saying that we should lift bans on commercial whaling just yet, but perhaps we should consider it from a less emotional standpoint, whilst maintaining an ecological view. There is a nasty tendency to anthropomorphise whales and think that we can possibly empathise with them. This is nonsense. We can’t. How about this photo – isn’t that incredible?! This is a heroic endeavour to feed an entire community and these men are putting their lives at risk to do so. These guys hunt Sperm Whales just off the Indonesian coast providing their village with food and materials.
If we are happy to eat cod, a fish that teeters on the brink of extinction and is either crushed to death in a net with thousands of other dying fish or suffocated on deck of a trawler, then perhaps we ought to reconsider our position on whaling… Anyway, sorry – I just started to sound like some obnoxious nautical Country Alliance-type, which I hope I’m not.
Melville’s Moby Dick is a fantastic novel, which still feels incredibly modern in its style and structure and makes for a hugely enjoyable read.

Jesus, Listen to White Collar Weapons!

2008-02-08T05:01:00.000-08:00

This isn’t a directive aimed at the son of the Lord; this is shear expletive blasphemy, and it is aimed at YOU. Listen to White Collar Weapons because they are better than everything else you listen to. Therefore, if you listen to them, you will exponentionally (‘exponentionally’ isn’t in my Word dictionary – why are we subjected to this horrendous conformity of Word-allowed words!? And all those sodding zeds!) improve the average quality of your listening pleasure. Trust me on this – when have I been wrong?!
Now, seriously, if you like the good stuff, listen to White Collar Weapons and enjoy.
Listening to their songs is like drinking champagne strained through Woody Guthrie’s vest, stroking Bob Dylan’s wispy little beard, making a Tim Buckly CD fight a Jeff Buckly CD (and trying to break up the fight with an early Radiohead 7-incher) or pouring bleach onto a Chesney Hawkes cassette whilst rubbing an old copy of a Hunter S. Thompson book – these things are good, healthy, happy pleasures that anyone in their right mind wants to do.
Go see them live and it will be like Sonny and Cher mud-wrestling with commentary from Woody Allen. Again, who wouldn’t pay to see that?
Also, I don't know if you can see it from the photos I have found, but don't you think the lead singer looks remarkably like Barry Robson (formerly of Dundee Utd and now (sadly) of Celtic)?

Updates

2008-01-31T08:35:00.000-08:00

Just so's you know, I thought I'd update you on a couple of recent posts. Regarding the hunt for the Nazi bear, somebody did arrive at my post a few days later on the (google)hunt for 'steiff bär ss nazi' - I assume bär is German for bear as the search came from Oberkirch.
I also remembered another signed title page that means little to me: Unbuttoning the Violin, a collection of writings by Mansoura Ez-Eldin, Joumana Haddad, Ala Hlehel and Abed Ismael. The authors (barring Joumana Haddad, who was in Lebanon being bombed by Israel at the time) all signed my copy in Arabic - for all I know they could have written 'Piss off loser'. But somehow I doubt it as they all seemed lovely.

Reprint, you swine!

2008-01-15T06:51:00.000-08:00

I decided that I wanted to give a friend of mine, Jo, a copy of The Stepford Wives for her twenty-fourth birthday. She graduated in law from Edinburgh University and then emigrated, with her husband, to a lovely house with a picket fence in suburban Melbourne. The gift is meant to be a joke rather than an accusation or warning…
So I went to The Book Depository only to find it was unavailable. I then went to Amazon.co.uk, where new copies are also unavailable. I then went to Amazon.com and found that Harper have two paperback editions currently available; one tie-in for the 2004 Nicole Kidman film and one rather nice non-film-tie-in. How come America gets two editions in print and we don’t have any!? If this is the bleeding official Year of Reading (by the way, not to sound too cynical, isn’t that some government edict every other year?), then this should be placed on the set text lists pronto – it’s a classic. The sodding film (which I never saw, but understand was a bit rubbish) was only out four years ago!
This is a disgrace. Harper, get your act together and reprint. If not, Bloomsbury, you had a nice edition back in 1998 – do it again!
Well, because I love Jo so much, I have decided to send her my own copy of The Stepford Wives which, ironically, I acquired in Australia five years ago – I swapped it with the person sitting beside me on a bus (bound for Katherine, just south of Darwin) for a copy of A Rose for Winter by Laurie Lee. Happy Birthday Jo.

Are We the Baddies?

2008-01-14T09:51:00.000-08:00

Second in an occasional and possibly ongoing series of peculiar search terms used to find this blog is a Google hunt for ‘ss dancing bear’. This search came from the Netherlands and I picture an avid Steiff collector who, having heard a rumour of its existence, is desperate to find one of the few Nazi bears still in existence. I have no idea whether Steiff ever made a Schutzstaffel bear complete with death’s head insignia, but I haven’t been able to find any evidence based upon my own perfunctory web-based investigation… mind you, there are only so many Nazi-related cookies you want on your computer’s records…
It did remind me of this genius sketch from That Mitchell and Webb Look: ‘Are we the baddies?’

And the moral of the story is…

2008-01-11T08:28:00.000-08:00

Five Moral Pieces by Umberto Eco – let’s start at the beginning (which is where Eco, I’m sure, would want us to start) and consider what a lovely cover this slender volume (112pp) has. It reminds me of Paul Smith’s now ubiquitous syncopated stripes which have, in their own little way, become something of a design classic, and I’m very fond of them. So hats off to whichever Vintage bod came up with this cover.
These are philosophical little essays which are just within the grasp of my cognisance: one on war; one on religion, one on media, one on fascism and the fifth is a little fin de siécle ditty reflecting on the topics of migration, tolerance and the intolerable – topics which Eco believes will be of great importance in the 21st century.
I have little-to-zero understanding of things like hermeneutics and Hegelian paradigms, so I approached these essays from a very basic standpoint and was rewarded with a modicum of understanding thanks to Eco’s use of semantics as a tool for argument – this is exactly the sort of thing which I connect with. There is nothing particularly radical in any of the pieces, but perhaps that is because I suspect Eco and I are of a similar liberal-left leaning on these matters. But that is as far as I will go in comparisons between us – Eco is a clever, clever man. There is humour, charm and poignancy in these pieces which makes for a reasonably relaxing and reflective read.
I’m a slow reader at the best of times, but I read this in pretty much one sitting a piece and enjoyed them all the more for it. I particularly enjoyed his contemplation of the Italian press and its demise and his instructional essay on the defining characteristics of fascism – something I wish I’d read and understood whilst I was still at school and plodding my way through Higher History with only AJP Taylor to guide me…

L’Etranger

2008-01-09T06:36:00.000-08:00

My French is rotten (well, non-existent), but I believe the literal translation is ‘The Stranger’, as I have become to this sorry little blog. Yet still, I persist.
I greatly enjoyed Camus’ short novel, translated to The Outsider, even if it did make me feel increasingly uncomfortable and sad towards its end.
Very briefly, for you philistines out there who haven’t already read it, The Outsider tells the story of a young fellow living in Algiers called Mersault. It has an ace opening line: ‘Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure.’ (up there with my favourite from Gunter Grass’ Tin Drum: ‘Granted: I am an inmate of a mental hospital’) and goes on to explore Mersault’s detachment from the rules of the society he inhabits. Basically, the sun is very hot one day and a friend of his has been in a fight on the beach and Mersault shoots his friend’s combatant. The fact that he didn’t cry at his mother’s funeral is used as evidence against him in his trial for murder and he is condemned to execution. It is really Mersault’s honesty and his refusal to ‘play the game’ that seals his fate. Written in the first person, present tense, Mersault narrates the approach of his impending execution expressing a reluctance to die, but maintaining an inability to understand how he could have avoided his sentence. Bloody first person, present tense stuff always sets me on edge (as I’ve mentioned before) and this was no different – I could feel my blood pressure rising as I read the final few pages and felt genuinely distressed and sad by its conclusion.
There is a naïve innocence and a detached madness to Mersault which reminded me of Erland Loe’s prtaganist in his novel Naïve. Super. I supect that there should be comparisons made with The Catcher in the Rye, but I’ve still to read more than the first two pages of that, so shalln’t comment.
Anyway, if it’s a quick hit of distress, discomfort and sorrow you’re after, then this is the book for you.

What are you doing here? And other implied author queries

2007-12-12T06:36:00.000-08:00

My copy of Alasdair Gray’s Old Men in Love is signed by him, and I thought I would just mention a few signatures and how confused I am by them.

Old Men in Love by Alasdair Gray: To Jonny, With Thanks, Alasdair
Written in his inimitable calligraphic hand – what is he thanking me for? I have nothing to do with the book and have done no personal favours for Alasdair in the past – if he’s thanking me for buying the book, then that’s just vulgar. (I mentioned that Alasdair’s calligraphic hand is inimitable. That is a bare-faced lie as I happen to know that on the limited edition boxed set published a few years ago by Canongate, the gloss finish on the box meant that Alasdair’s actual signature wiped off and a few talented Canongaters were tasked with forging his signature in indelible ink)

My Life in CIA by Harry Mathews: To Jonny, With thanks for his sympathetic attendance, Harry Mathews
How did this world-renowned member of the Olipo society know that I had gone along just to support his publisher, had never heard of him, didn’t understand much of what he said and then bought his book just to be polite? I should add that I did greatly enjoy his entertaining reading and his personable way with the audience.

Tintin and the Secret of Literature by Tom McCarthy: To Jonny, Much respect, Tom
Now, to be fair, Tom and I did know each other at the time, but barely. If it had been written by a close friend, I would have found it ironically funny, but as it was I couldn’t believe that Tom did have much, if any, respect for me – therefore, was he dissing me?! (Tom and I are now friends and I have a book inscribed from him with the all important ‘x’ after his name)

Anything by Alan Bissett.
I have a copy of Boy Racers by Alan in which he has written what amounts to a friendly essay, but I can highly recommend picking up any copy of either Boy Racers or Adam Spark that is marked ‘signed by the author’ – inside you are likely to find all sorts of original little notes such as ‘Wow! You look GREAT! Have you been working out?’

Given Up?

2007-12-12T06:30:00.000-08:00

This is just silly. I haven’t written anything for forever and have read very little in that time too – books are clearly overrated and just a passing fad on this evolving revolving sphere. I have, however, been threatened with removal from the links bit of Fidra Books’ blog if I don’t write something soon and that has spurred me into action.
In the final throes of bookish endeavour, I have read a couple of things which might merit a word or two, I suppose.
Alasdair Gray’s new Old Men in Love is a jolly and clever thing that made for a rather enjoyable read and I’m sure I would have interpreted it to be far more serious had I not recently seen Alasdair talking so flippantly about it a couple of months ago. Old Men in Love tells the story of an elderly Glaswegian scholar, John Tunnock, and his three attempts at writing a great novel (heaven knows where Mr Gray gets his inspiration). This is all told through the papers left after Tunnock’s death and fictionally edited by Gray along with explanatory footnotes. It’s another beautiful book from Gray with wonderful line drawings and prints throughout. It was very fun and excellently written, but I was left wishing that for his last novel (which Gray claims this to be (and I doubt it)) he would have taken himself a bit more seriously. He once again (as he did with Lanark) ends it with a fictional derogatory criticism which acts to render any negative criticism impotent – he is unashamedly scared of being knocked down from his pedestal and I don’t think he should be.
I do hope he brings out another novel before the inevitable.

Wednesday’s Child

2007-10-22T05:23:00.000-07:00

Full of woe, that’s me. Though apparently there are multiple versions of this poem, which sometimes has me ‘loving and giving’ (according to Harper’s Weekly September 17th 1887) or, considering the origins of the day’s names, if I am like Woden the Wanderer, I have far to go… It is just conceivable that I can be simultaneously full of woe, loving and giving and have far to go – quite an ordeal I’ve been born into, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Had I been Thursday’s child, I may have felt a slightly closer affinity to The Man Who Was Thursday by GK Chesterton. As it was, I didn’t hugely enjoy it. If, on the 1948 edition I own, Penguin had described it as a metaphysical thriller, I probably wouldn’t have read it, but as things stood, I had only read about two pages of a randomly picked up GK in the past and thought the signs were promising. I think it may be rather dated, or perhaps too subtle for me to appreciate. From what I could tell, it was a ridiculously transparent plot with a barely noticeable ‘it was all a dream’ twist at the end (I have since seen that in some editions it has the subtitle ‘A Nightmare’ which might help not only to identify the twist, but also predict it).
Anyway, far too harsh on a literary giant of the early twentieth, I’m sure. I’m currently reading Hilaire Belloc’s ‘But Soft: We Are Observed’ which is illustrated by GK… the drawing’s are OK, I suppose… hardly uplifting to a child of woe like myself, though.

Tilting at Windmills

2007-09-20T08:39:00.000-07:00

I have never read Cervantes’ masterpiece, and I confess that, although I am ever so keen to get stuck into this great staple tome of European literature, I do look at the book on the shelf with an element of trepidation: It’s awfully thick and there are heaps of words, many of which may not be in an order I am accustomed to. I may have to put some effort into the reading… I already have great affection for Cervantes’ knight errant – ‘tilting at windmills’ is a glorious image and fondly used expression for me, Terry Gilliam’s Lost in La Mancha is a terrific documentary and a beautiful, ironic reflection of the motifs central to the failed film in progress, Picasso’s little line drawing is a splendid example of the power of a scribble and last, but not least, Cervantes was a character in the Playstation fighting game Tekken - he had a giant sword and was cool.
Great fondness for a writer as yet unread.

I recently read Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote and I’m sure that I missed the occasional reference to Cervantes’ original, but nonetheless found the book delightful, charming and fairly reeking with pathos. Monisgnor Quixote begins the novel as a village priest in the La Mancha region, and thinks of himself as a descendant of the original. He is unwillingly elevated to the position of Monsignor by a well-meaning cardinal and is forced to leave his parish at the behest of his crotchety and conservative superior. He falls in with the recently deposed communist atheist mayor of his village, whom he jokingly refers to as Sancho. Together they journey away from their home in Quixote’s battered old car, fondly named Rocinante. It becomes a wonderful journey of self-discovery and an exploration of faith and the church – the Monsignor’s theological handbooks become as his predecessor’s books of chivalry. I love the maudlin, gentle and ironic humour of Greene, but worry that I could rapidly get too much of it. I have also recently seen This piece, which has cursed me with knowledge of the author I could have lived without.

I have read every Evelyn Waugh novel that I am aware of. I started with Decline and Fall when I was about fifteen and read it and re-read it again and again for the next eight years before picking up another. I then read the next ten or so in rapid succession, adoring, and aspiring to, every aspect of his writing. Those novels remain very dear to me. In the past couple of years, though, I became conscious of Waugh The Man and started to develop a mild dislike of the fellow. I then recently stumbled across The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold – the tale of an aging and successful author – and had to stop as I found myself despising this thinly veiled likeness of the author. I know I should be the bigger man and overlook these little personal problems, but I fear it may have permanently scuppered my relationship with him.

Still haven’t tired of Hemmingway, though – Men Without Women rocks! Even if the title does sound like the ideal name for a gay package tour to Cuba, it makes me want to drink hard liquor, smoke big ol’ Cohibas, fight bulls and hunt big game… the dancing bear had better watch out after I’ve necked a couple of icy mint juleps…

Disappeared

2007-09-07T02:48:00.001-07:00

Hullo. Some time ago - a couple of years in fact - I read a book called Carnivorous Nights about a hunt for the Tasmanian Tiger (not devil). The last Tasmanian Tiger died in captivity in 1930, but sightings continue... it may still exist. Just like me. Sorry I've been away so long - this has been the busiest six weeks in the history of the entire planet, and I've been running the show. Honest.
There are lots of things I want to write about, so will get on with that pretty soon. In the mean time, can I just say that Carnivorous Nights is a lot of fun - two natural historians and a mad artist go off on a wierd jaunt around Tasmania in what I think is best described as a science geek's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - pure gonzo.

Alasdair Gray/NW15

2007-07-25T05:26:00.001-07:00

I recently got my hands on New Writing 15, an excellent team project combining the talents of Granta and the British Council. It’s a big old anthology that they put out every year and they’re certainly not the only people doing it – Calder Publications used to put out an annual anthology that that was also called NW1, NW2 etc until it became NWW13 when they called it New Writers and Writing – it included people such as Beckett and Trocchi to name a couple. In an ideal world, I would sit and read through these NWs picking out new writers who catch my eye and feel smug about it when, in years to come, they win the Booker. The reality is that I don’t read it cover to cover and I forget all of the authors that aren’t familiar to me but, as ever, this is my failing and nothing to do with the quality of penmanship on display.
In the latest collection (NW15), I was excited to see some new stuff by Alasdair Gray. It is the fictionalised introduction and first chapter to his new novel Men in Love (scheduled for publication in October this year by Bloomsbury) and it reminded me immediately of just how funny and clever Gray is. Men in Love is a fictional compendium of the writings of a deceased school master who had, to all external eyes, lived a quiet and respectable life with his two elderly aunts. Upon his death, a distant relative is located as heir and his papers gone through revealing something of the risqué life he lived between his aunt’s and his own death. The heir approaches Alasdair Gray and he agrees to edit, compile and annotate the works as a piece of historical, social and literary interest.
I am a big fan of Alasdair Gray, but have by no means read a significant proportion of his work. His masterpiece, Lanark, is a spectacular and very special novel which will affect and influence people far cleverer than I in a much more significant way. A History Maker is a really easy and enjoyable read, and The Ends of Our Tethers is a superbly crafted collection of short stories. I did read The Fall of Kevin Walker when I was 15 and had the flu – can’t remember a thing about it to be honest…
I was once introduced to Alasdair Gray (to say that I met him would be stretching it) – he looked over at me with a jolly smile and said “Oh! Hello!” in a voice not dissimilar to Ivor Cutler’s – and it was a very proud moment in my life. He was one of those writers who really did live up to my expectations of him. I understood that he was working on a sort of autobiography with Canongate called A Life in Pictures, but that seems to have disappeared off the radar.

PS. I spent a heck of a lot of time on and off the tube yesterday and the poetry in NW15 was just the thing to keep me sane in those brief escapades into the netherworld of the underground. The London Underground – only marginally less fun than being buried alive with a sweating city-boy talking to his friends about … words I can’t even remember, but they’re horrible! Please, let there never be telephone reception on the tube…

Alistair MacLeod No Great Mischief

2007-07-04T05:11:00.000-07:00

There is a nice review on both Amazon and the generally preferable Book Depository which says the basic elements of an Alistair MacLeod story are Dog, Family and Sea… I like that – it’s lazy and convenient boiling down an author to three words, but I suppose it crystalises your perception of their style and motifs. I’m going to try a few here:

John Irving: Car-crash, Wrestling and Writing
Evelyn Waugh: Aristocracy, Farce and Tragedy
Ernest Hemmingway: Man, Drink and Fight
PG Wodehouse: Whoops!, Crumbs! and Phew!

Note the slight gender imbalance here… I was going to continue with Marquez, Wilde, Szerb, but I felt too embarrassed about the lack of women writers and I thought I should stop – all I could think of was Beatrix Potter… or JK Rowling… I’d like to put Atwood but to be honest, I’ve only read Oryx and Crake… I could sort of do MJ Hyland, but she’s only written two books. I would like to add one publishing house in Pushkin Press: Fin de siècle, Jewish and Suicidal – their consistency is incredible.

Alistair MacLeod’s No Great Mischief is like a powerful and quiet sea, the giant swell before or after a storm. Set in Cape Breton it is one character’s reflection on a family history of hardship and unity, disharmony and loyalty, spanning from the ’45 uprising to the present day. There is a family history of loyal dogs, drink and men and the sea. It’s a book about belonging and being separate – yet again the theme of ‘in groups’ and ‘out groups’, the dangers of defining yourself by who and what you aren’t and excluding others returns. I’ve talked about that here. It’s sad and true and reflected in the extreme here. I wonder if it would have been such a wonderful book if the family members weren’t all so likeable… it would certainly have made harder reading, but perhaps Roald Dahl was onto something similar with The Twits…

Aaaargh! Once again I have written a load of twaddle, but am too lazy to turn this into something truly coherent. Read No Great Mischief and Island: Collected Stories, buying them from Book Depository.

Simon Smith

2007-06-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

To check up on how few people actually read this blog, I regularly… often… constantly check my site meter – it is not impressive. The most interesting thing about the site meter is that I can see by which route people have stumbled accidentally across this meandering dross. Most popular is via a Google search of ‘Simon Smith Dancing Bear Lyrics’ (not surprising); a few have come through searches such as ‘Kate Grenville Secret River’ and ‘O Caledonia’ (again, not surprising, but you’d have to scroll a long way through the Google hits before you come to this blog); but the best search term for finding this blog has to be: ‘Should I fall in love with Simon Smith’! This blog comes up first if you type that search into Google! As a result I have done a quick search to find out which real Simon Smith could be the object of someone’s uncertain affection. My bet is on it being the Canadian guy who is editor of Betterhumans.com. What a bizarre, but brilliant idea to ask the great all-knowing oracle of Google whether or not you should give your heart. Mystery visitor, I hope you found your answer here in the 23 seconds you spent looking at one page of this blog. My original, childhood dancing bear waves good luck to you and wishes you well in all your web-based love dilemmas.

A Farewell to (the King’s) Arms

2007-06-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

Following on from the undeniable claim made by Hemmingway in the title of his recently rediscovered novel (cover design by Harland Miller below), I have just finished reading A Farewell to Arms. If you’re not familiar with the plot, it goes something like this:

I’m an American volunteer in the Italian army fighting in the Great War quite close to the front.
I’ll have some wine and grappa.
I meet a girl.
I have some wine and some brandy.
My knee gets blown to smithereens by a mortar, but I’m So Fucking Hard, so that’s OK – I’ll just have another drink.
I’m in hospital with the girl… drinking… Oops! She’s pregnant.
I’ll have another drink or ten.
I go back to the front for a drink or two – ooh, bugger – we’re retreating… I’ll have a drink.
Now the Italians think I’m a deserter (idiots!) and they’re going to shoot me, but I escape – Hoorah! Time for a breakfast grappa, I think.
Anyway, I catch up with the girl and we row to Switzerland – with some wine and fine cognac.
Life in Switzerland is great – beer and whisky
Girl goes into labour, baby dead, girl dies… damn.

I have given you a rather flippant synopsis of a really wonderful, exciting and heartbreaking novel because I’m still recovering and if I think about it any more seriously, I’m likely to sob girly, un-Hemmingwayesque tears… like a girl… I think I’ll have drink instead.

Harland Miller

2007-05-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

By the way... how great are these?! I love the old Penguin paperbacks to the point of obsession (though I still wouldn't buy one as a 'vintage accessory' - see previous post), and I love Harland Miller's use of the iconic design which, like all the best parodies, demonstrates a great affection. See more here

Some Saki

2007-05-31T08:31:00.000-07:00

Hector Hugh Munro’s short stories seem to be well known and universally respected. My mum first introduced me to them when I was about fifteen or sixteen – around the same time I started reading and rereading (and rereading again and again) Evelyn Waugh’s Decline and Fall. I loved what I considered to be the sophisticated wit and erudition of these Edwardian socialites, the perverse and sadistic humour of his excellent Clovis character and the sheer brevity of it all.
I came across a beautiful 1947 Penguin edition of one of Saki’s novels the other weekend on a market stall which claimed to be a purveyor of vintage clothing and accessories… how depressing to have great writer’s work consigned to the status of ‘vintage accessory’… The guy at the stall, complete with neckerchief, porkpie hat and skinny-jeans reminded me (in a very confusing nudge nudge, wink wink, ‘ow’s your father manner) that Saki often portrayed dislikeable aunts who often ended up on the wrong side of a nasty ending. I mentioned that Saki had been shot in the trenches with the last words “Put that bloody cigarette out”, which equally mystified the vendor – I guess some people just don’t click.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, and a short story long, Saki’s pretty short novel (verging on a novella, I’d say) The Unbearable Bassington turned out to be brilliant. At first, I found it lovely to read: great ‘tone’, some might say – all quite fun and funny (not unlike Decline and Fall) with excellently put together sentences etc etc. Then, it all seemed a little too light, and I felt almost guilty for reading this when there were far worthier tomes out there to fill my time. Finally, in the last 10 pages or so, it turned out to be a marvellously moving, vicious piece of social satire. Verging on the heart wrenching, it was exactly the sort of tale that would have satisfied the sadistic soul of Clovis.
Resting somewhere between melancholic Evelyn Waugh and frivolous Wodehouse, The Unbearable Bassington did an excellent job of reminding me what an absolutely superb author Saki is.

The scariest author ever...

2007-05-08T09:41:00.000-07:00

Forget Mary Shelley – she couldn’t write horror for toffee and she eloped with a pillock (read the rather fun Angelmonster by Veronica Bennett for further details, and never trust a man called Percy) – and nobody’s going to have nightmares after reading Bram Stoker’s dentally-blessed Dracula. No. For a grotesque and terrifying read, I can only recommend Maurice Sendak. His cute monsters in Where the Wild Things Are can let a reader drop their guard – don’t be fooled! I picked up a copy of Outside Over There at the weekend (in my favourite Amnesty International-Second-Hand-Book-Shop) and I’m still traumatised. Evil little baby-thieving goblins sneaking and tricksying, replacing with ice-babies, fooling and fleeing are pursued by neglectful, repentant, horn-blowing sisters who fly through the air and squeeze into burrows. Absent fathers write to oblivious mothers and all is well again… until the next time you turn your back and those chubby, pudgy-fingered, hood-wearing, nasty little goblins return with their ghoulish melty decoys to fool you all. Be scared… don’t go to sleep at night… watch those shadows transforming into impish ogres climbing out of the cupboard door you foolishly left ajar, or witches pretending to be a breeze behind the curtain, or trolls creaking the floorboards, evilling, plotting and conniving in the dark.
Sendak’s a nasty brilliant man.

Sporadic Blogging

2007-05-03T08:34:00.000-07:00

I am a sporadic blogger – I think I’m doing quite well if I can average a post a week, but think that two a month is kind of acceptable. I visit other blogs pretty much on a daily basis, though, knowing that they are updated daily, or just because I like them so much, I really hope that there’ll be a new post waiting for me. I understand that something like seven-million-and-twenty-three blogs are permanently abandoned every day (I have a picture of Bono and Chris Martin clicking their fingers to represent every time a blog has its terminal post – apologies if that seems tasteless), but that doesn’t make it hurt any less when blogs you have come to rely on dry up. Firstly, Randomwombling (link to the right) seems to have ended on a rather unexciting note with a picture of Will Farell as a parting shot. Secondly, I had recently made a habit of visiting Sam Leith’s blog. Sam Leith is the literary editor of the Telegraph and the author of Daddy, Is Timmy in Heaven Now which, to me, will always be Dead Pets: Stuff them, Eat them, Love them, as it was originally titled. You can still play the game here which is great fun - sadly there aren't any crocodiles to batter (see previous post's comments). Sam's blog contains really fun, interesting, entertaining, booky stuff and, as I never read the Telegraph, this is the only chance I get to read anything by Mr Leith. I suspect that his blog posts are more interesting than his reviews anyway. As at this moment, he has only posted once in the last three weeks and I’m disappointed – it’s not even that entertaining a post that’s left there. Now, if he’s gone on holiday that’s fine, but he could have left a note or something… I’m far too shy to write a comment on his blog to ask him where he’s gone…

Nailing Books to the Wall

2007-04-20T07:22:00.000-07:00

I have been sooo busy recently that I really haven’t found a moment to compose any posts. The normal format for this blog is: I read a book and then note down my thoughts on it. Problem is, that not only have I not had much time to read anything, I am also wading my way through two big, fat ol’ books: The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass and For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemmingway – both of these are excellent novels which I’m thoroughly enjoying, but they are also pretty hard going. For Whom the Bell Tolls is about as emotionally draining a book as I can remember reading, and The Tin Drum just has a heck of a lot of words in it… Although I have interspersed my reading of these with a few bit bits and bobs, I am currently debating whether I should pick up a collection of short stories for a bit of relief (and to feel like I’ve actually finished something), or just crack on with the two tomes that are currently exercising my eyes. The collection I am considering is Laura Hird’s Hope and Other Urban Tales. I knew about this book quite a while ago and thought it sounded good; I then saw the cover and really wanted it. I was in touch with Laura just before Christmas, and told her I planned to read it over the festive period, but just didn’t get round to picking up a copy. I finally acquired one on Wednesday and, if I didn’t already have the cover image (by Banksy) on my wall at home, I would nail the book up… I bet that nailing a book to a wall is harder than it sounds; harder, say, than spreading jam on an angry crocodile’s eye or snorting an entire crushed up Jacob’s Cream Cracker up your nose (so hard that the whole eating-a-packet-in-a-minute thing doesn’t come close). I think John Sutherland may have written something recently about how indestructible books are – try burning one and see how much luck you have (if possible avoid wearing swastikas, playing triumphal music and goose-stepping) or, if you are real sucker for punishment, see if you can drill a hole through one. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but you could certainly cook yourself a delicious treat in the time it’ll take you.

Everything is Remarkable

2007-04-20T07:20:00.000-07:00

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor came highly recommended and certainly didn’t disappoint: This is a really well put together, compact novel. The story flits between describing the events and residents of a single street on a single day and its reverberations on the life of a single character years later. The everyday activities of the street’s inhabitants are beautifully evocative and seen through the haze of an idyllic summer’s day, but we are warned at the very beginning that a horrific event is forthcoming which will scar the lives all present. As the heat of the day intensifies, so does the anticipation and the reader nears the end of the book almost desperate for the tension to be relieved. When the book finally reaches its climax, it is over in a flash and the final twist is a shallow sigh of sorry, teamed with redemption and hope. The juxtaposition of beautiful normalcy with a violent event of lasting significance reflects the title. The way McGregor engages the reader throughout with the minutiae of daily life leads one to believe that these are the remarkable things of which nobody speaks. It seems that nobody speaks of the remarkable sacrifice of one man at the end, either – everything is remarkable.

Wearing a Sou'wester...

2007-03-30T05:38:00.000-07:00

I once had the pleasure of briefly meeting Erling Kaage, the Norwegian adventurer who became the first man to visit both poles and climb Everest. He then went on to gain a Masters in philosophy from Cambridge and founded what I understand is the second biggest publishing house in Norway (though don’t quote me on that). Certainly an impressive man, and every bit the Norse hero, he was polite and charming, though his teeth were a bit horse-like, giving him a visage similar to that of the old Harry Enfield character Tim-nice-but-dim. He is the author of a brilliant book called Philosophy for Polar Explorers, which not only includes before and after photos of the author killing an attacking polar bear, but a comparison of the philosophies of Socrates and Paris Hilton – this, I suspect, cannot be found in any other book on the planet. Like I said, we chatted for a while and I told him how much I enjoyed his book. He gave me his email address and asked me to get in touch so that he could send me some more of his writing and, duly, I emailed him saying that it would be great to read some more of his stuff and, if I sent him a copy of his book, along with return postage, would he be so kind as to sign it for my father, to whom I intended to give a copy… no reply. So, sorry Erling, you have dropped slightly in my estimation.
All this was a circuitous route to talking about my mate Kieran and his band, The Old Switcheroo. “How can you possibly link Kieran to Kagge?” I hear you ask incredulously, my solitary visitor. Well, it struck me last night that Kieran, sitting crouched over his acoustic guitar, with a single white footlight shimmering through his diaphanous ginger beard, looked every bit the Nordic folk hero – he would not have looked out of place on a desolate 19th century whaling station, or beating Scott to the Antarctic. Kieran recently expressed concern over his stage dress – it may have been a little tongue-in-cheek, but with Kieran you can never tell – “When do you get to the point where you feel comfortable wearing a hat indoors, onstage?”, “If you wear sunglasses on stage, surely you have to wear them all night; you can’t be seen just putting them before you start performing”, “I’m not really a glitter person, am I?” It occurs to me that perhaps Kieran should work on the Victorian whaler look – get himself some old oilskins and a Guernsey jumper. If he feels inclined to wear a hat, he should wear a sou’wester, and if he really wants to wear shades, he should wear arctic goggles… Ooh, and he should smoke a pipe too.
The Old Switcheroo had a new line-up last night, too – Simon, the regular bassist, and the new guitarist, Stef. They sounded great. I know comparisons are silly, but with the added electric slides and bends coming from Stef, I thought Kieran and his troupe sounded more than ever like Jeff Buckley and his band. I’m not saying that Kieran and his music is anything like Jeff Buckley; K retains what effete music journalists might describe as ‘soaring’ vocals, without Buckley’s warbling – his songs are very different too; they have an agenda, some might say, though that could scare people off and make them think they are in for Billy Braggesque protest songs, which they are not.
Anyway, my limited readership, please do have a listen to The Old Switcheroo and go to a gig, if you get the chance.

In Hazard

2007-03-30T00:54:00.000-07:00

Trust me, this post isn't as exciting as its title sounds...
Goodness. Haven’t written a thing in ages… had a brief dalliance with adventure-type novels in the form of Kidnapped by RLS and In Hazard by Richard Hughes. Bazillions of fun to be had with both books, both also lovely editions found in a nearby Amnesty International bookshop. Everybody else in the world knows all about Kidnapped – something like twenty-five thousand copies were recently given away in Edinburgh to plug the gaps anyway – so not point in going any further into that. Swashbuckling fun all the way, though, and a quick and easy read to boot!
I’d never heard of In Hazard or Richard Hughes before, but I liked the look of the little edition I found on the bookshop shelf and Hughes sported an endearing Edwardian beard in his author photo… and it was only £1.50. In Hazard is a great book following the fate of an ocean-going cargo steamer caught in a five-day storm. Drama is maintained throughout the technical spiel (which is explained for people like me, and is kind of cool). It’s really straightforward and almost purely focuses on the immediate peril of the ship in the storm – the pace is constantly high and exhausting. It essentially boils down to Man v Nature in a five-day cage-fight. I permanently suspected Nature would win, biting off the ear of its opponent and spitting it victoriously towards a bloodthirsty audience of gods, and I can’t decide if the ending is ambiguous or if I’m just reading too much into the final line – it seems, from what is explicit, that the ship’s only fatality is caused by sleep…
I’m not sure if In Hazard is in print at the moment but, if you see it for £1.50 or less, I strongly recommend you scoop it up and enjoy.

Travels with My Aunt

2007-02-22T07:06:00.000-08:00

Travels with My Aunt is narrated by a retired bank manager, Henry Pulling, who comes into contact with his estranged aunt Augusta at the funeral of his mother, the novel quickly evolves into a series of jaunty excursions with the outrageous Augusta.
The first two trips, one to Brighton and one to Turkey on the Orient Express, reveal some of the exuberant and theatrical history of the elderly, though perhaps not august, Augusta. She is obtuse and evasive whilst apparently unashamed of what might be described as her loose morals and corrupt past and gradually discloses her nefarious tendencies. Henry, conforming to the retired bank manager stereotype is initially somewhat shocked, but is content to accompany his Aunt for want of some excitement.
The third trip, to France, uncovers some of Henry’s family history – Augusta has already revealed that the woman he has buried was not his mother, but won’t say who his mother is and his father, a seemingly quiet and docile man, died in France whilst conducting an affair with a woman who still keeps watch over his French grave.
On the final journey, Pulling follows his aunt to Paraguay where she has been reunited with the aged love of her past, Visconti. Visconti remains as roguish as he did in his younger days and seems to hold great power over the otherwise indomitable Augusta. Henry succumbs to his new, exciting life and rejects his previously planned sedate future in English suburbia and settles with Augusta and Visconti in a dilapidated mansion in Asuncion to presumably see out his retirement working for Visconti on all sorts of suspect projects. It is not until the final page or so that Augusta is named as his biological mother, which comes as little surprise, though was apparently unknown to Greene as he wrote.
Although taking the mode of gallivanting high jinx, this struck me as a rather melancholic book. Aunt Augusta verges on the obnoxious for the majority of the novel and seems to loose all her tenacity and vivacity when she is reunited with Visconti. It seems that all she wants is a man who needs her less than she needs him. Pulling has apparently forsaken the values he maintained for the majority of his life and taken up a life to which he barely seems suited – though the implication is that he finds happiness in this. A Swedish critic described the book as “Laughter in the shadow of the gallows” which I think sums up how I felt about it.

Keep the British Library free

2007-02-21T06:05:00.000-08:00

I don't use the British Library, but I might one day, and I have friends and colleagues (in the Dancing Bear industry) who do. It's also a lovely place to visit and a vital resource for lots of earnest researchers and writers. The government plans to cut the BL budget, meaning it may have to charge users and reduce its opening hours so, if you have a minute, sign the petition to say "Please don't". To be honest, the funds that are being cut may be allocated to an even more worthy cause, like a cancer research facility or a homeless shelter, or libraries across the nation... perhaps this isn't a central government decision... I just don't know, so please make your own mind up about whether you should put your name to this petition and, if you do, will it make a blind bit of difference anyway? You will have just wasted five minutes of your life reading this, following the link, putting in your details, logging into your hotmail (or whatever) and then clicking through the link to confirm your e-signature, then looking through the list of the last 500 signatories to see if there are any famous names amongst them... there probably aren't....
Petitions like this one have been much in the news recently thanks to a silly number of people who feel entitled to use the roads without paying anything more than road tax and fuel taxes. I'm glad I don't drive, because my instincts say that these people are evil gas-guzzling meanies who want to destroy the world so that they can commute 300 miles a day in their Range Rovers, but they probably aren't...

Cheering Misery

2007-02-05T08:13:00.000-08:00

There can be few more miserable months than February, so take solace in the fact that you are not a dead, moustachioed, 19th-century Swedish dramatist... with a cheery side-kick. Strindberg and Helium never fail to make me smile.

The Receipt

2007-02-05T08:03:00.000-08:00

Went to see a play on Saturday night called The Receipt. It made me laugh quite a lot. Which was just as well because, if it hadn’t, I would have left the theatre a hollow and distraught shell of a man. The basic premise follows a man who finds a receipt on the pavement and tries to track down its owner – this occupation offers more focus to his life than his nebulous job and his insipid home life.
It struck me as a play about the vacuity of modern city living, about a lack of personal identity or authenticity, about the misery of living in a fraudulent, jargonistic (in a Chris-Morris-esque fashion), impersonal world. It seemed to tie-in quite closely with what I was thinking when I wrote Are you ‘in’ or ‘out’?
The style and delivery was excellent in a polished, yet spontaneous way – it felt like exciting and immediate theatre. It has been described as Beckettian, and I would agree with that… if I had ever read or seen any Beckett. So, for the sake of personal authenticity, I should say that it put me in mind of Tom McCarthy’s excellent novel, Remainder, Anthony Gormley’s Field, TS Eliot's The Hollow Men and Chris Morris' Nathan Barley. The hero was a sympathetic everyman, and a pathetic lunatic simultaneously – these two roles are not at all mutually exclusive.
The guys behind it are Will Adamsdale (left) and Chris Branch (right) – I would highly recommend going to see anything that they are involved in.

A Burnt Out Case

2007-02-01T03:33:00.000-08:00

My first Graham Greene novel and I thought it was ace. Funny and tragic, it tells the story of M. Querry, an architect of world renown, famed for his cathedrals and churches, who has lost his faith in God and his creative muse with it. Convinced that he is an egoist without any love or feeling for his fellow man, Querry travels down the Congo, as far as the ferry takes him, to a leprosie run by an order of Catholic fathers and an atheist doctor. Querry's quest for peace comes unstuck when he is recognised by a zealous factory owner and finds himself pursued by an antagonistic English reporter determined to portray Querry as a living saint.
Querry remains passive, and steadfast in his principles, as the outside world catches up with him, eventually enveloping him in all its rotten jealousy and pride. Like one of Waugh's heros, Querry is an impassive participant who finds calamitous circumstances thrust upon him; he can do little but follow the course of his destiny to its inevitable conclusion.
Querry is diagnosed as 'a burnt out case', which is a term used by the doctor to describe a leper who has come to the conclusion of a series of mutilations - it is hard to tell whether Querry could accurately be described as 'a burnt out case' at the outset or conclusion of this parable.
I picked up my copy in a charity shop without realising it was extensively annotated... by an idiot... which I found frustrating at times - I like to pick my own points of significance when I'm reading a book (I posted a comment almost directly contradicting this on the Crockatt and Powell blog some time ago). Despite this, I thought it was a really excellent book and I'm looking forward to getting stuck into Travels With My Aunt, which was kindly sent to me by Mum last week.

Are you 'in' or 'out'?

2007-01-19T07:59:00.000-08:00

I went to an event at the Italian Cultural Institute last night to see the Italian author Alain Elkann and Hanif Kureishi in conversation. I missed the first 35 minutes or so and so didn’t catch an introduction to give a focus to the event – there was a big projection behind the writers which suggested the topic was ‘discourses in envy', but I missed anything that could have been described as a conversation about ‘envy’. The dialogue was stilted, in the main because of Elkann’s fluency (or lack thereof) in English (his English is still about a million times better than my Italian, so I shouldn’t grumble too much). In amongst all of the awkward pauses and pointless, directionless musings, Kureishi (with a distinct advantage in the language stakes) was consistently charming, self-deprecating and funny. I don’t think I’ve ever read any of his stuff – I can vaguely remember being embarrassed, as a young teenager, to catch bits of The Buddha of Suburbia on telly whilst Mum was watching it, but that’s about it.
In amongst his wry quips (“None of us are in control – in a conversation you’ll say something, somebody will reply, then you say something else… and before you know it, you’re divorced”), Kureishi made the interesting point that we are no-longer shocked: It used to be – not that long ago – that to shock was shocking, but that isn’t the case anymore. Now to shock is to conform and there doesn’t seem to be such a thing as normalcy – if there was it would be shocking. According to Kureishi, we all desire to be shocked, and art finds that harder and harder to do now – that is why he wanted to get finished early enough to get home in time to catch Big Brother’s action of the day. It’s sad, if he’s correct, that art has lost the ability to shock, and it made me think of how much I now try to contextualise anything I read by considering when it was written and try to imagine how its original audience would have interpreted it. It also made me think about identity and how people long to shock – I often think you get more weirdos in areas of concentrated populations (e.g. London), not because they congregate in a place where they won’t be considered exceptionally odd, but because they are made odd by their environment: People can easily lose any sense of individuality when they are ignored and un-known by their society – you can get on the same tube train 1000 times and never see a face you recognise. I think deviants may just feel the need to be recognised/noticed in order feel integrated in a society – there is, of course also an element of definition by exclusion: “I am who I am because I am not you” – what sociologists call ‘in-groups’ and ‘out-groups’. I don’t think it’s a particularly healthy way of living.

Cakes and Ale Somerset Maugham

2007-01-17T06:11:00.000-08:00

Thieved from my sister’s bookshelf at the start of this month after a tiring train journey, I didn’t have a clue what to expect. I tried reading Of Human Bondage a few years ago and gave up, but I am not one to bury an author on the basis of one failure to connect (the fault almost invariably lies with me anyhow) so, determined to have another stab at him, I picked up the book with a title referring to two of my favourite things - I wouldn't be surprised if this was how it ended up on my sister's bookshelf, either.

Cakes and Ale is an author’s slightly melancholy reflections on his early life's connections with a now deceased 'Grand Man of English Literature', Edward Driffield and, more significantly, his wife, Rosie Driffield. In Maugham’s introduction to the book, he said that he had always wanted to write the character of Rosie, a promiscuous and high-spirited woman. Though charismatic, Rosie remains ethereal and perhaps even distant. She manages to be at once peripheral and, simultaneously, the central obsession of the narrator. It is a beautiful and touching book, sedate and nostalgic, highlighting the moral ambiguity of the narration and reminding me, in some ways, of EM Forster (an author I have never seen eye to eye with).

Gold by Dan Rhodes

2007-01-05T05:29:00.000-08:00

So I started reading a bit of Zweig, but got fed up with him pretty sharpish... I will certainly give him another shot in the near future - I understand The Royal Game is supposed to be one of his best, so I'll pick that up shortly. Immediate relief from the disappointment of Zweig came in the form of Dan Rhodes' latest offering.
Zweig is apparently a master of the short story, Mr Rhodes is King of the Kingdom of Short Stories (in my own personal view). I was fortunate enough to get my hands on a copy of Gold, planned for publication in March of this year. It is not a short story but, at about 198 pages, it ain't a giant tome of a novel either.
Gold is the tale of a young women, Miyuki, and her annual winter pilgrimage to a small Welsh sea-side town, where she reads, walks and goes to the pub. She is particularly fond of this little town, but her reason for going every year is a self-imposed construct in her relationship: her and her partner take two week's break from each other every year to ensure that they never become too dependent on one another and their relationship remains fresh.
Dan Rhodes has a way of constructing a fine story that completely sidelines you, detracts you from his real message, and then: BAM! He knocks you right in the solar plexus on page 197. You didn't even know that this was the story, so how could you possibly predict the twist. There is no time to recover in the half-page of 198, it only gives you an extra little kick whilst you're down. The strangest thing is that whilst you are left suppressing tears and the lump-in-the-throat is aching, you are also chortling quietly at Dan's sublime bitterness.
I should have been expecting this as I have read a few of Dan's other books, Don't Tell Me The Truth About Love, Anthropology and The Little White Car (this last one is technically by Danuta de Rhodes, who I developed a bit of a crush on until I realised she is nothing more than Dan writing in a dress with a pink, fluffy pen). I have still to read his critically acclaimed Timoleon Vieta Come Home, but I know it will be such a treat when I do get round to it.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

2006-12-19T05:19:00.000-08:00

I won’t do an in-depth analysis of Donna Tart’s excellent novel. It didn’t take me as long as I expected to finish because it was so good – such an enjoyable and exciting read. Keeping up the pace in a 600-page book is no mean feat and holding my attention for that long even more impressive.
Because there’s murder, and intrigue, and all the preppy perpetrators are haunted by their actions to the point of nervous collapse, I suppose one might call it a psychological thriller, but I’m not sure that I have ever read anything described as a psychological thriller, so I could be wrong. It was certainly a book that sucked me in and put me on edge, a twinge of discomfort and a knot in my stomach insisting I continue reading so that I cold complete and escape this tortured world of academia and assassination.
I don’t go in for horror movies, or murder mysteries – I can live without the paranoia of an axe-wielding maniac hovering behind me on the bus into work, but whatever genre you want to plonk The Secret History into, it was a lot of fun and excellently written.
Now, for my Christmas reading, I shall get started on some Stefan Zweig…

Cultural Confessions

2006-12-18T05:34:00.000-08:00

So far, have found these on Scott Pack's blog, Dovegreyreader's blog, Struggling Author's blog, and Susan Hill's blog. Here is my own top-5 cultural confessions list:

1. I Have never read: Dickens (I tried, but there were just too many words), Austen (it's for girls), any of the Brontes (same as Austen), Robert Louis Stevenson or ... (fill it in with someone I should have read, and I probably won't even have heard of them).

2. I have read the King James Bible pretty much from cover to cover, but can't remember a thing from it - I think there was something about a baby being born around this time of year but, other than that, everything else just went in one ear and out of the other... sorry God.

3. I don't really like The Beatles: I don't own any Beatles music. I loved them when I was younger, but now all of their music leaves me feeling a bit cold.

4. A culinary one: I don't like truffles - dusty mushrooms.

5. I don't think any of the other cultural confessions mentioned something they have done and shouldn't: I am a straight man and must have watched Dirty Dancing over a dozen times.

I have a musical cousin

2006-12-15T04:38:00.000-08:00

I knew she was musical, because I'd heard her playing piano in her living room... and some people had told me. She's about 8 or 9 years younger than me and I started learning piano when I was 12, but I can't remember a time when I was better than her at piano - this saddens me.

I went to see her and her band playing at a jazz club on Monday night and was impressed to see that she'd got all grown up and sang with a voice that could have belonged to someone twice her age who'd spent a lifetime drinking bourbon and smoking Dunhills (as far as I'm aware, she does neither) in jazz clubs up and down the land. I am not a great frequenter of jazz clubs - the few I have been to have been places where men with beards chain-smoke roll-ups, talk about people I have never heard of and either offend me or I offend them. I sometimes steal their cigarette lighters, help myself to their tobacco and spill beer on their hats. I rarely listen to, or enjoy, the music, and always leave feeling a little bit less like a good human being. On Monday night, there were beards, but Malboro Lights (clearly a more populist clientele) and not much talk, because everybody was listening to my cousin. I didn't steal anyone's lighter or anything.

So, for your listening pleasure, please refer to Zoe's myspace. Perhaps you would like to compare and contrast her work with my other myspace musician friend, Keiran. Both very talented young people, I'm sure you would agree.

Some Christmas courtesy of Susan Hill and Laurie Lee

2006-12-12T09:18:00.000-08:00

Please go and visit this and feel warm and Christmassy. I wanted to put a picture with this post, but nothing would do it justice.

Memoirs of a Shy Pornographer…

2006-11-28T06:46:00.000-08:00

Kenneth Patchen’s 1945 satire on censorship was a weird one. Not a book I would normally pick up, and not a book that I would normally persist with. Patchen was described by some as a Beat poet and, though it’s a genre I’m not really familiar with, I can perhaps sense some similarity with Kerouac (based on my one abortive attempt to read On the Road).

Memoirs… tells the story of naïve innocent Albert Budd, resident of Bivalve, New Jersey, and factory worker whose novel is picked up by a literary agent and radically edited with the title changed from The Spool of Destiny to The Spill of Desire. Young Budd, seemingly unwittingly, has become a pornographer. He is whisked into a bohemian and shadowy underworld of fetishists, criminals and experimental chemists. It is here that I first really struggled to keep in touch with the plot – I think there was a long trip sequence – and decided to give up, but went to the last page of the book to see if the psychedelic, nonsensical stuff continued throughout. The last page left me so curious that I had to go back, skim the trippy stuff, and get to the next bit. He seems to wake up in a field where he is found by the lovely, wheelchair-bound Priscilla. She takes him to her mother’s home where the three of them share a seemingly idyllic time and Albert and Priscilla fall in love – this is a spectacularly touching part of the book and I suspect it is only because of the preceding, hard-core hedonism that it did not seem laughably kitsch. Budd’s nefarious associates soon catch up with him and the romance with Priscilla is put at risk. There are peculiar encounters with multicoloured deer, murderous forest-dwelling sects and nymphomaniac women who find Albert irresistible on the basis of his pornographic reputation.

I never really succeeded in getting a handle on the story of Albert Budd – it was just a bit too much like hard work and at times it was hard to tell whether the nonsense was intentional or merely a typo. The druggy cynicism put me in mind of Hunter S Thompson and William Burroughs (The Naked Lunch was another aborted read for me), though HST strings a phrase together with a great deal more panache than Patchen. There are a lot of fairly indistinguishable characters who pop up occasionally to say one line (which is immediately forgotten but turns out to be relevant later) and locations chop and change without much explanation or description, which all makes it a very hard book to follow.

This may be an interesting text in terms of its historical context but, ironically, (to me) the book now seems as naïve and innocent as its posthumous narrating protagonist.

Stirring Chutney...

2006-11-23T04:42:00.000-08:00

So I have made a couple of other chutneys since the Dancing Bear Chutney:
Pumpkin and Apple chutney – It was Hallowe’en and I found that there is a type of pumpkin called Baby Bear Pumpkin, so I couldn’t resist. I roasted the pumpkin briefly before going into the whole stewing in vinegar shenanigans, just until there was a bit of give in the flesh. I also learnt that I should not have been so scornful of the Stirring Bear when I last made chutney – you do need to stir your chutney quite regularly, or it will burn to the bottom of your lovely pan and there will be an awful mess in trying to remedy the situation… so apologies to my specialist stirrer, who was absent that weekend.
Red Onion and Apple chutney – this is without doubt the winner so far – straightforward, simple and a Stirring Bear to help out. A few chilli flakes thrown in and, perhaps crucially, about an extra 100 ml vinegar. Otherwise, both recipes followed the same quantity of fruit and veg to sugar and vinegar as the Dancing Bear Chutney.
Update on Dancing Bear chutney – it has pretty much all gone… so definitely a success then. Good Lord! Why on earth would anyone be interested in this?!!

1st in an occasional series called 'Publishers I Like/Like The Look Of'

2006-11-21T05:23:00.000-08:00

I think that what Fidra Books is doing is inspired and brilliant. The books look lovely and the fact that they are Edinburgh-based also endears them to me. I do hope they get all the support they deserve and trust that Waterstones will be banging on their door, begging to put them in 3 for 2, any day now.

The Future's bright...

2006-11-13T06:25:00.000-08:00

The Futurist by James Othmer is a really fun, cool novel. Right. The premise is: There’s this guy, Yates, who’s paid lots to predict trends and foresee any zeitgeists that may be floating in on the cultural breeze. Predictably, he’s a bit of a fraud – he gets paid to tell people what they want them to hear, or to tell people what his sponsors want to hear. He starts the book getting a bit drunk and shaken-up on a trip to J’burg for some conference and decides to fall on his sword in spectacular fashion by making his speech (sorry, that should read: ‘keynote address’) into some kind of confessional in which he damns his entire profession. This makes him a few enemies in the industry, but (ironically, and so predictably) makes him into the most popular and trusted futurist on the market and his stock soars. It also prompts his commission by two (possibly government-employed) shadowy figures (Johnson and Johnson - perhaps the author's homage to Thompson and Thomson in Tintin combined with the global pharmaceutical) to go around the world to find out what is making non-Americans tick and what they might be about to do about it. He also has to sell America and its imperialist projects to the futures market. It is around this point that he also acquires an Internet stalker, Nostradamus, and things start to get a bit dark. With a Space Hotel marketed by him, currently bust and floating in orbit with a dwindling oxygen supply, being televised twenty-four hours a day around the world, some threatening and mysterious employees tracking his every move, an intimidating stalker on his tail and his conscience doing cartwheels, there is no escape for Yates.
I really enjoyed The Futurist. It was exciting and funny – along with a spoonful of cultural and political critique that could have been over-egged, but was just right. A bit like what the Bourne Identity would have been if Jason Bourne was just some marketing guy in a suit...
The new UK cover - I like it...

Kieran and Kiran

2006-11-09T07:59:00.000-08:00

So, two things to talk about from last weekend (last Friday evening to be precise). Firstly, I finished reading the Booker Prize-winning Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai, which was alright, but compared to the two other shortlisted novels that I have read, Carry Me Down and Secret River, I didn’t think that this compared favourably. It felt a bit like Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown, but without the gripping story and the easy turn of phrase that Rushdie possesses – I found a lot of Desai’s attempts at lyrical analogies and metaphors a little clunky and grating. The Inheritance of Loss’ themes are contemporary and moving, but I felt the narration was inelegant and didn’t do them justice. This isn’t a bad book by any stretch of the imagination, but I just feel that there are so many other books and writers that are doing far more interesting and innovative things in their writing at the moment which deserve this kind of profile a bit more than Desai.
Secondly, and a bit more positively, I went to see my friend Kieran’s band, The Old Switcheroo at The Lark in the Park. Kieran was wonderful and I was drunk and enthusiastic. I came up with some rubbish analogy – one of those hybrids: “you were like some inspired and brilliant cross between a refreshing watermelon and a challengingly mature cheddar cheese”(that wasn’t it and I can’t for the life of me remember what it was, suffice to say that none of the constituents were foodstuffs). Anyway, the gist of this post is: The Old Switcheroo deserve more attention and Kiran Desai doesn’t.

RIP Eric Newby

2006-10-25T08:05:00.000-07:00

Eric Newby, author of two lovely books on my shelf, has died at the age of 86.

Carry Me Down

2006-10-20T06:16:00.000-07:00

Children narrating in the first person, present tense can really do my head in. There is something about the immediacy combined with an unnaturally mature vernacular that sets me on edge. This is a useful literary tool that can bring added drama and tension to a story that might otherwise seem flat and MJ Hyland has utilised this to great effect.
Our narrator and hero, John Egan is an eleven year-old boy unusually advanced (physically) for his years who believes he has a natural ability to detect lies. He also has an obsession with the Guinness Book of Records, Niagara Falls and Ripley’s ‘Believe it or Not’ museum – very natural and believable obsessions for an eleven year-old. With his father jobless and feuding with his grandmother (whose house they live in), and John’s refusal to accept the discomfort his physical maturity induces in his mother, the Egan family teeters on the brink of dysfunction. When they are forced out of the grandmother’s country home to live in a squalid Dublin high-rise flat, John’s unnatural fixation on the truth, combined with his father’s dubious absences, ends up exerting a degree of strain that snaps the family unit in two. It takes a stomach-churning moment in which a confused and disoriented John, perhaps unbalanced by the dichotomy of his physical strength and his emotional immaturity, brings matters to a head. It is this moment of dire crisis that appears to reunite the Egans and set them back on course in a slightly uneasy truce.
Although unnerving and cleverly written, I didn’t find Carry Me Down to be the novel I had hoped for – it just didn’t seem to connect with me. I’m not sure that I sympathised with, or particularly liked, John Egan – I just wished he’d grow up.
I really enjoyed Hyland’s debut, How the Light Gets In, which also told the story of an awkward adolescent, but I found the heroine, Lou Connor, a lot more fun and interesting a personality than young Egan.

Electric Brae

2006-10-16T08:40:00.000-07:00

Electric Brae is a poetically written romance that isn’t overly sentimental, is evocative of a time and place without going misty-eyed or melancholic at any point and never fails to surprise you with its depth of feeling and raw emotion.
Switching between the third-person and first-person narrative, we follow a decade in the life of Jimmy, a roughneck oilrig engineer working offshore in the North Sea. Jimmy’s passion for climbing, his love for the artistic and temperamental Kim and his friendship with politically charged climbing-buddy Graeme, all intertwine and pull in different directions, tightening little knots in the story.
The eponymous Electric Brae is only mentioned once in the book when quoting a radio broadcast reporting road conditions in bad weather, but the famous phenomenon acts as a great metaphor for the themes in the book. Place is, however, evoked beautifully – the great phallus of the Old Man of Hoy taking pride of place in settings of wind, sea, rock face and hillside.
The political turmoil of 1980s Scotland adds a frisson to an already charged atmosphere as the main characters and the their close-knit circle of friends struggle with the dilemma of living in the ‘Me’ decade whilst carrying the Calvinist baggage of a nation.
This is a truly Scottish novel containing universal truths about relationships in the modern world. It is wonderfully written – I was warned that Greig’s voice might become tiresome towards the end, but it never did. I was sorry to finish this beautiful novel.
By the way, this is the Canongate cover image as that is the edition I read. The current Faber cover isn't quite as bad, but is still all wrong in my opinion...

Ironic

2006-10-13T06:18:00.000-07:00

I can never remember the word 'vocabulary'...

The Secret River by Kate Grenville

2006-10-10T06:14:00.000-07:00

Painfully sad, harrowing and beautiful, The Secret River is a novel of gentle wisdom. Like some subtle and complex fable or myth, it tells a story to learn from - both history and some kind of moral message. But though this novel has a message and is explicitly dedicated to the aboriginal people of Australia, past present and future, it is not explicit in its condemnation of the settlers: by far the majority of the reader’s sympathy is given to the main protagonists, William and Sal Thornhill on their quest for salvation.
There seems to be some tragic exchange in the story: The Thornhills have a tough start in life in late eighteenth century London and when William is saved from the gallows to be ‘exported’ to New South Wales, it seems that he and his wife will have an equally tough life in Australia. At the same time, the aboriginal people of Australia appear to be living a comfortable and happy life, at ease with their surroundings and taking all they need from a fertile land. It is when the two cultures clash that fortunes are swapped as land and lives are wrenched from the aboriginals and the new settlers find wealth, comfort and prestige in the process.
Grenville writes with a quiet authority that makes the horror of circumstance all the more traumatising. For all the terror, shame and sadness in this novel, there is also a depth of love and loyalty portrayed in the Thornhill’s relationship, and an expression of the strength that they draw from one another that is uplifting.
This is an excellent book with power and purpose that pulls the reader through the torment and out the end feeling better, though a little sadder, for having made it.

Il Gattopardo

2006-10-06T06:00:00.000-07:00

I went to the cinema the other night to see Il Gattopardo, the Visconti film of the book by Giuseppe Tomasi Di Lampedusa. I’d hoped that I could watch the film in lieu of reading the book but, as is so often the way, I now really want to read the book.
Burt Lancaster plays the lead character, Prince Don Fabrizio Salina, and steals the show completely – an absolute giant on the screen with a timbre of voice so rich that his authority is absolute. It is hardly surprising that his Italian co-stars appear to be slightly over-acting just to be seen. The shots in the film are lush and expansive and it would lose so much grandeur if it were watched on the small screen. Sweeping landscapes in the mountains, fantastically choreographed and composed battle scenes in the city and the most ridiculously, even laughably, extravagant party ever. There were moments, especially in the battle scenes, which were made a little comic by the Italian extras clearly trying to find the most aesthetically favourable poses in which to shoot their pistols… or die.
I'm still undecided as to whether this is a story of decline or permanence - perhaps both. Perhaps in a similar vein to Brideshead Revisited, following the demise of an institution, and aristocracy - a lament. There was a crucial line from Salina where he said of the turmoil in Sicily that everything must be destroyed to remain the same... or something to that effect. I really will have to read the book to get to grips with it.

Youth Speaks

2006-10-02T08:10:00.000-07:00

Danny Rhodes' (not to be confused with the wonderful Dan Rhodes) Asboville is a determined attempt at seeing the world through the eyes of a disaffected 16-year-old and he has certainly created a likeable and sympathetic character that still manages to live up to some yobbish stereotypes. Excuses are made and explanations given, but not too many – sometimes JB’s actions are simply down to him; no logic, rhyme or reason and that’s his prerogative.
Rhodes states that he “wanted to give a voice to those teenagers who are being pushed towards the margins of our society by the introduction of Anti-Social Behavioural Orders”, but he seems to walk the fence on the effectiveness of ASBOs; there is a really well-written and moving scene in which JB’s mother berates the local authorities for vilifying and criminalising her son and shames the hypocritical residents of the estate yet, in the end, JB (and his family) do make it good as a direct result of the penalties enforced.
Although it really wasn’t at all long ago, I have no idea what it is like to be a teenager in the 21st Century, but imagine that in many ways it hasn’t changed too much since my teenage days in the late 20th Century. On the basis of that, the language used by the children is a little restrained which perhaps takes away from the credibility of JB’s voice.
I really enjoyed Asboville and enjoyed JB’s story (I see room for a sequel), but I’m not quite sure if there is an intended readership – Danny Rhodes is an English teacher and, at times, I couldn’t help but feel that he was writing for a teenage reader… which is no bad thing. I do hope we see more from Danny Rhodes. Lots of people should read Asboville as it's new and interesting and is published by Maia Press, who do some lovely books.

O Caledonia

2006-09-28T06:10:00.000-07:00

Elspeth Barker’s macabre tragicomedy is mesmerising, haunting and entertaining. She uses language with a poet’s deftness and evokes the east of Scotland not only through description, but also through the vernacular of the narration. The heroine of the piece, Janet, is an awkward and sympathetic character beautifully and believably constructed with a cast of characters that are so dislikeable as to emphasise Janet’s alienation. Motifs and themes run through this short book giving clues pointing towards the sharp, exacting and tragic end that is the perfect finale to a tale of such bleak and bitter humour.
Half way through the book, I read a line which made me realise I had heard a snippet of this story on Radio Four’s Book at Bedtime some thirteen years ago. For a single line, heard out of context, to have stayed with me for that long to have finally been put in its place is both satisfying and testament to the strength of Barker’s prose.
I’d also like to add that it is a tragedy that this book is currently out of print.

A Reading Diary by Alberto Manguel

2006-09-25T04:40:00.000-07:00

In this book Manguel recounts his experiences of a year (2002/03) considered through reflections on books he re-reads - a different book for each month. Each book becomes relevant and newly resonant when connected with contemporary happenings. It is not hard to find links between Don Quixote and the 2003 invasion of Iraq, but Manguel is never anything but subtle. Though his thoughts are often wistful and occasionally melancholy, this is a warm and tender book, full of astute observations and amusing anecdotes.
Manguel is intimidatingly well-read and it was, admittedly more enjoyable to read the chapters/months where he read books that were familiar to me, but I have been inspired to read those books that were new to me, so lovingly are they described.
I read Stevenson Under the Palm Trees by Manguel a couple of years ago and was impressed by his tight grip on the prose in that sultry and claustrophobic novella. A Reading Diary is, by contrast, fresh and light but, though the temptation to ramble must have been there, the author has maintained an ability to sound succinct yet relaxed in this thoroughly enjoyable book.

Dated Meanderings

2006-09-21T05:57:00.000-07:00

I've just read Jerome K Jerome's Three Men in a Boat and it reminded me of an elderly gentleman, perhaps short of a few faculties, attempting to recount a tale and then drifting off on a number of inconsequential tangents that, perhaps standing alone could be amusing vignettes, but strung together on the hook of a boating trip up the Thames all merge into one rather tiresome ramble.
Jerome does not really bear comparison with Wodehouse whose inventive use of the English language still reads fresh today. Jerome’s prose is dated and lacking in metaphor, though his vernacular seems true and consistent.
That I completed this book suggests there must be something I can find to commend it (other than the fact that it is quite short). This is an easy-reading book that does, perhaps, give the reader a snapshot of a period and a social class, and there is an undoubted nostalgic charm to it. I am still intrigued to read The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow and hope that will provide a format allowing Jerome’s flippant thoughts the space and distinction they require.

In the Footsteps of Kings

2006-09-21T01:19:00.000-07:00

Here, at last, are the promised thoughts on Rory Stewart's The Places In Between:
Rory Stewart appears to be a very impressive man; not only has he survived strolling along one of the most treacherous paths conceivable, but has, at the end of it, written a rather fine book.
The Places in Between gives insight without being invasive and the reader is treated with the same respect as those Stewart meets on his travels. The prose is crisp and clean as freshly fallen snow on a mountain pass, yet its subject lends the writing an air of lyricism and beauty. Never labouring a description or point, Stewart is as quick to move on in his telling of the story as he is from every host that welcomes him into their home, setting a determined but agreeable pace. There is a clear narrative with a goal in sight from the beginning, separating this book from so much travel-writing and giving all the plot satisfaction of a novel.
To those who enjoyed books such as Eric Newby's A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush and Jason Elliot's An Unexpected Light, I heartily commend this book - it is, although perhaps not really comparable, much better.
I look forward to reading Stewart's new book, Occupational Hazards, and hope that his new project, The Turquoise Mountain Foundation, inspires him to write further.

Finished!

2006-09-12T00:09:00.000-07:00

Both of them. And they were both ACE! Haven't written a review of O&L as I have nothin' new to say on it. My thoughts on The Places In Between to follow. In the mean time, look at the website for Rory Stewart's latest endeavour: http://www.turquoisemountain.org/
I'm now about half way through Alberto Manguel's A Reading Diary - if I was any good, then this would be similar...

The Struggling Reader

2006-08-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

I am such a spectacularly slow reader that it takes me absolutely ages to read most things - but I am determined, and if I'm enjoying a book I will persist with it no mater how long it takes me. Here are two books that I am slowly savouring:

1. Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey (started probably some time in June - 500ish pages and I'm on about 398)
Carey is Booker longlisted once again, but this is the first Carey novel I have read and it's great.

2. The Places In Between by Rory Stewart (started around the end of July - 300ish pages and I'm on about 190)
This is v. good - better than, though comparable to, Jason Eliot's An Unexpected Light (500ish pages and I gave up after about 300) - I guess I find Stewart easier to relate to - also, I'm a sucker for a cohesive narrative; something Unexpected Light doesn't really have.

I would like to point out that I have read (and completed) lots of other books in that period, but I don't like to talk about them...

Dancing Bear Chutney - first taste...

2006-08-17T05:32:00.000-07:00

I know it was far too soon to be tasting the Dancing Bear Chutney, but the bear was impatient and I wanted something to go in my cheese sandwich.
First thoughts:
The Baby Bear's nose was probably too big a size for the Marrow to be cut into - perhaps half a Baby Bear's nose would have been a better size... or even small enough to fit up a Baby Bear's nostril.
The Juniper Berries are a nice touch.
The Chili's spot on.
It's not quite as flavoursome as I want - hopefully if it's actually given the three months it deserves it will get a bit better...

A Hungarian anglophile’s adventure in the depths of 1930’s Wales, populated by aristocrats, assassins and the undead

2006-08-14T07:05:00.000-07:00

After reading and loving Szerb’s Journey by Moonlight, I was really looking forward to getting stuck into The Pendragon Legend. I expected more of the bleak, dark ironic and painful humour I had enjoyed so much in Journey by Moonlight – writing that supported Nicholas Lezard’s recent comparison of Szerb to Evelyn Waugh – but was surprised to find something more akin to John Buchan’s Thirty-nine Steps. Although not what I was originally after, this turned out to be an excellent and exciting caper darting between the British Museum’s reading room and a stately pile in North Wales.

Our hero and narrator, János Bátky, is a Hungarian biblio/anglophile (this is, presumably, semi-autobiographical) who has been invited to visit the library of the antisocial Earl of Pendragon at his home in Wales. He soon becomes embroiled in protecting the earl from assassination whilst also looking into the family’s historical association with the occult. In a race to save the Earl from mortal dangers on all fronts, the self-confessed wimp, Bátky, proves that the pen is mightier than the sword and ensures that the hereditary nobility of the British Isles is safe for at least one more generation.

This was Szerb’s first novel so, to follow Lezard’s analogy of Waugh, this book would be Decline and Fall, and Journey by Moonlight would be A Handful of Dust.
The Pendragon Legend can best be described as ‘a rollicking good yarn’, full of excitement, intrigue and fun. Pushkin Press and Len Rix should once again be congratulated for bringing yet more of this excellent author’s work to the English-speaking, non-Hungarian-reading world.

The Sea

2006-08-05T06:37:00.000-07:00

I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It did not revolutionise my understanding of the ‘the novel’; it did not effect my perception of any history, society or geography; it has not changed my life – and I doubt it will; it is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I have read. This is such luxurious prose that you can feel it wrapping you up in its stimuli. When reading, your senses seem elevated: I could smell the sea on the drizzle that fell on my face as I stepped off the bus (in London) after reading twenty pages; I could feel the burn of the brandy in the back of my throat as the narrator drank, and I could feel the sun burning through my eyelids the morning after; no matter what I played on my iPod whilst reading, all I could hear was Vaughan Williams’ The Sea.
The plot is just satisfying enough, but it is more a vehicle for Banville’s writing which satisfies so much deeper than any plot – this is prose that evokes the poetry of Heaney and Hughes and touches your core, causing your senses and emotions to soar with only the power of a twelve-word sentence.
This book fully deserves the recognition that I doubt it would have received without the Booker.

A solution to rising sea levels

2006-08-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

The Amazing Dancing Bear says:
"Why don't we dig the sea bottom out, thus deepening the sea, and pile everything we dig out around the edge of the coast, acting as a giant sea wall?"

Simon Smith says:
"Would the greenhouse gases emitted by the machines required counteract the effect...?"

The Amazing Dancing Bear:
"There are probably even better arguments aginst this idea; I just don't know them."

The vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience

2006-07-25T10:55:00.000-07:00

Simon Smith: I finally read Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness last week and was quietly impressed.

The Amazing Dancing Bear: Are you just saying that because you feel you should be?

SS: No. The prose is excellent. It is spectral and haunting, descriptive and enchanting.

TADB: That’s the aesthetics though. You know there’s a lot more to this novella than just the language. By the way, I believe that English was Conrad’s third language – perhaps that explains the originality and… lyricism (?) of his prose.

SS: Of course there is more than just the language. This is a book about the human condition. There are countless metaphors and you can search through any level to find the message for you. Let me quote:

“And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards: I did not see it anymore; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to look-out for the signs of the dead wood we could cut up in the night for the next days steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface – the reality, I tell you – fades. The inner truth is hidden – luckily, luckily.”

Could be a metaphor for the whole book, innnit?

TADB: Do you still prefer Apocalypse Now?

SS: I’m a bad person if I say yes.

TADB: If you were a faster reader, you could read Heart of Darkness in less time than it takes to watch the film… especially if you were watching the Redux version.

SS. Don’t rub it in.

Dancing Bear Chutney

2006-07-24T04:44:00.000-07:00

Made this yesterday - now have to wait three months to find out if it tastes any good.

1kg Marrow (chopped into chunks the size of a Baby Bear's nose)
1kg Tomato (peeled then chopped into chunks the size of a Baby Bear's nose)
1kg Red Onion (chopped into chunks the size of a Baby Bear's nose)
500g Light Brown Soft Sugar
500ml White Wine Vinegar
3 Chili Peppers (finely chopped - seeds left in)
1 Dancing Bear's handful of Sultanas
1 Baby Bear's handful of whole Cloves, whole Peppercorns and Whole Juniper Berries (about the same of each)
1 Dancing Bear's Thumb-sized piece of Ginger (finely sliced)
1 Sneeze of Salt

Chuck everything into a large pan and bring to the boil then simmer. Bears may insist on stirring, but this is probably not necessary.
Leave it bubbling away for about 2-3 hours until the bottom of the pan can be seen when the bear is stirring. Tip: Open the windows and shut the door to the kitchen - the smell of boiling vinegar clings to every soft furnishing (and bear) and isn't great...
When it's still hot, spoon into jars (sterilized by washing and rinsing in boiling water, then leaving on a tray in a low oven for an hour or so...)
Place in a cool, dry, dark place (away from the hands of prying bears) and leave well alone for at least two months.

This will never last

2006-07-21T04:50:00.000-07:00

The bear refuses to dance...