I can't say whether or not sultry beauty Monica Ali is the next Zadie Smith as I've managed to navigate my life without thus far reading 'White Teeth' (and in any case there are those that reckon just asking the question is racist) but what I can say after completing it is that Ali's first novel Brick Lane is indeed a big and clever book.

The plot: Having survived an apparent stillbirth Nazneen is an Asian immigrant in London's Tower Hamlets who has decided to submit herself to the will of fate, and her developing sense of self and community in her new country is contrasted with letters from her sister Hasina whose more wilful nature sends her headlong from one misadventure to another back in Bangladesh.

Although she occasionally lapses into glib similes, Ali shows three main strengths in her writing - the ability to deftly handle the juxtaposition between the personal and the political; the detailed characterisation of even the minor players in the story and her ability to blindside her readers with very adroitly-handled plot developments.

When tragedy strikes about a quarter way through the book it's one of the most moving pieces of writing I've read in a long while. As Nazneen's arranged marriage starts to strain and the global events circa 9/11 make their impact felt throughout the community Ali's writing becomes braver, more contemporary and relevant reflecting her central character's growing sense of self-actualization.

Who knows where Monica Ali goes from here, but with Brick Lane she has laid down the foundations for a glittering career.


In contrast to the humanity and compassion implicit in Ali's book, James Crumley's The Final Country is as raw, seamy and nihilistic a chunk of pulp as you're ever likely to read. The plot is dense and preposterous even by the genre standards of the private-eye novel and I struggled at times to keep up with a wide array of supporting characters and the motivations behind their malice, mendacity and venality.

But this will barely matter if you just submit yourself to the escapist thrills of a book where barely a paragraph goes by without copious amounts of single malt whisky; cocaine; codeine; vicious, visceral punch-ups or graphic three-way sex. It's a heady brew of swampy white-trash Americana with James Bond-style plot pyrotechnics which would just be plain ridiculous in lesser hands but Crumley's whip-smart writing gives a poetic thrill to the surreal shenanigans, pulling the reader through to the head-spinning wtf? climax.

Recommended, then. If you're man enough for it.