Book Review Compendium
One of the more beneficial side-effects of this winter's wrist fracture was the additional time I had available to devour some literature. So, some book reviews are overdue, and here's a brisk round-up.
To start off, I took the opportunity to read the remainder of Chuck Palahniuk's fiction, which perversely were his first two books, Fight Club and Survivor. Fight Club I'd left 'til last as I was so familiar with the film, but the book's still worth a read as just about all that was good in the film comes from the source material, the big twist makes more sense on page than it did on film, and Palahniuk manages to streamline the plot into just over 200 pages compared to the 2hr+ running time of the movie. Survivor is arguably Chuck at his best - a controlled piece of nihilism where all his stylistic tics and devices are present and correct but never feel gratuitous. If you're new to Palahniuk, it's as good a place to start as any.
Next up was Black Heat by Norman Kelley (a book I discovered via The Pinocchio Theory), the first in a series of 'political noir' books featuring a sassy bisexual private investigator by the name of Nina Halligan. It's quite a serious book, fiercely literate and primarily concerned with black politics, only partially offset by the old pulp standby of a hilariously escalating bodycount and titillation provided by the sapphic subtext that appears to underpin all of the relationships between the female characters. Sometimes the apollonian and dionysian elements mix a little uneasily, but the slightly unusual material and deliciously ripe dialogue mean I'll be investigating the further adventures of Ms. Halligan in the two subsequent sequels.
I'll own up, I bought Shot by Sarah Quigley because I liked the shade of blue on the cover (no, really). But these things can be a better indicator than you think, as it proved to be a good and unusual read. The central character is a young woman who has drifted through life pleasing other people, a sad and serious person who has somehow carved a successful career as a stand-up comedian. When she's shot in the ear after being caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting, she re-assesses her life, withdraws from an unsatisfactory relationship and takes herself off to Alaska where she learns to re-engage with life on her own terms. It's one of those books that's a little off-kilter and you're never quite sure where it's going to lead, and the resolution is poignant and genuinely moving. There's also a great supporting character in Delayed Reaction Davey, the academically-bright brother who's otherwise a little slow on the uptake. I'll admit it, I related to him.
Falling Out Of Cars was my first introduction to the work of Mancunian sci-fi author Jeff Noon, and I found it a fascinating read, the literary equivalent of a David Lynch movie with its seemingly endless puzzles and curiosities as a woman sets out on an enigmatic quest through a Britain stricken by a bizarre, unnamed disease. Many will be frustrated to the point of fury by Noon's refusal to provide obvious conclusions to the smoke and mirrors on display, but that's exactly what I really liked about it. And for a 400+ page book, I rattled through it in double-quick time. It's like an Alice In Wonderland for the cyberpunk generation, but apparently all his books are like that.
On the back of FOOC, I also read the same author's Needle In The Groove which is one of the few books that I've ever read right through in one sitting. But while I enjoyed reading it, I was ultimately left a little disappointed by the rather pat way all the loose ends of the plot were tied up in the second half of the book, although I concede that this will make it more accessible to the average reader. Whereas Falling Out Of Cars was fizzing with a whole range of ideas, Needle In The Groove features just one main sci-fi conceit, the ability to mix music by artfully manipulating a spherical object (a kind of 'shake'n'track', if you will) which also propels its protagonists back in time to exorcise the demons that have a miserablist hold on the Manchester music scene. It's a bold and ambitious work, and despite some reservations, no book with a gratuitous mention of New Fast Automatic Daffodils can be all bad, can it?
And so to Zadie Smith and The Autograph Man her popular follow-up to the wildly acclaimed, multi-award-winning White Teeth. Now, before I start on this book, I'll take a deep breath and advise you I have nothing against Zadie and don't have a problem with the idea of a ultrahottie writing great literature (and to illustrate, despite reservations, I staunchly defenced Monica Ali's Brick Lane on this site last year). Perhaps the best thing that I can say about The Autograph Man is that it's a mildly entertaining read and I managed to get through to the end of it without throwing it in the bin. But. But. Buuuttt...
In my opinion, The Autograph Man is the least inspired book I've ever read from an author of note. There's the usual evidence of second novel syndrome in terms of use of pretentious stylistic 'innovations' but weirdly, that's the least of this book's problems. It's a Nick Hornby novel written by someone with apparently nil insight into the male psyche, and a self-proclaimed 'funny' book which didn't make me laugh once (and I laugh out loud at least once to completely serious books with no jokes in whatsoever). People write that The Autograph Man was influenced by the McSweeneys school of thought, but I think McDonalds would be nearer the mark as I found the book a literary equivalent to a bland patty coated in cheap ketchup, served up with casual indifference poorly disguised as an eagerness to please. The result? A book as generic and uninviting as viagra spam. If only I could turn back time and delete before opening.
Just a hunch, but I'm guessing Ted Mooney doesn't get hit upon in bars anywhere near as much as Zadie, so he gets much more time to fully observe human moves. His first novel, Easy Travel To Other Planets really struck a nerve with me in the early 80's, so when I found out that he'd written another couple of books that hadn't been published in the UK, I rooted them out via Amazon. Traffic and Laughter has a truly hideous cover, but is a fantastic read and covers the way TV and movies affect the way we interact with others with much more depth, colour and style than Ms. Smith. There are escapist, soap operatic elements to the book's plot (which features glamourous, articulate characters caught in dramatic, politically-charged intrigue) but Mooney's obsessive attention to detail and ability to weave an intricate, ominous plot makes for better brain food than any book I've read since Pynchon's Mason and Dixon. You feel a smarter, more perceptive person for reading the book, just as it should be.
His next book, Singing Into The Piano, similarly makes parallels between the political and personal, but rather than the tentative moves and countermoves of international diplomacy in Traffic and Laughter, here the high-risk strategies of a Mexican soccer hero-turned-presidential candidate are mirrored by the sexual opportunism displayed by a charismatic American couple with whom his personal and political destiny become intertwined. It's a slightly more accessible book than its predecessor in that it's a lighter read, with a less complex narrative and a more intimate cast of characters. I found these characters a little less likeable this time around as it was hard to feel too much sympathy/empathy with people who take such ludicrous chances with their lives. Nevertheless, it's a tense, unsettling book which keeps you guessing right to the end as to how things are going to turn out. I rate this overlooked author so much I think I'm going to start an internet cult - The Mooneys, anyone? Nah, you're right, it'll never catch on.
Robyn kindly bought me Twilight Girls which combines two vintage pulp books from Paula Christian. The first book features the coming out of a vivacious air stewardess as she struggles to define her sexuality following the attentions of a pert colleague, while the follow-up is a darker psychological study of the stewardess spiralling into a nervous breakdown under the intensity of the ensuing relationship. It's good juicy pulp, light on titillation but surprisingly heavy on introspection, providing a good insight into the era (late 50s/early 60s) and some fascinating detail for those with an interest in the early years of commercial air transport.
Zoe Heller's Notes On A Scandal has been selling well on the back of last year's Booker Prize shortlisting, and it's worthy of the attention. It tells the story of an affair between a naive schoolteacher and her young pupil through the eyes of a bitter spinster colleague whose mean-spirited and dismissive observations of the other staff provide much of the surprising belly-laughs contained within. Nevertheless, it's a uniquely British book with a grim, chilling climax that lingers like cold sweat on a clammy grey evening.
Finally, Percival Everett's Erasure isn't a biography of Vince Clark, Andy Bell and co., but a serious and intelligent fiction which examines how easily verisimilitude can be faked. It's high-minded, ambitious stuff but written in a crisp and stylish manner, featuring an intellectual black author who writes a piece of derivative ghetto pulp as a rebuke to the publishing industry, only to find the book a runaway success. Everett was apparently asked whether or not Erasure was autobiographical, to which he replied with genuine incredulity 'Have you actually read the book?!'
Still eager for more guff about books? Check out The Bookclub Blog.
One of the more beneficial side-effects of this winter's wrist fracture was the additional time I had available to devour some literature. So, some book reviews are overdue, and here's a brisk round-up.
To start off, I took the opportunity to read the remainder of Chuck Palahniuk's fiction, which perversely were his first two books, Fight Club and Survivor. Fight Club I'd left 'til last as I was so familiar with the film, but the book's still worth a read as just about all that was good in the film comes from the source material, the big twist makes more sense on page than it did on film, and Palahniuk manages to streamline the plot into just over 200 pages compared to the 2hr+ running time of the movie. Survivor is arguably Chuck at his best - a controlled piece of nihilism where all his stylistic tics and devices are present and correct but never feel gratuitous. If you're new to Palahniuk, it's as good a place to start as any.
Next up was Black Heat by Norman Kelley (a book I discovered via The Pinocchio Theory), the first in a series of 'political noir' books featuring a sassy bisexual private investigator by the name of Nina Halligan. It's quite a serious book, fiercely literate and primarily concerned with black politics, only partially offset by the old pulp standby of a hilariously escalating bodycount and titillation provided by the sapphic subtext that appears to underpin all of the relationships between the female characters. Sometimes the apollonian and dionysian elements mix a little uneasily, but the slightly unusual material and deliciously ripe dialogue mean I'll be investigating the further adventures of Ms. Halligan in the two subsequent sequels.
I'll own up, I bought Shot by Sarah Quigley because I liked the shade of blue on the cover (no, really). But these things can be a better indicator than you think, as it proved to be a good and unusual read. The central character is a young woman who has drifted through life pleasing other people, a sad and serious person who has somehow carved a successful career as a stand-up comedian. When she's shot in the ear after being caught in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting, she re-assesses her life, withdraws from an unsatisfactory relationship and takes herself off to Alaska where she learns to re-engage with life on her own terms. It's one of those books that's a little off-kilter and you're never quite sure where it's going to lead, and the resolution is poignant and genuinely moving. There's also a great supporting character in Delayed Reaction Davey, the academically-bright brother who's otherwise a little slow on the uptake. I'll admit it, I related to him.
Falling Out Of Cars was my first introduction to the work of Mancunian sci-fi author Jeff Noon, and I found it a fascinating read, the literary equivalent of a David Lynch movie with its seemingly endless puzzles and curiosities as a woman sets out on an enigmatic quest through a Britain stricken by a bizarre, unnamed disease. Many will be frustrated to the point of fury by Noon's refusal to provide obvious conclusions to the smoke and mirrors on display, but that's exactly what I really liked about it. And for a 400+ page book, I rattled through it in double-quick time. It's like an Alice In Wonderland for the cyberpunk generation, but apparently all his books are like that.
On the back of FOOC, I also read the same author's Needle In The Groove which is one of the few books that I've ever read right through in one sitting. But while I enjoyed reading it, I was ultimately left a little disappointed by the rather pat way all the loose ends of the plot were tied up in the second half of the book, although I concede that this will make it more accessible to the average reader. Whereas Falling Out Of Cars was fizzing with a whole range of ideas, Needle In The Groove features just one main sci-fi conceit, the ability to mix music by artfully manipulating a spherical object (a kind of 'shake'n'track', if you will) which also propels its protagonists back in time to exorcise the demons that have a miserablist hold on the Manchester music scene. It's a bold and ambitious work, and despite some reservations, no book with a gratuitous mention of New Fast Automatic Daffodils can be all bad, can it?
And so to Zadie Smith and The Autograph Man her popular follow-up to the wildly acclaimed, multi-award-winning White Teeth. Now, before I start on this book, I'll take a deep breath and advise you I have nothing against Zadie and don't have a problem with the idea of a ultrahottie writing great literature (and to illustrate, despite reservations, I staunchly defenced Monica Ali's Brick Lane on this site last year). Perhaps the best thing that I can say about The Autograph Man is that it's a mildly entertaining read and I managed to get through to the end of it without throwing it in the bin. But. But. Buuuttt...
In my opinion, The Autograph Man is the least inspired book I've ever read from an author of note. There's the usual evidence of second novel syndrome in terms of use of pretentious stylistic 'innovations' but weirdly, that's the least of this book's problems. It's a Nick Hornby novel written by someone with apparently nil insight into the male psyche, and a self-proclaimed 'funny' book which didn't make me laugh once (and I laugh out loud at least once to completely serious books with no jokes in whatsoever). People write that The Autograph Man was influenced by the McSweeneys school of thought, but I think McDonalds would be nearer the mark as I found the book a literary equivalent to a bland patty coated in cheap ketchup, served up with casual indifference poorly disguised as an eagerness to please. The result? A book as generic and uninviting as viagra spam. If only I could turn back time and delete before opening.
Just a hunch, but I'm guessing Ted Mooney doesn't get hit upon in bars anywhere near as much as Zadie, so he gets much more time to fully observe human moves. His first novel, Easy Travel To Other Planets really struck a nerve with me in the early 80's, so when I found out that he'd written another couple of books that hadn't been published in the UK, I rooted them out via Amazon. Traffic and Laughter has a truly hideous cover, but is a fantastic read and covers the way TV and movies affect the way we interact with others with much more depth, colour and style than Ms. Smith. There are escapist, soap operatic elements to the book's plot (which features glamourous, articulate characters caught in dramatic, politically-charged intrigue) but Mooney's obsessive attention to detail and ability to weave an intricate, ominous plot makes for better brain food than any book I've read since Pynchon's Mason and Dixon. You feel a smarter, more perceptive person for reading the book, just as it should be.His next book, Singing Into The Piano, similarly makes parallels between the political and personal, but rather than the tentative moves and countermoves of international diplomacy in Traffic and Laughter, here the high-risk strategies of a Mexican soccer hero-turned-presidential candidate are mirrored by the sexual opportunism displayed by a charismatic American couple with whom his personal and political destiny become intertwined. It's a slightly more accessible book than its predecessor in that it's a lighter read, with a less complex narrative and a more intimate cast of characters. I found these characters a little less likeable this time around as it was hard to feel too much sympathy/empathy with people who take such ludicrous chances with their lives. Nevertheless, it's a tense, unsettling book which keeps you guessing right to the end as to how things are going to turn out. I rate this overlooked author so much I think I'm going to start an internet cult - The Mooneys, anyone? Nah, you're right, it'll never catch on.
Robyn kindly bought me Twilight Girls which combines two vintage pulp books from Paula Christian. The first book features the coming out of a vivacious air stewardess as she struggles to define her sexuality following the attentions of a pert colleague, while the follow-up is a darker psychological study of the stewardess spiralling into a nervous breakdown under the intensity of the ensuing relationship. It's good juicy pulp, light on titillation but surprisingly heavy on introspection, providing a good insight into the era (late 50s/early 60s) and some fascinating detail for those with an interest in the early years of commercial air transport.
Zoe Heller's Notes On A Scandal has been selling well on the back of last year's Booker Prize shortlisting, and it's worthy of the attention. It tells the story of an affair between a naive schoolteacher and her young pupil through the eyes of a bitter spinster colleague whose mean-spirited and dismissive observations of the other staff provide much of the surprising belly-laughs contained within. Nevertheless, it's a uniquely British book with a grim, chilling climax that lingers like cold sweat on a clammy grey evening.
Finally, Percival Everett's Erasure isn't a biography of Vince Clark, Andy Bell and co., but a serious and intelligent fiction which examines how easily verisimilitude can be faked. It's high-minded, ambitious stuff but written in a crisp and stylish manner, featuring an intellectual black author who writes a piece of derivative ghetto pulp as a rebuke to the publishing industry, only to find the book a runaway success. Everett was apparently asked whether or not Erasure was autobiographical, to which he replied with genuine incredulity 'Have you actually read the book?!'
Still eager for more guff about books? Check out The Bookclub Blog.
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