Pulitzer 2010

This year's Pulitzer has been announced. Let's hope it's better than last year's Oprah novel.

According to this article in the Guardian, this is the first novel from an independent publisher to have won the Pulitzer since A Confederacy of Dunces. The novel, Tinkers, just looks to be available on Amazon at the moment, although I'm betting now that that small publisher has been completely overwhelmed with orders from bookshops who, a month ago, would have refused to put the book on their shelves.

Le Prix Goncourt 2009

Marie Ndiaye has won France's most prestigious literary prize for her novel Trois Femme Puissantes. Having just recently discovered a love for Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clezio (who won the Nobel Prize in 2008) I am now craving another slice of the French literary pie. I think I'll try and find a copy of this in English. Earhart can show off and read it in French.

Booker Prize 2009

Hilary Mantel has won the Booker Prize for her novel Wolf Hall. Click here to read my earlier post on the Booker where I decided Mantel would definitely NOT win. It is an insightful post.

I will write no more on the subject because I am in bed, although it is the early hour of 7:51 pm. I am finishing up John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces and I have not been this excited about a book since Vernon God Little. Stay tuned for a sickeningly positive review.

My Cold and the Nobel Prize

Good morning dearly devoted readers. I have been convalescing after suffering dreadfully from a revolting cold which I fear may be a harbinger for winter miseries to come. Fortunately, the dreaded swine failed to claim me but I am still determined to spend the next week as close to my bed as possible. This is because Earhart will be arriving shortly and I refuse to be sick for her visit.

In light of my self-imposed laying up I am going to endeavour to catch up with all my book reviews. I hope to post several today, so stay tuned.

If anyone is interested, here is a link to a Guardian article on Amos Oz as the most likely candidate to win the Nobel Prize for Literature this year. Well, the person the bookies are supporting anyway. Remember, the Nobel Prize is awarded for a body of work, not for a single novel. Once nominated, a candidate remains nominated, therefore each year the winner is chosen from an ever increasing list.

Booker Shortlist 2009

I have already waxed lyrical on this blog on how stressed shortlists make me... you can find that overly insightful post here. The Man Booker Shortlist has just been announced and without further ado, I present to you my immediate (although somewhat irrelevant and erroneous) thoughts on the list:

Let's see, let's see. Byatt for The Children's Book. Ffft. Definitely not as good as Possession. I haven't read it... but definitely not as good as Possession. Ohoh! Look who it is! My old friend Coetzee! Yeah whatever Coetzee. I'll pay for the book if you pay for my valium. Next... The Quickening Maze... not ringing a bell. Simon Mawer for The Glass Room. Never heard of it... Gah. Is that two already I haven't heard of? Hilary Mantel... Wolf Hall? What's that about? Wiki... why isn't wiki loading? Yadiyadiyada... political intrigue blah blah blah... HELLO!!! Henry VIII!!!! I think we're in business. Better pick up a copy. That won't win. Actually, I don't know. I'm so out of touch. WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE? I'm drifting and I don't have my finger on the book pulse anymore. I'M PATHETIC. A pale, shrivelled version of a once genius bibliophile. Reduced to nothing but a... OHOHO! What do we have here? Sarah Waters? Well, well, well Pulitzer. Booker is seeing your Oprah-esque novel and raising with LESBIAN ROMPS. Looks like the game of 'Whose Book Prize is Groovier' just got interesting.

Now bookshops around the world must endure the advent of customers racing in to buy those books that two months ago they waved away with a petulant frown, seriously enamoured with their imagined intelligence. "No, no. I want something HIGH BROW. Something like Christos Tsiolkas."

J.M. Coetzee for Summertime

A.S. Byatt for The Children's Book

Sarah Waters for The Little Stranger

Simon Mawer for The Glass Room
Adam Foulds for The Quickening Maze

Hilary Mantel for Wolf Hall

Fantasy with a Capital F

The David Gemmell Legend Prize has just been awarded to Andrzej Sapkowski for his fantasy novel Blood of the Elves. Apparently it's about a mutant assassin which sounds quite promising, but I haven't quite decided if I'll rush out and buy this yet. I tend to try and steer clear of fantasy for one very good reason. I read quite a lot of Tamora Pierce in my younger days. She wrote books about girls who became knights and went around defending their magical kingdom whilst falling in love with loads of guys. They were awesome, but I read them at a time in my teenage years when I was already feeling discontented with the lot I had been allocated. After reading these books I went into a depressed state where I was CERTAIN I was meant to have been born in middle ages. Preferably with magical powers.

And THIS is the problem with fantasy. These novels are so phantasmagorical that you shut the covers of the book feeling that life outside of the pages is quite grey and drab. Why get dressed up for an occasion if a prince in a leather jerkin and blousey shirt isn't going to burst into the room and sweep you up in his arms? Why worry about the terrible crime statistics in Nottingham when, in all likelihood, none of the gangs have ork members? Why go to the gym and train hard when you won't have to strip down to your loincloth and compete in a duel at any point?

I learnt a lot about Tolkien and C.S. Lewis when I did a subject for my English major called "The World of Fantasy". This was probably one of the most stressful classes I took at university. First of all, my wardrobe was ALL WRONG (I wasn't dressed in robes). Secondly, having read Lord of the Rings was NOT ENOUGH to hold your own in the tutorials. If you couldn't recite all of Legolas' songs by heart there was really no point in coming to class. The other students were HARD CORE man.

Again, all this is the fault of a genre which is constructed to put beautiful, heightened and unrealistic worlds JUST within our reach, IF we keep reading fantasy. People who read fantasy tend to stick with what they're comfortable with. You don't get many people coming into the bookshop saying they normally read fantasy, but today they'd quite like a copy of We Need to Talk About Kevin.

Have been thinking about it whilst writing this post and I think I do need to read Sapkowski's novel. I can't, in good faith, pass up a mutant assassin. If you want to read the whole article about the David Gemmell Legend Prize, click here to go to the Guardian article.

Orange Prize 2009

Marilynne Robinson has just been announced the winner of this year's Orange Prize for fiction, for her novel Home. We may get a review up of it shortly.

We may not.

Gilead, Robinson's Pulitzer winning novel, bored me to tears. Apparently, in Home, she is revisiting the same characters, thus effectively neutering any lingering desire I may have felt to read what sounds, essentially, like an Oprah novel.

According to the Guardian, in between these two novels she wrote a 'polemical book about the British nuclear industry." Now, THAT I want to read. 

The Slap (Christos Tsiolkas)

Absolutely wonderful news about good ol' Christos winning the Commonwealth Writer's Prize for The Slap. Even more exciting that it has now been optioned for television. I'm absolutely delirious for Tsiolkas, on an artistically-fulfilling front as well as a monetary one.

It's just seems such a damn shame the book was so reprehensibly awful.

The Slap is set in Melbourne and follows a group of middle class suburbanites as they deal with the fallout after one of them slaps a child who is not his own at a barbecue. What follows is a crude storyline (in content and style), where the generally sensationalised characters are cobbled together in all their selfish and seedy glory to form a stilted plot. I almost wrote a 'plot that limps along', but this indicates a certain underdog aspect of the characters or story, thus rendering this initial thought of mine incorrect. Rather than limping, the novel careers along hopelessly like a drunken, blind neanderthal on an obstacle course.

Other thoughts: I do not like book covers where there is a child crying on the cover (who has, I assume, just been physically hurt); I do not like sexual descriptions where I feel the need to wipe MY EYES out with disinfectant after having read them; and parvenus who adopt a manner of superiority through the employment of too much glitter and Lycra are probably the most annoying people on the planet.

This novel marks the expiration of my tolerance for these novels of modern fiction hailed as glorious when they are, at best, the least awful of a bad bunch and at worst, better never to have been written in the first place. This does not, of course, cover all modern fiction. That is a ridiculous notion. But I am feeling disillusioned and thus am exaggerating accordingly. It worries me sometimes, that humankind has penned every original thought and must now rehash other people's brilliance (and idiocy) for all eternity.

Honestly, it keeps me awake at night.

Thus I made a monumentous decision last night (I have not cleared this with Earhart but anticipate it will not cause her much grief. Also, I am aware monumentous is not actually a word, but I believe it should be). I want to scrap the Monthly Classic, as I would rather turn to these for my main reading material now. It DEPRESSES me, going into the library, standing in front of the classics section and allowing myself a single, miserable title. Think of the riches I shall feel endowed with, now being able to stand there and pile my arms high with Bulgakov, Camus and the like.

I shall, of course, then pop over to the romantic lit section and grab a couple of pastel coloured delicacies. I like to think of them as the literary equivalent of the macaroon.

Oh, and I am still to post on Lord Lucan (William Coles' latest) and must delve at some point into Kate Grenville's The Lieutenant.

Basically, I will still be posting on a wide range of genres, but will allow myself (ourselves) more than one measly classic a month.

Rating: 3/10.

Thoughts I Have Had

When you subscribe to The Economist you get sent the Pocket World in Figures. This is an excellent publication (and before Earhart has a go at me, YES, it is a REAL BOOK, look to the right, there is a picture of it) and I quite enjoy having the GDP of Chile at my fingertips whenever I need it. 

However, I was perusing this informative smorgasbord of a read this evening and I came across a couple of very disturbing facts, which I will get to shortly. As soon as I have justified the fact that I was reading this on a Friday night:

1. The sound on my computer does not work so I cannot watch Susan Boyle on YouTube like the rest of the world.

2. My local is the Reddie, the most dangerous pub in London. I have yet to convince a friend to meet me there.

3. Everywhere else involves walking and... it's raining. AGAIN. 

HENCE The Economist's little book of delights entertaining me this evening.

Now, where was I... oh yes! The disturbing facts. Whilst Australia is top of most lists concerning alcohol it comes depressingly low down in some of the other areas. We are 7th in the world when it comes to students' reading performances. Not bad, but New Zealand beat us. A WORRY. Of course, enrolment in schools isn't a problem. According to the guide, 105% of kids go to primary school and 150% go to secondary school! 

And where are we COMPLETELY ABSENT? Most notably, we don't have any names on the Nobel Prize Winners lists. I know we have had Nobel Prize winners, just not enough to feature them apparently. Patrick White won it for literature as did J.M. Coetzee and we can kind of claim him because he's become an Aussie citizen (with reluctance as I don't really like his work) but that's all I can think of.

So, this is a call to arms. Australians: write more. And write better. And write more prolifically. The French dude who just won the prize? He's got a TONNE of books. Sure, none of them are at all accessible and they're all to do with sensory feelings and perceptions and the mind as a floating organism... but now he's got carte blanche to keep doing what he's always been doing, with a seriously inflated bank balance. 

I've just googled him and his name is Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clezio (hmmm, must be a first-born child. I too have too many names). What I wrote about his work above may seem a little dismissive so let me quote a more concrete description of his body of work for you: "author of new departures, poetic adventure and sensual ecstasy, explorer of a humanity beyond and below the reigning civilization." 

Teehee. 

Thank you for listening. Over and out. 

American Pastoral (Philip Roth)

The long-awaited review! Huzzah huzzah it has arrived! 

Somewhere Philip Roth's eyes are glued to the computer screen, eagerly scanning through my excessive opening prose, yearning to reach the accolades I promised him days, nay WEEKS ago and never delivered. Never fear Philip, you will always be loved here!

American Pastoral is the tale of Seymour "Swede" Levov, a sports star at his local high school in Newark, NY who goes on to marry a former Miss New Jersey and take over his father's glove factory. An idyllic existence is ripped to shreds when his daughter Merry becomes a little too excited about protesting the Vietnam War and blows up the local store and post office. What follows is the Swede's desperate attempt to keep his family together in the wake of his daughter's disappearance.

The first part of American Pastoral is narrated by Nathan Zuckerman, who, five years younger than his hero, has idolised the Swede since he first met him at school. This is a nifty bit of penning on Roth's part: he is able to set up the Swede as this mythic, strong, AMAZING sportsman who was also a great guy going after the American dream. If the whole story had been told by the Swede it would have sounded more than a little naff if the opening chapters had been all "I was so wonderful, I was revered as a Greek GOD, to have met me was to have walked in the shadow of greatness for the briefest of moments..." Yes, I am glad I didn't have to go through that, because it would have made me dislike the Swede and that is something I am NOT PREPARED TO DO.

The Swede is one of the most magnificent characters of modern literature. He is the ultimate martyr yet never insufferably so, he is tall and handsome (Roth SAYS SO, I'm not just imagining this), good at every sport, gentle and thoughtful. Loyal, kind, in control, traditional with a modern twist...*SWOON*. I could go on but will spare you.

Watching the Swede's heart get ripped out as he witnesses his daughter's growing radicalism and subsequent bomb-making expertise that results in four deaths was quite unbearable. I felt tremendously sorry for him, supporting his hysterical wife, consoling the widow of the man his daughter murdered... and all I'm thinking is "Swede! Who is looking after you???" The thought actually crossed my mind, if I was living in Newark, I would have taken him cookies. 

Roth doesn't exactly have an economy of words, like Marquez the anecdotes are packed in until the covers of the book are groaning, but it's all part of the richly textured story and, unlike Marquez, I lapped it all up. I think it's because of the faith I have in Roth. If he wants me to know that much about how to make a leather glove there's gotta be a good reason!

It was also satisfying to read a book about American culture and have it not be a parody or a vitriolic tirade of hatred written by a belligerent youngster. Instead, Roth has created an intelligent comment on America that ultimately, is no comment at all, but rather an offering of characters and events that play themselves out with little obvious manipulation from the author. 

Exceptional, glorious and, above all ELEGANT, Philip Roth I salute you. 

Rating: 9/10. 

The Plague of Doves (Louise Erdrich)

I know I referenced this book in my post about Olive Kitteridge, saying that I was enjoying it greatly and that it was quite marvellous.

Maybe I can blame what happened next on the rather awful bug I've had... I got bored a few chapters past thinking it was "quite marvellous" and discarded The Plague of Doves, finalist for the Pulitzer this year, for this book:

I am ABSOLUTELY not proud of the fact that I devoured this in about two hours, intermittently sipping green tea, feeling sorry for myself, casting baleful glances at The Plague of Doves and ensuring the cover was face down in case anybody passing by my living room window happened to be close enough to see what the book was called.

I'm not going to lie... this was NOT GOOD. But I feel I do have to share this one little bit o' prose with you, when the hero (Wade) is hinting at his feelings towards the less attractive of a pair of twins (with both of whom he has had an affair): "I love red meat. It doesn't have to be fancy."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Seriously, why would you read anything else when you've got double entendres like that?

Although, truth be told, I feel I may have to give Erdrich's novel another chance, I think I may have been unfair in my quick judgement. Also, Philip Roth said it was a "dazzling masterpiece" and I ADORE Philip Roth. I mentioned him in an earlier post where I said that American Pastoral had definitely deserved to win the Pulitzer. I got to thinking and realised I hadn't actually read it. Oops. This is why I am such a good bookseller.

So, coming up, Philip Roth's American Pastoral!

Ratings:

The Plague of Doves: 8/10 (I'm going on my earlier gut feelings about this).

The Soldier's Seduction: 2/10 (I speak with the authority of having read the entire thing).

Olive Kitteridge (Elizabeth Strout)

AMERICA.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

I have just finished Olive Kitteridge, the novel which just won the Pulitzer. It is amazingly meh. Don't get me wrong, it's very well written. The character of Olive is nicely developed. She has enormous flaws and a grating voice that seems to jump off the page and gnaw at your eardrums yet the reader still feels a great liking and empathy for her.

But ye gods, where is the originality? Where is the x-factor? Where (at the risk of sounding like Billy Flynn) is the pizazz?

I also take issue with the plot, or lack thereof. NOTHING HAPPENS. Everything is alluded to, but no events really ever actually take place. As soon as something interesting is about to happen Strout skips ahead and has her characters looking back at the interesting event. Of course, said interesting event will have been traumatic so the characters don't allow themselves to remember it properly and instead we just get fragments that slip through their emotional defenses. I was sitting there mentally screaming at the book: "Have a meltdown. CRACK. PPLLLEEAASSEE. Emotionally purge yourself. Scream at a person passing by in the street. ANYTHING. I just need to know what's happening!"

There are so many characters as well that I got confused. I would read it again for clarification, but I can't be bothered. I think there may have been two Kevins. Either that or poor old Kevin had one hell of a time.

However, I am about a quarter of the way through The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich, which was one of the runners-up and it is MARVELLOUS. So a favourable review should follow shortly, unless Erdrich drops the ball halfway through.

Rating: 7/10.

Winner of Pulitzer Prize for Fiction 2009

The winners have just been announced for the 2009 Pulitzer Prize and Elizabeth Strout has snapped up the prize for fiction for her collection of short stories entitled Olive Kitteridge. The other two finalists were The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich and All Souls by Christine Schutt. For the full list of winners and finalists in all categories, click on the link above to go to the official Pulitzer website.

TYPICALLY, none of the ones we have read won or were finalists, but we'll get reviews up ASAP.

Congratulations Ms. Strout (for the award and the prize money only, we'll reserve praise for the stories until we've actually read them. You never know...)

And our scientist friend is also to be congratulated- two of the three finalists (including the winner) were on his list of predictions. Check out the list again here.

PUHLEASE-itzer 2009

Tomorrow, at 3pm EST, the Pulitzer will be announced and we are both very, very excited.

That... is a lie.

The Pulitzer is always a bit hit and miss. The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao was... NOT wow (I am HILARIOUS)... March was no more than glorified fan-fiction... I have tried to read The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay so many times it is now my Everest... The Hours was soporific.

Which doesn't mean the judges cannot recognise brilliance. American Pastoral was superb, The Road was phenomenal and To Kill a Mockingbird... enough said.

The Pulitzer is a different award to most in that it does not announce a shortlist- on the day we are just presented with the winner and a runner-up. A very intelligent man (who obviously needs more to do) built a model last year predicting the 10 books most likely to win the Pulitzer. Considering he had both the winner and the runner-up on the list, that's pretty nifty regression analysis in my opinion. (Ahem, I have no idea what that means, I lifted it from the article.) If you want to read the rest of the article, including the list of books he predicts for 2009, click here.

I've only read four on the list: A Mercy by Toni Morrison, Indignation by Philip Roth, Netherland by Joseph O'Neil, and Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri. I didn't like the last, so I'm not pushing for that and on the others I'm undecided, but I reckon Netherland is in with a pretty good chance, at either winner or runner-up. (If only because it's about cricket.)

Undoubtedly it will go to one I haven't read... sigh. Starving children in Africa have NOTHING on me and my troubles.

Most punters seem to be backing Morrison's prequel to her Pulitzer-winning Beloved, but we'll all know tomorrow. Any further predictions are welcome, but they don't count after 3pm EST.

The agony of shortlists...

I find the announcement of literary awards shortlists quite stressful. One could argue I am already a relatively anxious person and thus during this period I feel remarkably unhinged. This is basically what goes through my head when reading a shortlist:

Oh yeah, that was good... WHAT? That was TERRIBLE!... What the hell was that? Do I know that book?... Oh I never got around to reading that DAMMIT... Seriously, what is that title? Should I ask? Has everyone else read it? Will they judge me?... Oh, I LOVED that! I want that to win.... Unless I want that random title to win. It's probably going to win and everyone will know I am TOTALLY USELESS for not having even HEARD of it. I want to kill myself.

See? Stressful.

The Man Booker International shortlist has just been announced. It's different from the Man Booker in that it is only awarded every two years and is based on a body of work rather than a single title (like the Nobel Prize for Literature). Publishers cannot nominate books, the judges compile their own lists of contenders. Again, it was hardly a calm experience for me:

Peter Carey: Sigh, oh I suppose. Yes, ok. But he's not my favourite. Who else is on here?

Evan S Connell: I thought he was dead.

Mahasweta Devi: Ack. No idea who she is.

E.L. Doctorow: Man, that book about the American Civil War was BORING.

James Kelman: Hmmm ok.

Mario Vargas Llosa: He's from Peru. I need to get there. The Bad Girl was a good read.

Arnost Lustig: Ack. Second author I don't know. I am a MORON.

Alice Munro: No. I don't like you.

V.S. Naipaul: YAY! I approve.

Joyce Carol Oates: What the? NO. If she wins I will set fire to myself.

Antonio Tabucchi: Meh.

Ngugi Wa Thiong'o: Well, if I could read Gikuyu I would have read some of his stuff. I can only speak English, I'm pathetic. I bet I would be a better person if I could speak an African language. Hah, and I would have it ALL OVER Earhart, she only speaks French.

Dubravka Ugresic: Third author I do not know. I am a DISGRACE.

Ludmila Ulitskaya: Wait, did she write a book with her name as the title? CONCEITED! No, wait, that was DBC Pierre who wrote Ludmila's Broken English. HE should be on the list. Vernon God Little was GENIUS.

So, I think I want DBC Pierre to win. He's not nominated and he's only written two books, not really enough to be considered a 'body of work'. But that's who I'm cheering on.

Galaxy British Book Awards

THESE are the book awards that count. Ignore the Booker... the PUHLEASEitzer... the Miles Franklin. With categories like the "Sainsbury's Popular Fiction Award" and the "Play.com Popular Non-Fiction Award" the Galaxy British Book Awards (the Oscars of the Book World!) should be the gong that every writer dreams of.

Richard and Judy have a category as well and I'm glad to see my old acquaintance The 19th Wife has picked up a nomination for their best read of the year... sigh.

I was most amused to read the nominations for the "Tesco Biography of the Year"; Dawn French, Barack Obama and Julie Walters all racing neck and neck towards the nail-biting conclusion that will make last November look like a walk in the park.

However, the best quote from the website is the description of the judging panel for the big prize, The Galaxy Book of the Year: "(It) will be determined by an elite and bi-partisan chapter of the Academy of the British Book Industry."

Phew.

I was worried they hadn't quite realised the ENORMITY of these awards, but I'm glad to see they're taking them seriously.

Author Love: Cormac McCarthy

'Tis tasteless, I fear, to follow on from the Still Waters post with a review of Martin Amis' Dead Babies. I'll look as though I'm falling into a reading rut. Hence, this homage to Cormac McCarthy.

Those who are well acquainted with McCarthy's work will be aware of the general mood his stories take: dark, twisted, violent, despairing, barren and ultimately apocalyptic basically sums him up. His most recent work (The Road) won the 2007 Pulitzer and was his most emotionally traumatic to date. His style seems to have evolved into more simplistic prose over the years, and to great effect. One could argue that no dialogue and descriptive text could be simpler than in The Road, yet only McCarthy would be able to turn these words into a passionate, desperate reaching of hands towards a hopeless, extinguishing light.

The Road has been made into a film with Viggo Mortensen as the father. I personally feel that Paul Bettany would have been an excellent choice. I know he could bring the darkness and desperate humanity needed to the role. Viggo is just plain moody. Also, I don't think I'd be able to worry about his survival or future. To me, he will always be able to fall back on the help of the elves. This ruins the suspense somewhat.

That is all hypothetical because I could barely read the novel; seeing it on the big screen may, in fact, shatter me to my deepest possible emotional depths. I can't even go into more detailed descriptions of The Road; it's too upsetting for me and FAR more destabilising for you to just pick it up and read it.

The book I've just read however, is Outer Dark. An earlier work of McCarthy's, it is much easier to read and not nearly as emotionally traumatising. It tells the story of a young woman (Rinthy) who gives birth to her brother Culla's child. He abandons the baby in the woods and lies about his death to Rinthy. The story then follows brother and sister in their desperate yet separate searches for redemption.

With allusions to the Bible, King Lear and Snow White this could have turned into a symbolic nightmare. Well, it's definitely still a nightmare, but in a TOTALLY good way, if you can stomach incest* and cannibalism. It's a dark parable, with no moral message at the end, just the destruction of hope and love.

I think it's a good introduction to McCarthy, with enough of the fable in it to not seem real (that way it's not as scary). Alternatively, you could start with No Country for Old Men, which is considered McCarthy 'light'.

Outer Dark/No Country for Old Men: 9/10.
The Road: 10/10.

*Incidentally, I CAN stomach incest. I think it's because I have no brothers. I can't comprehend the grossness of the situation.

Disgrace (J.M. Coetzee)

Much as I would love to join the almost universal, prodigious admiration that surrounds J.M. Coetzee's Disgrace, I find my feet dragging somewhat.

This concerns me. Structurally, linguistically, the novel is beyond reproach. It tells the story of David Lurie, a professor of communications at a university in Cape Town. He is forced to resign when an affair with one of his (very) young students becomes public. He leaves Cape Town and finds refuge on his daughter's farm in Grahamstown. Set in a post-Apartheid South Africa, Coetzee uses this as a backdrop for Lurie's growing awareness of his own character as a terrible event befalls the family.

Here is where we start with the problems. We know he's really into women, that he's in his 40's yet still bedding 20 year olds. But when David starts to lust after a young teenager I lost all feelings of empathy for him. In fact, I felt I couldn't have any confidence in him anymore. Admittedly, he's a character in a book, not someone I'm walking down the aisle towards, but still. You know you have serious trust issues with a character when you wonder if he's hitting on Lucy.
Who is a lesbian.
Oh, and his daughter.

The characters lack definition, humanity. After tragedy strikes and they are attempting to deal with the aftermath, soft spots begin to show, hidden traumas appear not as easily dismissed. Yet nothing resonates, it still feels cold. The characters felt like they were all cemented in place, with no room for growth or change.

The idea of animals as the canvases on which a person's humanity becomes imprinted is continuous throughout the novel. I understood this, I got the connection. I certainly didn't need to be slapped around the head with the symbolism when David graphically imagines castrating himself. I did feel a swelling of emotion when Lurie describes how the men at the incinerator beat the bodies of dead dogs to break their bones so they fit properly in the furnace. Although, again, definitely something I could have lived without.

At the novel's denouement David is composing an opera, based on Lord Byron's life. Coetzee takes pains to draw the lines of parallel between Lord Byron, his Theresa and what has occured in David's own life, but this doesn't solve of the problem of where David, a communications professor, suddenly felt he had the gumption and talent to write an opera. This seems a ridiculous, overly-romantic end to what is a very bleak novel.

Boyd Tonkin of The Independent states that Disgrace is "...perhaps the best novel to carry off the Booker in a decade." I have feelings of self-doubt, anxiety. Clearly, I'm an ill-educated moron who doesn't understand the subtle nuances of Coetzee's writing. But then I remember The Remains of the Day, The English Patient and The God of Small Things.
Yeah, whatever, BOYD.

At just 220 pages in length, I doubt there are many novelists who could pack so much intensity and detail into what is a very short novel. I understand that I am speaking from the point of view of someone who has never lived in South Africa, never experienced Apartheid and its after-effects. I completely agree that Coetzee is a masterful creator of prose.

None of this means I had to like it.

Rating: 7/10.

Newbery not Newbury

For those not in the know: Neil Gaiman = Love.

And the good people who are in charge of awarding the Newbery Medal obviously agree seeing as The Graveyard Book was just announced as the 2009 winner. Can I get a hells yeah? This news made me breathe a sign of relief...perhaps not all is lost in the world of children's book awards. To elaborate...

For the past couple of years there has been a worrying trend in the winners of children's book awards such as the Newbery Medal, and the Children's Book Council of Australia (CBCA) Awards. The books being named as winners are often not books which are suitable (or enjoyable!) for children to read. Take last year's winner of the CBCA Picture Book of the Year award: Requiem for a Beast by Matt Ottley. While this book is indeed stunning to look at, and visually powerful, it was described by the CBCA judges themselves as 'neither a comfortable nor a happy read'. Now I am the last person who would ever say that picture books are just for children, there are numerous picture books, Ottley's included, which you have to be an older reader to understand. However, I feel that an award put out by the CBCA should honour books which are in fact suitable for children. Similarly, last year's winner of the Newbery Medal, Good Masters! Sweet Ladies! Voices from a Medieval Village by Laura Amy Schiltz, has been described as 'a book most children would find inaccessible'.

Basically, who cares if kids are scared/confused/bewildered... the important thing is the book 'has a message'.

Ridiculous.

So...The Graveyard Book...

When he was just a baby, Nobody 'Bod' Owens managed to escape from the (sociopathic) killer who murdered the rest of his family. He wanders into the nearby graveyard where the local ghosts decide to take him in. He is raised halfway between the world of the living and the world of the dead, and educated by a nomadic vampire. This is Gaiman's answer to Kipling's The Jungle Book. Instead of Baloo the Bear, we have Silas the Undead. Told in a similar episodic manner to The Jungle Book, we get to see Bod slowly grow up, and come to the realisation that perhaps he isn't the most normal of children.

You have only to read Gaiman's profanity laden reaction to the news that he won the Newbery to realise that perhaps he isn't what most people would think of when they picture a children's book author, but his books are always right on target.

So go out and read it now, I promise you won't regret it.

8/10.

Costa Book Awards 2009

Let's just do a quick review of what the Costa Book Awards are, shall we? Named by wikipedia as one of the U.K.'s most prestigious literary prizes, they were originally called the Whitbread Book Awards. Most people may not know that Costa is actually a subsidiary of Whitbread, so essentially sponsorship has stayed within the company. So basically, they were sponsored by a hospitality giant and now are sponsored by a coffee chain. They often award the prize for best novel on populist terms, weighing the quality of the literature against the appeal it has to the masses. I like to think of them as the book award that caters (hah) to the lowest common denominator.

That being said, we shouldn't begin to judge the winner until we have actually opened the covers and had a bit of a read.

Just like we shouldn't assume greatness with the Man Booker or Pulitzer awards. I mean, what happened in 2006? The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai beat out several promising contenders, none more so than The Secret River by Kate Grenville. The latter had all the fixings of a modern-day masterpiece and Grenville's predigree to back it up. Instead, the award went to Desai, who wrote a well-written, nicely thought-out story.

Period.

No X-factor = no award in my mind, but I'm not on the judging panel.

Don't even get me started on the PUH-LEASEitzer. I'm not suggesting Geraldine Brooks isn't a wonderful author. However I've only ever seen this wonderful authorship in one novel: The Year of Wonders. It's always a bad sign I feel when everyone considers your first novel your best. Better to stop right there and be a one-hit wonder than slowly peter towards the pedestrian. March, winner of the 2006 Pulitzer (maybe it was something about that year) was nothing more than glorified fan fiction. And People of the Book was interesting in the historical sections, but ruined by the interspersing of the most annoying 'modern' woman Brooks could conjure to tie the story together.

The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry has just been announced the winner of this year's Costa Book Awards. It was actually nominated for the Man Booker last year, which is why I realised it sounded so familiar, yet was also sure I hadn't read it. I'm not sure the actual award is a consolation prize for missing out on the Booker, (COFFEE award people, it's a COFFEE AWARD), but I'm sure the 25 000 pounds will help.