Shades of Grey (Jasper Fforde)

Oh, hilarity, thou art a wily mistress! I can remember you, remember your strength, your cleverness, your vivacity. But ask me to give examples of this and I have limited material to work with. Thus, I go searching for the source of the pleasure you gave me with my best friend Google and I find myself at best underwhelmed by what I read. This is the curse you lay on me, in payback for the pleasure I experience in your hands. You allow me to laugh out loud and open your covers with glee, but, when I try to revisit the funny parts without committing to reading the whole book again, there is no help, no mercy.

READ THE BOOK AGAIN FOOL you shout. OR MOVE ON.

Hilarity, I think, would be a shouter. Misery is a moaner. Anger is any volume spoken with clenched jaw. Sadness is a whisper or a shouter, depending on how attention-seeking it is feeling.

All this to say that I can't quite remember why Shades of Grey was so freaking hilarious, just, trust me, it was.

A half-assed post, I apologise. I am still getting back into this blogging thing. I will try harder on my next post, I promise. If not, you, our dearly beloved readers, can draw and quarter me and offer up my body as a sacrifice to the blogging Gods.

Sexing the Cherry (Jeanette Winterson)

Oh I really don't know Jeanette. This was just a tad too over the top for me.

Hark? What's this you say? You LOVE magical realism Alcott. You adore it. How will you NOT be citing this novel as a sublime source of inspiration when you finally have an oeuvre to call your own?

I didn't read it in one swift gulp. Perhaps that is why I wasn't completely enamoured with this trip of a novel. It's hard to read something called Sexing the Cherry when you work with children. I had to hide it between the covers of a Where's Waldo. The unanimous verdict is that I SUCK at Where's Waldo.

This is a highly theatrical novel. The characters of Jordan and The Dog Woman are not quite sculpted enough to be real, which adds to the ethereal nature of their journey. I say ethereal, but that doesn't sound quite right. That word is so beautiful, filled with light and music. These characters are dark and putrid and flea-ridden and grotesque. They are without softness, which makes their struggle towards gentleness that much stranger. Essentially, this is the story of a mother and son moving towards a discovery of themselves, with some hilariously bizarre humour, disgusting anecdotes and a fairytale thrown in for good measure.

Something about this novel made me think of Russell Brand. I can imagine him on stage, flinging out lines of prose from the story; scurrying to and fro imitating The Dog Woman's misconception of fellatio, Jordan's quest for Fortunata, the twelve dancing princesses slowly but surely annihilating their husbands. Brand, for all his curmudgeonly ways, has a likeability and empathy about him which would bring joy to the words. As they are now, Winterson's story reads as though it has no sympathy for human frailty. I feel like the book is waiting to swallow me whole if I am not strong enough to read it. To be scared of the book you are reading is entirely unsettling.

Alternatively, the other setting where I can see the prose from this novel fitting admirably is a group of players, waltzing down a street on market day in a parade, loudly declaiming the lines, entirely naked. The words they shout draw the crowds and then, one by one, the players pick off the weaklings and eat them. The bones they throw to a pack of salivating Shar-Peis.

Unsettling.

I THOUGHT I had a friend back in Australia who told me with glee she got most of her sex education from this book. I profess myself worried, although I suspect that maybe she said The Passion, also by Winterson.

I bloody hope so.

Rating: 7/10.

Twenties Girl (Sophie Kinsella)

Every so often you pick a book off a shelf, ignoring the glitz and sparkle of the front cover. You skate past the sad details of the effervescent heroine's life; you ignore the fact that the gushing review on the back comes from Cosmopolitan; you most certainly allow temporary insanity to take over as you grudgingly raise your eyebrows at the description of the love-interest and, miraculously, it is all worth it. The book turns out to be witty instead of that perfectly damning word 'funny', inspiring instead of merely big-hearted, diverting instead of ridiculous.

This happens very rarely with chick-lit. Normally this is a genre that is abominable at best. Sophie Kinsella has, in the past, proven herself a cut above the rest in the literary plains of pink mediocrity. Mainly because she is gorgeously funny, not because she talks about Things That Matter. There was a chickpea incident in The Undomestic Goddess... they were overcooked when she was trying to make hummus... ANYWAY. You probably had to be there.

So, battling yet ANOTHER chest infection (I don't want to leave London, yet I am so excited to be going back to Australia for at least a short while where my poor, weak, asthmatic lungs don't have to do battle with the elements every freaking minute of my existence) I decided the new Sophie Kinsella was perfect to get me through a day or two in bed.

It was not. It was SHITE. Ghosts. A mysterious necklace. A stupid heroine. A two-dimensional love-interest. Several cringe-worthy scenes involving said ghost, the Charleston and an eighty-five year old lipstick. Kinsella will be hearing from my lawyer soon because this novel pushed me over the brink from sick to manically depressed. (It's a fine line with me. I am not a good patient.)

In an embarrassing comparison, I also read Skulduggery Pleasant during my convalescence. I told Earhart I was most jealous about the fact she was able to meet Derek Landy last month, author of this overly excellent series for children. Of course, I realised I hadn't actually read any of this series and thus stole the first book off a nine year old I know.

I can now add 'skeleton detective' to my list of things that I Like Very Much. I am slightly concerned about Skulduggery's burgeoning friendship with a young teenage girl. Aside from the legal aspects, it is the possibility of future acts of necrophilia that REALLY worries me. However, Derek Landy is a professional. I am sure he will handle any such scenes with the appropriate tact and class.

Although a children's book, the dialogue, language and structure are streets ahead of Sophie Kinsella. The humour is sharper, the plot tighter and the characters more believable. Yes. Skulduggery Pleasant and Ghastly Bespoke are more realistic than Ed and Lara. POOR EFFORT Sophie.

Next up- Some Prefer Nettles by Junichiro Tanizaki.

Twenties Girl- 4/10.

Skulduggery Pleasant- 7/10.

Anthropology and a Hundred Other Stories (Dan Rhodes)

My day was highly enjoyable. I made my way to Chalk Farm and walked the five minutes to Primrose Hill under a sky that was depressingly overcast, even for England. I had a coffee at the patisserie there, which was, actually, quite disgusting. (You can see how good the rest of my day must have been if this is how it started).

I then made my way to Primrose Hill Books. This is the only bookshop to rival Hatchards in London I believe. And it is TINY. Ridiculously small. But the stock is chosen with a great deal of care and attention and it shows. There is not really any crap in there at all. And because of their lack of space, the staff are forced to pile all the books on top of each other. Unless you are committed to digging into piles, you'll miss most of the titles.

Genius.

Then I had lunch in the awesome Russian tea house there (the latkes are sublime) and a simply gorgeous elderly man leant across from the next table and struck up a conversation with me about Nick Hornby (I was finishing off Juliet,Naked). He turned out to be a very esoteric and surreal conversationalist so that was highly enjoyable. The dialogue swooped from Hornby to Pepys to apple crumble with alarming speed and before I knew it we had nudged our tables together and were sharing a pot of honey tea. I would feel chuffed that I had made a new friend, but it was so exhausting I don't know if I shall instigate any further correspondence.

One of the books I purchased was Dan Rhodes' Anthropology. It is a selection of 101 extremely short stories (each only about a paragraph long) and it is a very funny, (if bittersweet and slightly twisted) comment on love. In Rhodes' stories the women hold all the power and the poor, hapless man in each story is moved to great joy or despair depending on the seemingly vacuous whims of the fairer sex.

My two favourite stories are 'Sailing' and 'Words' and I will risk copyright infringement to share them with you here:

Sailing

My girlfriend cannot play the guitar. She strums slowly, erratically and woefully out of time. She sucks her lips in concentration, and sometimes stalls for as many as fifteen seconds between chord changes. When she stops playing, her eyes are bright with anticipation. 'OK. What was that?'

'I'm not sure. Was it "Moon River"?'

'No.' She looks disappointed. 'It was "We Are Sailing". You know, by Paul McCartney.' She starts another, and I know I won't be able to identify it, no matter how hard I try. This has been going on for seven perfect years. I hope she never learns.

Words

I fell in love the moment I saw her in her grandfather's kitchen, her dark curls crashing over her Portuguese shoulders. 'Would you like to drink coffee?' she smiled.

'I'm really not that thirsty.'

'What? What you say?' Her English wasn't too good. Now I'm seventy-three and she's just turned seventy. 'Would you like to drink coffee?' she asked me today, smiling.

'I'm really not that thirsty.'

'What? What you say?' Neither of us has the gift of language acquisition. After fifty years of marriage we have never really spoken, but we love each other more than words can say.

Rating: 8/10.

New Moon (Stephenie Meyer)

I am already grinning to myself and have yet to write anything.

I just went to see New Moon, the second film of The Twilight Saga.

Ahhh. Where to begin?

I feel I should start with saying that this film is probably 300% better than the first film. (Review here). The new director has obviously not insisted on an insipid blue wash and allows the actors some actual screen time to emote, rather than racing the camera around them psychotically.

However, the film still suffered from the same problem that the Harry Potter films (especially the early ones) had- they are virtually incomprehensible to someone who has not read the novels. I mean, you could understand what was going on. But you would be pardoned for being under the impression that the books are eratically plotted, totally vacuous and remarkably two-dimensional. Not the case (well, not ENTIRELY the case).

The Twilight books are not GOOD... but they are a phenomenon. These books are the pinnacle of guilty pleasure reading. Odd, dangerous, melodramatic and ultimately supremely fulfilling. The films pale in comparison.

Yet still, as I mentioned before, this film was a vast improvement on the first. I almost fell out of my seat when Taylor Lautner appeared on screen, thirty pounds heavier than in the first movie. That, in itself, made the 8 pounds and unimpressive popcorn worth it. Add to the mix the fact that Robert Pattinson was given about three lines and five minute of screen time to sulk and you'll see the movie was positively five star compared to Twilight.

There's been a lot of press about the books as outlets for Stephenie Meyer to publicise her Mormon beliefs and racist, Aryan views. There's probably a lot of truth to this. The portrayal of the Quileutes is definitely questionable and Edward as the supreme enforcer of familial values and chastity is quite unnerving when combined with the stalking, controlling behaviour and omniscience Meyer depicts as charming, loving behaviour.

None of which appears with any sort of prominence in either film. Bella is far more in control in the films and Edward highly ridiculous compared to his written persona. Bella can dismiss him with a withering "Just... shut up." Edward slumps against a wall, defeated. Pathetic. In addition, you can see that the producers seem to be keeping abreast of political correctness. Even if they are from Utah.

At least the books offer some escapist fun. This film is redeemable only as an homage to Jacob Black's amazing abs.

A Confederacy of Dunces (John Kennedy Toole)

I arrive at beginning this review feeling conflicted. Not, it must be stressed, as to the quality of the novel, but rather at how one goes about reviewing a book so transcendentally... loud.

Mmm, that's right, LOUD is the word I have come up with to describe John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces. I toyed with 'brilliant', contemplated 'glorious torrent of cynical social commentary', seriously considered 'rich in passion, laid on thickly with Toole's impressive voice, seasoned with insight and spiced with humour; the book is obese with ambition and serves up a literary dish fit for a king.'

However, I settled on 'loud'.

What other adjective should one use when talking about a book that shouts its revolted social commentary at such decibels? When our hero can be spotted from a satellite, not only because of his size but also because of the voluminous white hot dog vendor smock he wears, surely the best word for him is 'loud'? When the mention of Ignatius J. Reilly inspires giggles and nervous tension in the same breath; when each of the supporting cast beats me over the head with their incessant bleatings that serve to brand every one of them on my memory indelibly... that's BLOODY LOUD.

A Confederacy of Dunces is about nothing and because of that, it is about everything. You know those books that have a hook- making them easy to sell to the undiscerning buyer. "It's about a salmon fishing project in the Yemen. I know right? HAHAHAHAHAHA. That's $22.95." Alternatively: "It's not girly! I mean, I know the cover is hot pink, but it's a retelling of A Room with a View! Obviously you've read that, right? Would you call E.M Forster chick-lit? WOULD YOU? Exactly. That's $22.95".

If I tried to sell A Confederacy of Dunces, I would revert to one tactic and one tactic only: "New Orleans in the 1960s. An obese hot dog vendor with three University degrees and an inflated vocabulary. A crumbling pants factory whose employees are drunk/ancient or delusional. A seedy nightclub whose owner distributes pornography to orphans. TRUST ME."

The novel, in my opinion, is made even more compelling with the foreword written by Walker Percy. He explains that Toole's mother contacted him in 1976 with this manuscript. Her son had killed himself and left it behind and she was determined to get it published. Who was this young man who wrote such a masterpiece? I can't help feeling that many of Ignatius' thoughts on the human condition and the depravity of society are mirrors of what Toole himself may have been thinking, caught in a web of depression that would ultimately end his life. At times Ignatius exhibits an obstructed self-hatred; when denying a customer a hot dog he asks- "Are you unnatural enough to want a hot dog this early in the afternoon?" ignoring the fact he has just consumed three himself. (I know this is not an overly obvious example of self-hatred, there are others, but this was the only one I could find. It's a big book!) It saddens me to think of Toole, perhaps subsumed with self-hatred, churning out the pages of Dunces in an attempt to expurgate and externalise the self-scorn he contained within.

On a slightly removed yet still related note, it's great to meet a new friend who enjoys reading, even more so to discover said friend is not a moron and has seriously stellar taste in literature. I'm always a bit wary when people start recommending books to me. My default position is that I know more about books than most people and if you're recommending a book to me I've never read then it probably isn't any good and I've skipped it for a reason. This new friend, having talked up Toole's novel, has now been elevated to position of a Person Whose Recommendations I Can Trust. Which is always nice in these uncertain times.

Rating: 10/10.

Paris and How To Be Topp

Earhart and I had the most wonderful time in Paris, being cultural etc. I am not really allowed to speak French when I am with my sister. She rolls her eyes and looks pained whenever I open my mouth. Apparently all my phrases are seriously dated- I tend to say the equivalent of "That's so nifty!" instead of "Cool!" and I am more likely to ask how the time is feeling instead of the more useful (yet so predictable) "What is the time?"

The most ridiculous thing that happened to me over our French weekend occurred in a bistro on Sunday afternoon. Having excused myself to go to the bathroom I came back to the table and sat down, feeling a bit bemused.

"I haven't used a squat toilet since Japan." I said, giggling slightly. "It was a bit tricky."

One of the other girls we were with looked at me strangely. "It's just a normal toilet." she protested, confused.

We went up to investigate and... I now know what a french urinal looks like.

Which is why Shakespeare and Co is such a haven for me. Any bookshop is a joy to be in, but an English bookshop surrounded by a sea of mostly incomprehensible conversations is truly an oasis of calm. The bookshop opposite Notre Dame was our first stop when we arrived in Paris and we wandered around for a good long while, soaking in the ink and paper (pretentious but true). I considered purchasing many things (it seems I am ridiculously uneducated when it comes to Orwell- he didn't just write three books! Who knew?) Ultimately, however, I parted with only a small denomination of euros for a book I have heard much about but never read: How To Be Topp: A guide to Sukcess for tiny pupils, including all there is to kno about SPACE.

I had been told by a very reputable source in Bath that this book was brilliant and hilarious and thus I opened it with excitement. 45 minutes later (it is not long) I closed it, a fixed smile on my face. I had laughed out loud in several chapters and a chuckle was kept ever ready. However, I confess I was DETERMINED to find the book funny and charming and thus forced the laughter out of myself.

I do not blame the book nor the source. I feel that the book is much more relevant for a boy who went to private school about 40 years ago. I'm sure said boy (now a man) would be clutching his sides in stitches of laughter, gasping for a glass of water. Thus, I shall send this book to my father. I am certain he will find it most amusing. If not, I shall at least get some brownie points for sending him something. He will be touched that I purchased naught for myself in Shakespeare and Co but thought immediately of my darling pater and how much he would enjoy this book.

I only hope his assurance that he reads the blog every day is a fib.

Rating: 7-9/10, depending on reader demographic.

The Mistress (Martine McCutcheon)

Oh god this was horrendous. Not in a good way. I didn't feel the guilty, glorious satisfaction I fully intend to feel when Bai Ling's autobiography Nipples is released. I don't know if she has a publishing deal yet but I can't wait to get my hands on a copy of what I feel is going to be a phantasmagorical masterpiece.

No, no, poor old Martine McCutcheon, on the other hand, has merely produced a truly awful piece of pedestrian drivel, catering to the lowest common denominator. It reads like it was written by a thirteen year old who takes remedial English. I don't blame the thirteen year old. She doesn't know any better. She's never read an entire book before! The fault, Your Honour, lies with the publisher, Pan Macmillan. Who, interestingly enough, decided to release the first chapter of The Mistress online... which can only serve to severely diminish sales. P-Mac? You need a new marketing team.

The heroine Mandy immediately proves herself to be an intelligent, insightful character. Through McCutcheon's masterful grasp of the English language we are introduced to Mandy as she is getting ready for a big night out to celebrate her thirtieth birthday. In the cab on the way to her party she waxes lyrical on London's appeal: "... it felt to Mandy like the most exhilarating city in the world, with the speed of New York, but the history of a Paris or a Rome."

Any Paris, any Rome. Just one of them.

Mandy soon feels a burning sensation on the side of her head when she gets to the party. I was excited, thinking that the candelabra at the Wolseley had set her shining dark mop on fire, but it turns out to be a guy, staring intently at her from across the room. Cue guy meets girl plus obstacles scenario... yadiyadiyada... he's married, with two beautiful boys, sob. I'm welling up. Wait! Mandy can't deal with this right now! Her birthday cake is coming out!

If you want to read the entire chapter, click here. If you want to pre-order The Mistress (the first in a series of three!!!) get in your car, drive to a Thames or a Nile and THROW YOURSELF IN.

Martine, dearest, you cannot write. If you need some cash, may I suggest getting a job as Gordon Brown's secretary? I'm sure he'd have you. He knows you're qualified.

Rating: 2/10.

Remember, 1/10 is saved for books that actually CAUSE HARM. Despite McCutcheon's best efforts, this is no Mein Kampf.

Look Who It Is! (Alan Carr)

I have mentioned before on this blog that Alan Carr ENCHANTS me. I can't explain it, but when I watch him on television I want to be his friend. When I read his twitter account (don't you dare judge me) I want to cause grievous bodily harm to those who insult him.

How can anyone dislike a man who says he'd take a cup of tea over drugs any day, because you can't dip a biscuit in crystal meth?

HOW?

The family I was living with in December found it overly amusing that I had so much adoration for Alan. They would call me when Celebrity Ding Dong (Aussie readers... you're missing out!) was on and I would come rushing in, a huge grin already stretched across my face. The opening credits would be playing, Alan would be grooving to Fat Boy Slim's Weapon of Choice and I would literally feel no pain or sadness for the following hour. 

So, you can imagine my exultation when I discovered Alan's autobiography. Look Who It Is! Alan Carr: My Story was the most enjoyable book I have read in a seriously long time. Considering he's only been a famous comedian for about ten minutes the book is not so much about name-dropping and more about his childhood, growing up in Northampton with his parents and younger brother. Alan has said in the past that he never came out to his parents, mainly because "he was never in" and from the stories in his book you can see this is quite true. Alan appears to have been exuberantly self-deprecating, loving and totally 100% gay from the moment he was born and his parents seemed to have been quite clued in. His father (a football coach) used to make him run laps to lose weight, calling him "a fat fairy" and his mother used to ask him to not mince along the beach twirling his spade like a parasol. 

However, it's not the reassurance that Alan has always been Alan that made me adore him even more. It's the obvious intelligence and kindness that seeps from the book on every page; without agenda or intent Alan has written a book that screams out just how terrific he is. For crying out loud, the man went backpacking through South-East Asia with a friend of his who was legally blind. No matter how drunk Alan got each night he always made sure Caroline was OK... because, you know... SHE COULDN'T SEE. 

Alan, if I wanted to be friends with you before I am now certain, after reading your book, that we could be the BEST of friends. I too love Graham Greene! I too, have worked in a supermarket! I too like a good biscuit dipped in a cup of tea!

I hope I've convinced our Aussie readers to at least YouTube some of his shows, but I really think the key to understanding how marvellous Alan Carr is is to read his utterly engaging book. You will probably begin to adore him too. 

Rating: 8/10. 

Note: Earhart has technical problems of some sort, so you'll mostly be hearing from me until she gets those sorted... i.e. no coherent, intelligent book reviews for a couple of days. 

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).

April Classic: The Master and Margarita

There are those readers out there who don't like to give the classics a go. (There are also those readers out there who don't like to read. Go here.)

I present to you a book (a classic no less) that EVERYONE should find enjoyable, accessible, hilarious and downright moving... Mikhail Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita.

This is hailed as one of the greatest Russian satires to have ever been written. It attacks, with increasingly dark humour, the Soviet Union and the lack of revolution and true, unfettered thought under a ferocious, authoritative state. One fine spring day, the devil arrives in Moscow, chatting up two prominent Russian thinkers of the time: the poet Berlioz and the journalist known as 'Homeless'. The novel then proceeds to switch back and forth between Jerusalem during the time of Jesus' trial and crucifixion and 1920s Russia, where widespread atheism is the accepted spiritual frame of mind to be in.

The devil's machinations send Homeless into a lunatic asylum where he meets the Master, an author who was driven by despair into the asylum when his manuscript for the alternate story of Pontius Pilate and Jesus Christ failed to get published. He has burned his manuscript and refuses to live in the real world, thus also turning his back on his mistress... Margarita. From this scene comes the most famous line in the book, uttered by the devil: "Manuscripts don't burn". This part of the story would appear to be autobiographical- Bulgakov began writing his first version of The Master and Margarita in 1928 and then burnt the original manuscript. He began writing it again a few years later with the help of his (I imagine long-suffering and incredibly patient) wife.

I don't know enough about Russian history to understand all the subtle nuances of satire and irony that Bulgakov employs (although Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky's excellent translation and notes help somewhat), but this doesn't matter, as Bulgakov writes with such simplicity yet force that the reader cannot help but be swept up into this tale.

The thing that surprised me most about this read was how funny it actually was, it seemed a bit indecent actually. Russian novels are supposed to be unrelenting in their depressing nature. You're supposed to feel as though you'll never be happy again after reading a russian classic. Thus, the devil mincing around in disguise, bickering over warm apricot soda and a cat who packs some serious heat are all welcome diversions. This is a visceral read, you'll feel enlivened, outraged... and seriously, seriously amused.

Rating: 10/10.

N.B. I HAVE read another of Bulgakov's works, thus justifying the Author Love tag. It was A Dog's Heart, wherein a stray dog takes on human form. He then proceeds to become head of cat control. Brilliant.

I've read it, I swear...

Okay, so I've admitted a few times on this blog that I occasionally recommend books to customers in the shop without ever having read so much as the back cover. But generally, in conversation with people whose opinions I actually care about, I am truthful about things I've read. The same cannot be said of the general British populace apparently. A survey as part of World Book Day yielded the following list of the top ten books people lie about having read:

1. 1984 - George Orwell
2. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
3. Ulysses - James Joyce
4. The Bible
5. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
6. A Brief History of Time - Stephen Hawking
7. Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
8. In Remembrance of Things Past - Marcel Proust
9. Dreams of My Father - Barack Obama
10. The Selfish Gene - Richard Dawkins

Huh. Why the hell would anyone lie about having read Proust? Seriously. People are only going to believe you've read Proust if you're the kind of person who would actually read Proust and who wouldn't lie if they hadn't.

It's such a weird list - 1984, I can kind of understand (come on people, it's not that long...), Midnight's Children ditto. Ulysses? No one has read Ulysses. No one. I wouldn't believe someone if they said they had. Richard Dawkins? Really? I wonder if he should be honoured to have made the list? I think it's kind of funny that Dreams of My Father made the list...I am surprised it is not higher up - it seems every second book club is doing this at the moment because 'you've just got to have read it'. Whatever. I realise I'm just rambling on, feeling superior to people who lie while I've read a grand total of one of the books on the list. (1984. I read one sentence of Ulysses (all 30 pages of it) and threw in the towel). So instead of rambling on further about these and not really getting anywhere, let's have a look at what the people are really reading :

Harry Potter, Mills and Boons, Sophie Kinsella and Jeffrey Archer.
(Well one of our commenters will be happy to confirm that...)
(Not that I am saying ANYTHING disparaging about any of these books. (except Jeffrey Archer). I am a Harry Potter nerd. And have been known to dabble in a little light Mills and Boon reading (only when ill and fuzzy headed...))

I am rocking the brackets today. Your thoughts?

March Classic: Three Men in a Boat

Sorry sorry sorry - both on the lack of posts front (I now have Internet in my new place so am connected to world again!) and the fact that this March Classic post is practically an April classic. The reason for the delay is that about a month ago I had sudden inspiration as to what should be my March classic, and promptly forgot all about it. All month there has been this thought in the back of my mind that I couldn't choose anything else because I had the perfect classic all picked out, if only I could remember what it was. Finally, last night I looked on my own bookshelves (what an innovative idea!) and there it was: Three Men in a Boat.

Possibly the funniest book known to man, Three Men in a Boat was written in 1889 (so it's a REAL, more than 100 years old classic!) and details a boating trip up the Thames, undertaken by three men (to say nothing of the dog....) The narrator and his two friends have got to be three of the most ridiculous characters in fiction. We can tell this three sentences in, when J. is talking about the various maladies he is suffering...'It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form'. J. says this without a trace of irony let me assure you.

The trip up the Thames is an educational one for the reader, as J. offers his observations on camping, cheese, women, sea trips, as well as a running commentary on the trip and experience thereof. I cannot think of any other book which is as funny today as it was over 100 years ago (although according to my friend Wiki, it was initially seen as a book for the 'Arrys and 'Arriets, evidently it was not something read by the upper classes...). I'm going to leave you with this musing over an Irish Stew:

"I forget the other ingredients, but I know nothing was wasted; and I remember that, towards the end, Montmorency, who had evinced great interest in the proceedings throughout, strolled away with an earnest and thoughtful air, reappearing, a few minutes afterwards, with a dead water-rat in his mouth, which he evidently wished to present as his contribution to the dinner; whether in a sarcastic spirit, or with a genuine desire to assist, I cannot say."

In case you are wondering, Montmorency is in fact, a dog.

9/10

Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure (John Cleland)

This is often hailed as the original erotic novel; it is 212 pages of the many and varied sexual romps of one young Fanny Hill. Written in 1748, it certainly caused a storm when it was published; it was banned and the author and publisher were apparently arrested for 'corrupting the king's subjects'. Hah.

I am a firm believer that a banned book should be read. I like to think there is a whole belt of kids reading Harry Potter under their covers at night, risking corruption and eternal damnation because they REALLY need to know if Hermione and Ron ever get it on. I love it that a few years ago Penguin released a box-set of previously banned books including One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich and A Clockwork Orange. They sold like you wouldn't believe. I bet no customers actually read the books, they would have just placed the set on their rough-hewn oak bookshelves and looked coy when Bollinger-sipping guests pointed it out. A cultivated air of anarchy will ALWAYS be in vogue.

Fanny Hill starts off mildly: a little innocent girl on girl action in a brothel... and just escalates from there. To enjoy the hilarity of the story you have to ignore Cleland's very liberal interpretation of how the English language should be written. The random italicisation of words that need no emphasis is bad enough; but it really started to annoy me when he only wrote out the first few letters of long words, apparently finding it too tiresome to write them out in their entirety.

Taking my own advice and pushing this issue aside, I can really recommend this novel. Any accounts of lewd behaviour in the 18th century should be enjoyable, but throw in Cleland's sophisticated wit and perceptive parodies of English society and government and you've got yourself a damn fine read.

Rating: 7/10.

My Booky Wook (Russell Brand)

Hello...am back from the wonderful world that is Atlas Shrugged and so reviews from this side of the globe will be more frequent/regular/on time (apologies to Alcott...) Just in case you are wondering why there is no review popping up here instead of an explanation: Atlas Shrugged is my favourite book in the world (look to the right and you will see it at the top of my Top Five list) - hence I am terrified I will not do it justice and instead offer up an awkwardly worded review that ends up just as gushing praise. I may work up the courage someday (you should read it now so when I eventually do review it you can comment!) but in the meantime... here's some Russell Brand...

My Booky Wook was lent to me by a friend after I watched St Trinian's (don't judge, its an established cult classic film series... or something) and thought he was kind of hot. Watched many, MANY YouTube videos and solidified this opinion. Told Alcott. She was horrified. I wasn't deterred. And reading My Booky Wook has tipped the scales in favour of full-blown obsession.

Brand's autobiography opens in a sex addiction treatment centre: obviously this is going to be a biography of the up close and personal persuasion. Russell details his childhood, various addictions (drink, heroin, sex), forays into various acting schools, sex trips with his father to Thailand - it's all in the book. The very well written, hilarious, witty book. You finish reading it and feel like you've gotten to know Russell (and you too will be on first name terms with him!). This is no Confessions of an Heiress. This is the real thing and it is fabulous.

9/10

GOOP

I have a serious problem with emailing lists. As my fingers hit the keys I have 2843 unread messages in my inbox. I have no idea why or when I signed up for The Peters of Kensington newsletter, Blackmores Health, the Alessi online catalogue, Astrology Weekly or the National Rail service announcements, but they come, at least once a week, although P of K comes once a day.
WHY?
Who needs that much information about cookware?

A long time ago it got to the point where I knew I could never read or be bothered to sift through and delete this excess mail. (As for actually removing myself from the mailing lists, that is headache inducing before I even begin.)

However, one newsletter I actually remember signing up for is Gwyneth Paltrow's GOOP: Nourish the inner aspect.

If you're not a big reader but like a laugh I suggest you sign up too. These emails arrive weekly, advising me on what I should make, go, get, do, be and see. I now know to stay at the Ritz when I'm in Paris and I have learnt how to shuck an oyster exactly as Gwyneth does.

GP has been mocked up and down the information superhighway for these newsletters and the website that goes along with them. I, however, derive great enjoyment from reading them. I don't know if it's the enjoyment that Gwyneth was anticipating; I'm not nodding sagely at her advice and running out to 'stick to my exercise regime' (WHATEVER Gwynnie). But I'm drinking Havana Club through a Tim Tam and smirking so much I think at least my facial muscles are getting a work-out.

Dead Babies (Martin Amis)

Quentin and Celia Villers are hosting a weekend party at their country home: Appleseed Rectory. As well as the bright young things gadding down from town, a group of Americans are expected and they have ensured there are enough drugs and alcohol to fuel the debauched few days.

The term 'dead babies' refers to those periods of ennui that the characters experience when they are without chemical stimulation and are forced to face reality. Fortunately for us, these periods are few and far between. The weekend takes a turn for the dramatic when, after a day of topless sunbathing and philosophical discussion, one of the guests overdoses. The situation is worsened with the plying of the young man with more narcotics in an attempt to revive him. This coupled with the anonymous, threatening letters everybody has been receiving all weekend from 'Johnny' darken the mood somewhat, although provide good acceleration towards the bloody, brutal and chilling end.

Compared to Money or London Fields it may not seem as intelligent or visceral a comment on society. But it's freaking hilarious and Amis' style is racier, more exciting than in his later work. The characterisation is particularly sublime although it is Keith Whitehead who is the most entertaining and richly described. I am not going to bother paraphrasing Amis' brilliant words; here is Keith's introduction for you to read for yourself:

"Whitehead is an almost preposterously unattractive young man- practically, for instance, a dwarf. Whenever people want to say something nice about his appearance they usually come up with 'You've got quite nice colouring', a reference to his dark eyebrows and thinning yellow hair. That granted, nothing remained to be praised about his unappetising person, the sparse straw mat atop a squashed and petulant mask of acne... The more clothes you took off him, the more traumatic the spectacle became... As he entered the Wimbledon municipal swimming pool two teenage girls spontaneously vomited into the shallow end."

The book was made into a film a few years ago. I will pass no judgement on the film but merely quote Paul Bettany who starred as Quentin: "It's an amazing novel... it's a less amazing film."

The poor PR team probably already had the job from hell promoting a film called Dead Babies and after that they would have curled up in the foetal position and sobbed.

This is not a book for people who are easily offended or who entertain politically correct notions. It's a bit of a liability, being so laugh-out-loud funny yet having the title Dead Babies. You will get some strange looks on the tube, but for a select few of you who can stomach the disgusting and hilarious cruelty of this novel, it will be worth it. Martin Amis is polarising... he is the Vegemite of authors.

Rating: 8/10.

No Word of a Lie...

Some may question the ratings table on this blog. We have had several emails berating Earhart and myself for our reviews (fans of Disgrace and The 19th Wife seem particularly irate).
Tough bikkies.

And thus I go on to give another 9... to Gavin and Stacey: From Barry to Billericay, the follow-up book to the show. It was released a little while ago but I have only just now had the pleasure of delving into it.

Discovering Gavin and Stacey is the best thing that has happened to me since moving to London. Alan Carr is the second (he ENCHANTS me, I can't explain it) and Bar Italia runs a close third.

The book is a great follow-up to the show: basically all new content and none of it inferior to the series. Watching it I picked up a pretty convincing Welsh accent (well, I can say "Way-ells" in a Welsh accent); I renewed my love and enthusiasm for Alison Steadman; and I have developed a healthy respect for the writers of the show. The book is a credit to James Corden and Ruth Jones who have created another brilliant piece of comedy cold.

N.B. The book is NOT a credit to the woman who sidled up to me in Foyles whilst I was blatantly reading it in the shop (apologies J and R... in a pinch, my money goes on coffee) and informed me most of the content was stolen from her personal diaries.

Fourth best thing: the London wildlife.

Rating: 9/10.
P.S. If you have never watched the show, the book will no doubt be incomprehensible.

Mr Darcy: Most Eligible... Ninja?

Okay. I couldn't let this pass without saying something.
Pride and Prejudice is now out of copyright.
Is the thought that just passed through your mind 'Great! Now I can use her original text, and adding elements of my own, create Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, a surefire masterpiece'?
Cause that was definitely my first thought.

Unfortunately Seth Grahame-Smith beat me to it, since his book is due for release in April this year. Apparently 'Austen fans are in for a shock, with heroine Elizabeth Bennet and her four sisters becoming zombie slayers taught how to fight like Japanese ninjas by Mr Darcy'.

Huh.

Maybe that's why one ought to steer clear of the attics at Purvis Lodge - they are a popular haunt for the undead.

The Castle of Otranto (Horace Walpole)

I've been perusing the brick 1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. Some of the titles seem bizarre to say the least. I mean, we're on this earth for a very short time. Surely one should steer clear of such books as Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit (John Lyly)?

I noticed with some amusement that The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole made it onto the list. We studied this book in school and after reading the first chapter aloud my English Lit teacher was faced with a classroom of stony-faced students.

"We're studying this as a bad example of the gothic." she assured us.

Considering the good example was Wuthering Heights (and it is well-documented how we feel about that), I have been left with a relatively healthy disregard for the entire genre.

I doubt there is another book that begins as ridiculously as Otranto does: the villain Manfred's son is killed when a giant helmet falls from the sky and crushes him.

Honestly.

Then we of course have the token virgin, the lusty pursuer who clearly mutes his television during the advertisements ('No' means 'No' Manfred), a blood-red moon, baying wolves, water-logged dungeons and breathless chases at midnight. A smorgasbord of gratuitous ludicracy that should leave all lovers of the gothic satiated, if not stuffed.

Is it ridiculous?

Yes.

But, I suspect that, given half a chance, I would derive great pleasure from reading this again, sufficiently sloshed of course. I might even spill some red on the carpet and pretend the moon is bleeding, to REALLY get me in the mood.

Rating: 6/10.