The Spare Room (Helen Garner)

I apologise for having promised this review for a few days now and not delivered. I am generally of the opinion that if you promise to do something enough times people will assume you have actually done it. Unfortunately, on a blog where the evidence of having posted a review is the physical manifestation of said review things get a bit trickier. Thus I have had to bite the bullet and write the bloody thing.

Why am I dragging my feet on this review?

Because I KNOW it's brilliant. Garner is a superb writer and her prose seems effortless, organic even. I imagine Helen wafting around her house, putting on the kettle, writing a few sentences, drifting into the garden and weeding for a bit, writing a few more sentences as she passes by her typewriter to make lunch, calling a friend and mindlessly jotting down ideas on a pad of paper next to the phone... almost as if it comes so naturally to her that she needn't interrupt her life to write.

The Spare Room is about a woman named Helen (an extremely subtle hint that this is not really fiction) who has a friend come to stay for three weeks whilst she undergoes cancer treatment at an alternative therapy place in Melbourne. Helen, pragmatic and sensible, is unable to understand why her friend Nicola will not accept the fact that she is dying and instead insists upon putting her body through brutal coffee enemas and vitamin C injections.

Hideous, gut-wrenching stuff and the novel is short, to pack that much more of a punch. Helen's frustration reads as a diary entry, inviting the reader to experience everything as vividly as if they too were in the room. I was going to call the reader the 'voyeur' and then I looked the word up to work out how to use it properly as a non-continuous verb and realised that the most common definition for 'voyeur' is someone who gets sexual pleasure from watching people having sex from a secret vantage point! Am I the only one who didn't know that?

This honesty and generosity relates to what Martin Amis said recently in Spain when talking about ageing writers: "... worst of all are the novelists who have fallen out of love with the reader.... You present yourself at your most alive; you want to give the reader the seat nearest the fire, the best wine and food." Garner is definitely still placing her readers in uncomfortably warm seats.

So then why, you ask, was I so reluctant to write this review?

Because I STILL didn't like the book. As a comment on the human condition it was insightful and moving. I'll admit that I did feel a connection to Helen- I too can get extremely frustrated with people who don't do things the right way (my way). But I put down the book knowing that I would never again feel the need to revisit it and that's my mark of a REALLY good book- how much I'm looking forward to picking it up again.

Rating: 8/10.

The Stranger (Max Frei)

I too am alive!! A quick run down of what has happened to me in the last couple of months:

-some arson

-some surgery

-a general AND a local anaesthetic

-a new job

-AND The Stranger by Max Frei. Really, this book is the main reason for the lack of posting on my behalf. A bit of arson I can handle no problem (I wasn't the arsonist, I was the arsonee); a five hundred page book that never seems to go anywhere...not as easy to get through. And then in preparation for this review, I just looked at the Max Frei entry on Wikipedia and discovered that it is the first of TEN books. That is a lot of not going anywhere.

What first grabbed me about this book was the quote on the cover: "If Harry Potter smoked cigarettes and took a certain matter-of-fact pleasure in administering tough justice he might like Max Frei". In my mind, Max Frei was a combination of Harry Potter, Philip Marlowe and someone from a Neil Gaiman book. Not so. More like a thirty year old insomniac who didn't have any kind of a life until he was transported to a land he first encountered in his dreams and told he had magic powers and made into the 2IC of the secret magical police. The crimes he has to solve are weird, and he seems to develop any magical power which the situation demands. In fact, in this new land ('Echo') it seems Sir Max can do no wrong. Yawn.

I seriously think I have been reading this book for about a month. It is enjoyable enough while I am actually reading it, but when I am not reading it, I have absolutely no motivation to pick it up again. In between sections of this I have read 5 Harry Potter books, a couple of upcoming YA novels (including the new Scott Westerfeld... excitement central), Jane Eyre (again) and The Secret Garden. Page turner this ain't. In fact, I still haven't finished it..I've invested 400 pages worth of time into it, I have to finish it at some point... just don't expect it any time soon.

6/10

Jack London: Various Works

Perusing the lamentably slim pickings in the classics section of my local library the other day I came to several conclusions:

1. Library staff who classify Salman Rushdie as a classics author are morons.

2. Libraries who do not possess ONE SINGLE COPY of The Portrait of Dorian Gray are naught but an ode to the socially bureaucratic inefficiencies that this country is riddled with.

3. I ought to read some Jack London.

And thus to a triumphant fanfare I introduce my latest review... Batard and The Call of the Wild. The book had several more stories in it, including White Fang, but at the end of The Call of the Wild I felt that I had delved sufficiently into the mind of London and thus closed the book.

There is little doubt in my mind that London is a talented writer. Batard in particular is a masterpiece of literary wrangling... 18 pages have seldom yielded so potent or powerful a story. London's writing is akin to that of McCarthy and Steinbeck, whose stories of rough and terrible lives are spotlighted by brief moments of humane feeling that could come from any point on the infinite spectrum of human emotion.

NOTE: I said HUMAN emotion. HUMAN. This is where I think London falls down, attributing dogs with the ability to think as people. Batard, the angry and bitter dog of the first story, plots the death of his master for years before finally exacting revenge for the cruel and barbaric existence he has been subjected to. Buck in The Call of the Wild is similarly intuitive and emotional, his journey from privileged pet to wild wolf penned brilliantly by London, apart from the fact that Buck, AS A DOG, does not have the mental acumen that London bequeaths him with.

However, for all this I could suspend disbelief if I had found myself enjoying the stories anyway. But I did not. I reject violence on all levels and I don't even like reading about two fully grown men having a fight. But when said violence is turned against children (see here) or animals, my stomach turns. Page after page London describes dogs being beaten by humans, dogs tearing each other apart, dogs being shot/hung/starved/dragged in the snow. ARGH. Trying to flick ahead to skip the violence ultimately meant reaching the back cover and not having read a thing.

Thus, I could forgive London endowing canines with impressive minds but cannot get on board with the whole incessant physical abuse thing. Have moved onto Lady Chatterley's Lover and this is proving far more enjoyable.

Rating: 3/10.

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.

May Classic: Tess of the D'Urbervilles

Ahhh...so I completely forgot I was doing the may classic, not Alcott, which is why this one is so late. Oops. Which means my review comes without a re-reading of this classic - was planning to have a bit of a refresher read before my June classic review. No matter - I studied this one at school so god knows I had to read it over and over and over and over and over...

Which is really too bad for me because I hate this book. I rarely say that about books - even while disliking just about every character in Wuthering Heights I was able to appreciate it as a great piece of literature - I can see where people are coming from with that. Tess of the D'Urbervilles not so much. Seriously, Thomas Hardy: What was your problem? Do you hate happiness that much? Would it have killed you to give Tess a skerrick of joy in her miserable depressing life?

Tess Durbeyfield is a poor girl sent to rich relations to get cash, the rich son takes a liking to her and so rapes her. She gives birth to a kid called 'Sorrow' who dies, she falls in love, on her wedding night tells her new husband of her past, he chucks her, her father dies and her family is facing life on the streets so she becomes rich-son-who-raped-her's mistress. Husband comes back feeling bad, she tells him its too late, then angry at life, stabs rich guy to death, kisses husband one last time before being hung. The End. 

Can you hand me that straight razor?

The thing is, not only is the book incredibly depressing, but it is a chore to read, each chapter drags on and on and on and on and on...AND its confusing too. Half of my year eleven English class didn't even realise that Alec had raped Tess. Suddenly this random baby turns up and you have to turn back a chapter and realise that when Alec 'gives her a flask' you're supposed to assume he give her something else as well. Wink wink. Except in my second hand old copy the text is still censored so Alec 'gives her his cloak'. Wink?

Maybe there is something I am not getting: my English teacher assured me that in 30 years time I will have grown to appreciate the wonder that is Tess. I think not. Feel free to disagree though...

3/10

The Forest of Hands and Teeth (Carrie Ryan)

I have wanted to read The Forest of Hands and Teeth ever since an author visiting the shop described it to me as 'the best YA-Adult crossover in a long time'. Was curious to know what could possibly top Twilight, the current (undisputed) reigning champion.

It turns out - not this.

The Forest of Hands and Teeth is the dark creepy forest which surrounds the village where the narrator Mary grew up. Her village is surrounded by a high chain link fence which cannot fall into disrepair - otherwise the zombies will get in.

Right.

The zombies (or the 'Unconsecrated' as they are called by the living) spend their days throwing themselves at the fence trying to break through. And one day they do. Our six heroes manage to escape from the village which is overrun by the Unconsecrated by following a fenced path through the Forest of Hands and Teeth. Thrilling stuff.

What annoyed me about this book is the fact that nothing gets resolved. Before the village wall is breached, there is a whole mystery involving the 'Sisterhood' who are in charge in the village. You are given the idea that they are hiding something, a couple of clues are revealed, and then before you figure anything out, everyone is eaten by zombies. No closure is possible once your brains have been eaten.

I will admit that plot inadequacies aside, this is one freaky zombie book. I finished it at two in the morning, after staying up late in the hope of reaching a happy ending. (I was disappointed there...try instead a bleak bleak bleak ending.) Was creeping downstairs to get a drink when my housemate popped her head out of her room and told me she couldn't sleep. I replied "Me neither! I'm scared of zombies!" Long pause... Housemate: "Oh...my room was just a bit stuffy..."

If you want a freaky zombie story and don't care that there is no plot resolution, and the romantic storyline is brought to an abrupt halt (a scythe is involved)...read this. Otherwise, I think you're stuck with Twilight for the time being.

I can't really thing of a rating for this book, nothing fits...if you are a zombie fan then you might enjoy it. I was relieved when I finished the book, and didn't enjoy reading it at all, but maybe I'm just a wuss.

The Understudy (David Nicholls)

"Funniest book of the year" MY ASS Marie Claire.

I know, I know, I shouldn't take book recommendations from a women's magazine but honestly, I thought that comment at least indicated this would be a diverting, light-hearted read.

The Understudy was the singularly most depressing novel I have read in my entire life. Admittedly, this may be a slight exaggeration. But this was not good depressing. Good depressing is a novel you can seriously wallow in. It reduces you to frantic tears and staring at yourself in the mirror, tugging your hair and imagining yourself playing the part of the heroine in the film. This was cringy, pathetic, snivelling and pseudo-realistic depressing... not enjoyable AT ALL.

Stephen C. McQueen (no relation) is a struggling actor. His ex-wife and young daughter think he's a loser, his agent can't remember his name and he is currently playing the part of "Ghostly Figure" in a West End hit, which requires he be on stage for fifteen seconds of the entire production. David Nicholls is good with the one-liners, but they're relentless and a pathetic band aid for the failure that Stephen's life is.

The problem with the humour is that nothing funny actually happens in the novel, just amusing descriptions of seriously depressing events. Thus, although you want to throw yourself off a bridge after reading this, you will be compelled to do it in an ironic fashion, with a jaunty parting line to the mocking crowd. Unfortunately, there will be a protruding ledge which will hamper your death fall and instead leave you crippled for life. The wheelchair you will be compelled to use will be bought for you by your best friend with the inappropriate sense of humour and thus will be equipped with flashing multi-coloured lights, a siren and streamers on the handles. As a get-well present, someone will buy you this book to cheer you up and start the whole tragic cycle all over again.

Rating: 3/10.

The Host (Stephenie Meyer)

Wow Stephenie.

Vampires?

You're awesome at that.

But mind-snatchers who invade earth?

You SUCK at that.

Now, I'm not going to talk about Meyer's literary skills here. She can string a sentence together just fine and as for sexual tension, she's got that all tied up. (Tee hee.) But The Host was ABOMINABLE.

Basic premise: Wanderer is a sprite/soul/silvery ghost thing who is part of a species who go to lands that are screwed up in some way, take over their minds and make everyone happy and peaceful. Good in theory but kind of nixes freedom of thought etc. These sprites have come to Earth and before our planet they were on a planet covered in seaweed. (I'm guessing kelp has conflict issues that don't really come to light when we just see it floating past us in the water). However, the body that Wanderer is inserted into belongs to the strong-willed Melanie who refuses to give up her soul. Thus we have two minds in one body.

This is where it gets ridiculous.

Melanie is in love with a guy called Jared and she convinces Wanderer to go find him, hoping he is hiding in the desert and has not been brainwashed. Conveniently, he is and Wanderer plays along, as she is feeling slightly disillusioned with her parasitic race.

Cue unfortunate occurrence:

Wanderer falls in love with Jared.

Melanie is still in love with Jared.

Thus the origin of the marketing tag: "What may be the first love triangle involving only two bodies."

GROAN.

Apart from the ridiculously confusing plot (I over-simplified for you), my other beef is that this was Meyer's first adult book. The Twilight Series is kind of racy for teenagers and I was expecting Meyer to bump up the sex if she was intentionally writing for adults. What kept me going through this doorstop of a novel was the possibility of hot alien sex.

Didn't happen.

We don't even get resolution at the end; I closed the book feeling unsatisfied, unconvinced and depressed. NOT how I normally feel when I read Stephenie Meyer.

Rating: 4/10.

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.