YA Ramblings / Tamora Pierce Makes a Long Awaited Appearance on the Blog

In thinking about my reading of late, nothing REALLY stands out as being review worthy. I mean, I read the latest Jasper Fforde, Shades of Grey, which was amazing, brilliant, dyslit-y, witty, literary... but seriously, that is all I really need to say. Its Jasper Fforde. Go read it okay?

I have however, read a LOT of mediocre stuff. You want to know which YA sensation of the moment NOT to pick up, then I am your girl. For example, take Need by Carrie Jones. Touted as "better than Twilight" and the next big thing in paranormal teen romance. Aside from the fact that I've been told that about every single teen book published since Twilight began, it is just not true. Twilight is essentially a Mills and Boon for teenagers, but at least Meyer throws herself into the story completely. This latest one felt like it was just going through the motions. New girl in town, finds herself oddly drawn to the tall, dark, sexy guy who keeps showing up to save her in the nick of time, finds out she is being followed by a pixie, and that tall, dark, sexy man is actually (SPOILER) a werewolf. Token amount of surprise at revelation that supernatural stuff is all out there, scepticism quickly overcome for the sake of progressing the plot, some kind of supernatural (but also emotional!) conflict followed by triumph of good guys and movie perfect kiss. Yawn.

And you know what? I just know there are people out there who are saying "Well of course you yawn! Look at what you picked up! What were you expecting?!!!" I say the same thing to myself, but continue to wade through this rubbish for two reasons. Number one, it is my job. Making sure none of the YA readers out there get any books with "issues" their parents wouldn't want them reading about. (For those who don't speak book-seller, "issues" is code for sex, drinking, drugs, swearing, violence... in the rather conservative area in which my bookshop is situated, none of the parents want their innocent darlings reading anything controversial. Customer picks up a book "What content is in this book? My daughter is ten but has reading age of a sixteen year old, but I don't want anything inappropriate." You get the idea. It is farcical at times.) (That was the longest bracket ever). So that is one reason. (In case you are wondering, Need has a bit of kissing, but not much else).

Reason two is a bit closer to my heart. It involves an author who had a profound effect on me during my formative years. Tamora Pierce. Just thinking about her (millions) of books makes me smile. Between the ages of eleven and fourteen I pretty much read Tamora Pierce. Over and over. And over. You get the idea. I think I could probably recite my favourite passages. My constant re-reading of her books is due in quite a large part to her heroines. They were always described as head strong and stubborn, they were witty, smart, and you can bet they didn't let any man tell them what to do! Admittedly, they had it a bit tougher going against men since they were stuck back in the middle ages, and I was in the 21st Century. Whatever, I identified with these girls! These books made me (a bookish, indoorsy, nature disliking, pacifist with animal allergies) long to be a knight (wilderness survival and fighting skills a must). They were real, 3D characters who made you want to be their friend. Can you imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to be friends with Bella Swan? You would get to hear her complain a lot, and watch as she lives through what has got to be the most unhealthy relationship in the world. Sweetie, if he is pulling bits out of your car engine because he doesn't want you going to see a friend he doesn't like, maybe he is just a tad controlling.

I read mediocre YA book after mediocre YA book because of hope. (Hmm, that sounded less cheesy in my head). I am hoping that one day I will pick up a new book and I will have found a book that will become just as special to some twelve year old girl out there as Tamora Pierce was (IS, who am I kidding? I still get excited when a new one comes out. Write faster Tammy!) to me. And when I find it, I know the protagonist is not going to have the personality of a dish-cloth (I'm looking at you Bella!) and something tells me it probably won't involve vampires. Just a hunch.

Hello All

Well, this is a bit sad. Posting on a Saturday night.

In my defence, I had a BBQ to go to. Hosted by an Australian and three girls from Mali who are all mad as cut snakes. That promised to be QUITE the evening. However, I forfeited these plans in favour of staying at home for a 'family dinner', as suggested by the people I live with as this is my last weekend with them. Of course, they went out this afternoon and didn't return, so I don't really know what I'm supposed to do with myself. What if they return with food and I'm eating? They'll be mad. What if I don't eat, they return having already dined out and I die of starvation in my sleep?

Oh, the conundrum.

I like my own company quite a bit (read: people annoy me after awhile) but tonight I wish someone was home. And not only to feed me. Whilst waiting for my boxes to be picked up today by the shipping company I watched a thriller set in Acton. Where people are raped and murdered. IN ACTON. Why? Why is it always my borough?

Additionally, I have just finished tonight's episode of Doctor Who which was TERRIFYING. I am scared to blink in case a Weeping Angel creeps up on me. Literally- scared to blink. I am alternating eyes at the moment. I already feel a bit motion-sick but that is infinitely preferable to having my neck snapped.

Thus, before the method of my untimely demise is revealed, I think I shall post a book review.

The Private Life of Books

Looking down the list of my draft blog-posts which never saw the light of day I can see that most of them start with "am feeling so guilty about not having posted in weeks/months/centuries" and then I start writing about a book and then my internet cuts out and I get fed up. Admittedly I have dodgy internet that does cut out a lot- normally when I am trying to balance laptop and dinner on my lap on the couch whilst watching Peep Show. I wonder if that has anything to do with it? Anyway, since I spend a lot of time writing about my guilt, I've decided to absolve myself of any guilty feelings and just get down to it.

This article in the Guardian about the private lives of books made me think of my favourite second-hand-book-buying story. I warn you now, it is a bit pretentious, but when you're talking obscure dyslit gems found in the south of France, how could you be anything but?

Picture this- my first year of university, I meet french learning, guitar playing, dyslit reading Russian. (Le sigh). Said Russian turns up to class to tell me he found copy of 1985 on the weekend. I gently correct him, saying "I think you'll find it's 1984". He looks at me like I am an idiot and says "Uh, no. 1985. Anthony Burgess' critique of 1984 which consists of a theoretical essay followed by his own fictional account of the future". I blush. Then spend years futile-ly trying to track down a copy of 1985- I love Orwell, I love Burgess... but I didn't love the Russian any more thus borrowing his copy was out of the question.

Three years later, I was backpacking in Avignon, have run out of books to read and facing a six hour train trip the next day. I spent a little while googling until I found evidence of an English bookshop. I made a trek across town. I found a bookshop in the middle of nowhere. There I found found a copy of 1985... cue delirious excitement. I started reading and things became even more exciting. The previous owner of the book had some pretty strong views on some of the stuff Burgess wrote. Lots of underlining. Lots of '?!' in the middle of paragraphs. A couple of instances of 'ugh!'. My personal favourite, which made me burst out laughing during Burgess' musing on the state of socialism: a whole paragraph underlined and a single word "BALLS!" written in the margin. Fantastic. I do not know who Mr Millwood is (and that is my assuming the previous owner was a man) but I owe him a most exciting book find, and an entertaining read.

If you do ever come across a copy of the (obviously) out of print 1985, I highly recommend picking it up.

Almost, but not quite, locked under the stairs...

I ventured downstairs this evening to get a cup of coffee and came upon the people I live with, who were most surprised to see me. Much like Harry Potter, I spend my evenings "in my room, making no noise and pretending I don't exist." Thus, my occasional descent from the loft is the cause of much consternation. I have returned, disgruntled to my bedroom, thanking every denominational being ever to be suspected of existing (have I used that line before? C'est possible...) that I have less than eight weeks of work to go.

After that I shall be as a house elf is with clothes- FREE. UNLEASHED. EMANCIPATED. LIBERATED. WITHOUT SADNESS AND PAIN.

The last is perhaps stretching it slightly. I cannot blame all the greyness and blackness on Acton Town. But I am anticipating greater splashes of white and colour in May (that most joyous of months) when my contract is over.

Starting in May I will be playing the part of European cultural whore for two months, wherein I shall be utterly negligent when it comes to updating the blog. Obviously, this is already the case for both of us; 2010 did not exactly start off on a punctual note. Never fear, dearly devoted readers, we ARE committed, we are merely lazy.

However, I have an enormous backlog which I shall begin tackling tonight. I can never sleep after an unpleasant evening, I tend to go over the events that transpired below, completely certain that I did something wrong. Only when I am satisfied that I am blameless can I cease to be upset. However, I generally progress (or regress really) to anger, which is even less conducive to a restful night.

In answer to Earhart's question below, I have been embarrassed several times in meetings with authors. My Paullina Simons moment can be found here. I accidentally sat on William McIness' knee during his promotional tour for his autobiography. I asked John Boyne if he wanted to buy a copy of his own book. Stuck in a corner with Thomas Keneally, I bypassed the obvious "Schindler's Ark was AMAZING" and instead went for "Well, I really like your beard." I wrote to Alan Bennett and asked him out to lunch. (Which he declined. INORIGHT? Unbelievable.)

I think however, if I were lucky enough to meet someone like Ishiguro or Annie Proulx I wouldn't have an embarrassing moment. I would be too overwhelmed. Speech would be struck from my brain, both as a desire and an ability. To meet the tangible behind the ethereal is a frightening thing. Some authors are too great to meet. Thus, it seems I am doomed to a lifetime of falling over authors and attempting to sell them their own books; these, the authors who are comfortingly normal.

Patrick Ness

So remember that ridiculously gushy not-even-a-proper-review I wrote of The Knife of Never Letting Go? Remember how I promised to review Book Two and then never did. Sorry about that - it was actually as gut-wrenchingly good as Book One and I am sure that when I read Book Three (VERY SOON if my rep does as promised and gets me the manuscript!) it will also keep me up until three in the morning.

Anyway, I met the author of this most amazing of series tonight. A bunch of the book-shop groupies and myself went along to hear him speak - the author of a YA series and there were perhaps two teenagers in the crowd. Booksellers, librarians, teachers and people from OTHER publishing houses were, however, in abundance. He spoke about writing, about where his books came from, about knife crime, terrorism and war and finished up with a few musings on joy. He read from Book Three (Oh lord, it is definitely going to be an astounding read) and then signed some copies.

In true me-meeting-authors-I-love fashion, I was suitably star struck. I like to think I conducted myself better than when I met Joanne Harris (when I said something along the lines of "This is what normal people feel when they meet a rock star!" Her response was something like 'okayyyyy... name please?') I told him I'd reviewed him on the blog. He wrote down the address (in case you actually took the scrap of paper home with you, Hi Patrick!) I spoke like a grown-up (ha! Fooled you!).

Anyway... aside from feeling the need to tell everyone I met him and he was lovely, the point of this post was actually to see if I am the only one out there who gets this star-struck with authors. Surely I am not. Surely there is someone else out there who has stammered out "Oh my god I love everything you have ever written" to an idol. Someone else who has blushed when they met a philosopher? (Hmm, maybe not. I think Stephen Law thinks I am a lunatic, but that is another story). I am sure if I met, say, Neil Gaiman or Margaret Atwood I wouldn't even be able to get out the most perfunctory of compliments like "Love your books". More likely I will blush bright red, stammer out my name and grin like a loon at the object of my reading affection.

So, tell me, anyone out there as nerdy as me?

Dyslit: In Conversation

Jamie: Have you ever read ‘The Razor’s Edge’?

Anna: Maugham right?

Jamie: Yep.

Anna: No.

Jamie: You should read it.

Anna: Maybe. I don’t normally read book recommendations. It’s the ultimate act of superiority, putting yourself in cahoots with the author, both of you saying, I know what’s best.

Jamie: That’s not…

I think you’d like it, is all.

Anna: Why don’t you paraphrase it for me?

Jamie: I can’t remember the whole story. I read it years ago.

Anna: No, just the bit that you felt I might relate to.

Jamie: Larry… rejects society, materialism, everything, in search of some transcendent meaning to life.

Happiness, without the jewellery I guess.

I think the reader is meant to assume he finds happiness in the end. I don’t think he does, because he’s constantly onto the next thing, always looking ahead. Never in the present. I don’t think you could ever be happy, living like that.

Anna: Maybe it’s not his lifestyle, but the fact that Sophie’s dead. Perhaps he can’t be happy without her.

Jamie: What was the point of that? Cheap thrills?

Anna: Sorry. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know the first thing about literature. The only thing I know about it is most of the time, you should avoid reading it.

Jamie: Rubbish.

Anna: It doesn’t open you up, it shuts you in. You can’t think for yourself when you've got Proust, Maugham, Kerouac all in your head.

Jamie: So you’re saying you’d like to live an uninformed life.

Anna: Yes.

Jamie: With no regard as to how that would affect intolerance, religious persecution, the ability to learn from our historical mistakes…

Anna: Why not? Within reason of course. Acumen-tested.

Jamie: What? You have to be intelligent to be uninformed?

Anna: Yes.

Jamie: And in this veritable utopia, where are you?

Anna: Uninformed.

Jamie: Naturally.

(a pause)

Where am I?

Anna: Where do you want to be?

Jamie: Uninformed.

No, informed.

I don’t know.

Anna: Well, it’s irrelevant where you want to be. You wouldn’t have a choice. Imagine if people did.

Jamie: Culpability as a reason to oppose free will.

Anna: Something like that.

Traipsing back from the hinterlands...

I feel I may have already used that Waugh reference on another post and if so, I apologise. Full marks and a box of reindeer shortbread to the person who finds the post. It does, however, fit rather well with what I want to write.

I have been remarkably remiss at updating recently. Earhart's excuse is that she is reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace (of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men fame) and is sinking slowly into that quicksand-filled quagmire of reading a book slowly out of dislike yet being unable to put it down because it is nonetheless strangely compelling. Thus, she may not surface for awhile. I have no such excuse, merely that once I stop blogging for a few days it turns into a mountain to surpass when I attempt to begin again.

Today was my last day of work for the year (thank every denominational being ever to be suspected of existing) and I now have three weeks to do naught. I am off to Bath tomorrow, which is my happy place. You know that clichéd therapy technique where they tell you to imagine your happy place with palm trees and Adonis under a waterfall etcetera? My happy place ACTUALLY exists and I go there ALL THE TIME. (Smug, self-satisfied smirk).

A week there and then off to Norway for the coldest Christmas of my life, although seeing friends makes that all worthwhile. Which is all an incredibly long-winded way of saying that I am going to post several entries tonight because I'm not sure when I shall next have the opportunity. I have quite a few things I've been meaning to blog about for awhile so hopefully I will get it all done.

First on the agenda- this article today from the Guardian. In a surprisingly upbeat tone for such a negative idea, Sam Jordison questioned what books would be on a list of the worst novels of the decade. Ian McEwan gets stabbed quite a bit both in the article and the comments. I agree with the criticisms of Saturday but what the hell was wrong with On Chesil Beach?

Vernon God Little gets much abuse in the comments to which I can only say CLEARLY the peanut gallery were posting on the website today. RIDICULOUS. That novel is a little slice of genius pie. An anomalous use of language does not make a book poorly written. What do you think Shakespeare was doing you philistines?

Belated Holiday Reading

This post should be titled very very belated holiday reading since the holiday was over about a month ago... but anyway...

Plane journey began with The Brightest Star in the Sky by Marian Keyes. Possibly the perfect aeroplane book: it doesn't require much concentration, nice big print, can be understood even after twenty hours of being awake and confined to less than one metre square. Was a bit weird to be honest - Marian has gotten stranger with her past few books, although she does it well. Who would have thought I would grow to love a cross-dressing romantic lead? Alcott is still unconvinced in that department.

Moved onto a bit of Murakami loving - Sputnik Sweetheart, one of his more normal ones, followed by Underground, his non-fiction work on the Sarin attacks on the Japanese metro in 1995. Not your traditional holiday reading I grant you, fantastically interesting if a little heavy at times. It probably helps that I love everything that Murakami has ever had anything to do with...

The Summer Book by Tove Janson I have already reviewed whilst away. So just go here to save me repeating myself.

Three Men on the Bummell by Jerome K. Jerome - I don't think words can express how hilariously funny I find this book - I would end up just writing passage after passage verbatim until the whole book had been typed out. So just read it. Seriously. It is hilarious and witty.

And Another Thing... by Eoin Colfer is the sixth in the Hitchhiker's Guide Trilogy, but NOT by Douglas Adams. Obvisously. 'Cause he's dead. And I just said it was by Eoin Colfer. Very enjoyable, a worthy end to the series - I think Colfer was a great choice for the job. My only problem now is where to shelve it... with the rest of the series or with my Colfers?

Finished up with the absolutely enchanting Cheri and La Fin de Cheri by Colette. I've previously read the Claudine series, but these were much more enjoyable. And MUCH better than the film, although as far as film adaptations of books go, not bad.

Not too shabby a selection as far as holiday reading goes.

Jasper Jones (Craig Silvey)

Today is the 20 year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall and mention of the wall always reminds me of a story my mother told me years ago. She was travelling through Europe and stopped at the border between West and East Berlin. The car was searched, as were her bags. Amongst her possessions was a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird. The guard held it up and scrutinised it, flipped through the pages. It was banned in the East, for obvious reasons. I don't know whether my mother knew this and packed it anyway with her typical "They can't tell me what books to carry around for God's Sake" attitude or whether she really had no idea the book was banned. I am inclined to go with the former. At any rate, the guard decided the book was harmless and let my mother enter. Once there she decided to leave the book at the place where she was staying, her little rebellion against the regime.

To Kill A Mockingbird is my favourite book in the world. I am aware I hardly hold the monopoly on this thought but I don't care. I'm happy to be merely one in a group of millions. I'm not going to bother you with a review either, as I'm sure those who have read it need no convincing of its greatness and those who haven't just need to know they have a treat in store for them. But I am going to review Jasper Jones by Craig Silvey, which came out this year.

During the summer of 1965 in a small town called Corrigan, Charlie Bucktin is pulled into a murder mystery involving Jasper Jones, the town scapegoat. The Vietnam War hangs over the town, anxiety making the heatwave even worse. Cricket, sweets, girls and books act as diversions but ultimately Corrigan's corrupt, racist core begins to seep through. The disappearance of the Shire President's daughter turns out to be just one in a number of dark secrets the town is hiding.

I'm hesitant to say this is an Australian version of To Kill A Mockingbird, although that is obviously what it is. Charlie's father is compared often to Atticus Finch, Charlie's friendship and conversations with his best friend Jeffrey draw on the conversations Scout and Jem had, Mad Jack Lionel is Corrigan's Boo Radley. Jasper Jones, the innocent blamed for the death of a young girl, is half-Aboriginal and whilst the racism he encounters is far more underhand than that exhibited in the deep South in To Kill A Mockingbird, it is ever present nonetheless. I'm hesitant though, to make these comparisons, because I want this book to be judged on its own merits. Silvey captures the essence of the small Australian town beautifully and the character of Charlie is wonderfully written: honest, intelligent, witty, with all the erratic whims and prejudices of the young.

However, the most erudite point I want to make about this novel is that it made me think about those monstrous and momentous events in history that so often seem to happen elsewhere and not to us in Australia. Great novels are written about these events, these times, and then, decades later, an Australian author will write their own version of it. I have come to the conclusion this is not a bad thing, it is a truly positive thing. We could so easily remove ourselves from the rest of the world, snug in our knowledge that we are far away from the dangerous world. We could fail to care that it is 20 years since the Berlin Wall fell, feeling, perhaps, that it had nothing to do with us. That is why it is glorious when we do care, when we do feel emotion, feel outrage on behalf of another culture, experience joy when something momentous occurs elsewhere. Just because we are geographically removed does not mean we have to be emotionally removed.

This is why I loved Jasper Jones. Not only did the characters resonate, the dialogue amuse, the plot intrigue, but Craig Silvey reached out to the American literary canon, referenced it and then made it a relevant piece of Australian fiction. It could have failed abysmally, but it didn't.

Rating: 9/10.

Fine Just The Way It Is (Annie Proulx)

Annie Proulx makes horrendous people, places and events FINE JUST THE WAY THEY ARE. This is her process, her tool, her particular brand of magic, and I never would have spotted it if she hadn't named her last collection of short stories just that.

Admittedly, I have a warped view of what is horrendous. To me, bad coffee is insufferable. Having lunch with someone and not getting the good seat (against the wall) is intolerable. Living without my hair straightener is INCONCEIVABLE. So naturally, I find these stories of poor and broken people in Wyoming cruel beyond all mortal comprehension, because I'm high maintenance and disgustingly entitled in my outlook on life.

Yet still, I rooted for them. I was happy for them, devastated for them. These, the people described as ugly, poor, unlovable, selfish, racist, stupid... utterly pedestrian. Proulx does not bother to take the easy route and write stories about the innocent, the intelligent, the fair and good. Any person would prove to be interesting under scrutiny. Worthy of our time, our eyes, our $22.95. How then, do writers differentiate between those who are passed over and those who deserve their own worded spotlight?

They choose the beautiful, the well-structured, the desirable people to write about. And I'm not talking about the desirability a husband sees in a wife who has a saggy stomach and discontented attitude radiating from beneath a hairstyle long out of fashion and powdered at the roots. Or the girl with average looks and average brains being charmed by the boy whose speech is clogged with the unfortunate spittle that plagues the over-salivating.

Those are the people whose stories are harder to write and still generate empathy with the reader and thus they are so often the people without a strong literary presence. Which is stupid, because when a writer does bother to create a character who is hard to like and rough around the edges it normally becomes as artful as Don Quixote, the book an ode to imperfection, beautiful through the simple fact of its existence.

That's what Annie Proulx does and then she goes one step further. She neglects to include any action whatsoever in her stories. Each event is constructed as a past occurrence, mentioned in passing by one character or another. At any one time, nothing is really happening. Snippets of family mystery, suspense, skeletons are hinted at, but the writing quickly moves on, choosing to focus instead on a wife musing about her dinner plans. It takes a serious talent to keep us engaged through all this, yet we find ourselves also weighing up the beef and pork options. Because she's just that damn good.

I must apologise for the wordiness and general pretension of this review. I have been embroiled in a big fight with a large pile of torn newspaper and glue for two days trying to make an acceptable model of a dolphin for a Year 4 Art Show. Because I have about a teaspoon of artistic ability in my entire genetic makeup... this has been a trying, exhausting time. I felt the need to prove I could still string a sentence together, having failed spectacularly as a sculptor.

Rating: 9/10.

*Earhart 4 Harper Collins* No More

Harper Collins you are dead to me. Pushing back the publication of Russell Brand's My Booky Wook 2 by a whole YEAR...why do you do these things to the people who love you? I was all excited, ringing Alcott, jumping up and down like a kid who has eaten too many jelly beans. Then, the Harper rep. comes, brandishing the new releases for October... My Booky Wook 2? There, in the corner... with a big cross through it. You can imagine my devastation when I found out that I would have to wait for an entire extra year before I could delve into the witty revelations Brand has to offer about life in the fast lane.

I loved you once you know Harper, remember the Skulduggery Pleasant days? They were good. Or the days when Oliver Jeffers hardbacks weren't out of print? (Oh yeah, that's another thing I'm angry about!) Or when Paullina Simons covers didn't incite comparisons to Jodi Picoult? It seems you were destined to disappoint me...

Bring the hardcover Lost and Found back into print and perhaps I can consider reconciliation, but until then... this is good bye.

Earhart

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.

Dyslit: We and 1984

So according to this article in the Guardian, George Orwell took his 1984 plot from an earlier Dyslit novel, We by Russian author Yevgeny Zamyatin. The article compares the main characters, plot development and ending of the two novels, does some nifty detective work to prove that Orwell read We just before writing 1984 and comes to the conclusion that he got his plot from it. I could have saved them the trouble of going through that whole process by saying "Well yeah...Orwell did get his plot from We. In fact after reading it he said he was taking it as the model for his next novel." (I tried to be extra tricky and get the reference for Orwell's quote from another dyslit gem 1985 wherein Anthony Burgess discusses Orwell, Huxley and Zamyatin but I couldn't find it in my skim re-reading so you'll have to make do with wiki.)

I agree with the conclusion to which the article comes - that it doesn't matter if 1984 was inspired by an earlier book - as a work of literature it is amazing, and some might argue more accessible than We. The cultural impact of Orwell's works is undeniable, and perhaps without We we wouldn't have the most significant of those - 1984. There. Wasn't that a nice diplomatic way of sorting things out?

For a little added interest: Anthem by Ayn Rand and We are so similar in themes, descriptions, and dystopian societies of the future that my mind boggles that no comparison between the two was raised in the article. Both deal with societies where the collective is of the utmost importance. In both books there is no "I" only "we". In both books individuality is erased and people are numbered not named. A strikingly obvious difference is that Anthem is one of the only dyslit books I have ever read with a 'happy ending'.

Go read 1984, We, Anthem, and chuck in Brave New World for good measure (another book said to have borrowed from We) and see what you think.

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.

Just Let It Be...

Those who read the blog often will know that Earhart and I have an unashamedly flamboyant approach to punctuation marks. Those grammatical tools we find most conducive to editing our reviews in a cohesive manner our penned with little thought to moderation and elegance. In particular we employ ellipses gratuitously and make liberal use of the caps lock button. 

I'm sure you are now wondering what rambling train of thought I am going to inflict upon you, but the above is merely an introduction to this rather amusing (yet simultaneously horribly dry) article on the use of the semi-colon in writing. It is written by Lionel Shriver (author of the hideous We Need To Talk About Kevin) and can be found here. 

Enjoy.

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. 

Twilight and Marketing: A Match Made in Heaven

Aside from the obvious (i.e. thousands of teenage girls whose poor boyfriends will have to live up to some ri-DIC-ulously high expectations) Twilight has been wreaking havoc all over various areas of the world of books, including flooding the YA shelves of any good bookshop with vampire/faerie-tinged romances. Let us mourn the latest victim: marketing. I'm putting it out there: marketing for girls YA titles has gotten L-A-Z-Y. Nowadays, a book comes out and they don't bother promoting the book/author itself, instead they resort to one of two strategies:

1) The Meyer Endorsement
This strategy only works if Stephenie Meyer has in fact read the book in question. It worked for The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins - the promotional bookmarks for which featured a quote (in the 'Twilight font') from Stephenie Meyer saying how much she loved it. (The actual author's name was only present in teeny writing on the thumbnail of the book jacket). INSTANT BESTSELLER. It looks like the same thing is going to work for Wings by Aprilynne Pike. This book hasn't been released yet, but we were inundated with reading copies (normally you have to bug the reps for proofs) each containing a letter detailing the praise which Stephenie heaped upon the manuscript.

2) The Stylistic Endorsement
This is used for those books which Stephenie hasn't read herself and which often have no connection at all to the Twilight series. The most obvious I've seen is an upcoming series called Poison Study. The promotional material features a glossy black cover with an apple core on it, and the slogan 'After such a feast, what will they devour next?' The books all feature that same 'Twilight font' on a black cover with one central image (normally red). Sound familiar? Probably because it is EVERYWHERE. The Forest of Hands and Teeth, which freaked me out so much last month, is another culprit - red flower leaf thing on a black cover.

People: is it so much to ask for a little originality? 

On Libraries

I used to be anti-libraries. It was something to do with the fact that I didn't know what previous readers before me had done with the books. I didn't know where they'd BEEN. I mean, for crying out loud, they could have been read in the bath, on the toilet or had coffee spilt on them by someone with a bad cough (all of which I am guilty of... so I KNOW).

HOWEVER, I moved to England, ran out of money and realised I couldn't keep buying books AND drink coffee. Trust me, it was a tough, tough decision. But I realised recycled reading matter was less icky than recycled coffee, sucked it up and joined the local library.

Whilst it has given me the chance to re-read gems such as Vernon God Little (and discover new and exciting titles like The Soldier's Seduction) it is woefully behind the times with new releases. I have been on the waiting list for three months to read a copy of Kate Grenville's latest- The Lieutenant. I am "somewhere near the top of the list." I enquired snarkily if there was only one copy doing the rounds in the borough where I live and where there are 23 libraries. "No," came the indignant reply, "there are three."

The library also has a MORONIC policy about permanent stock (the books that, most people agree, should be kept in circulation all the time.) I was with an 8 year old the other day, trying to get the second Harry Potter. The guy behind the desk (who was about 70 and bald, wearing a bandanna and an earring) yawned and shook his head. "I don't know if we have any copies anymore, I think everyone's read it."

I resisted the urge to snarl and make him walk the plank and took the kid down to Waterstones where we found a copy of the book. I complained to the guy behind the counter about the library stock and he shrugged. "I've never been up there. Not a reader."

SOB.

Paolo Coelho: I Don't Get It

I was wandering down Oxford Street today and I passed by Borders. Wondering what the big bad chain was up to these days I popped in for a stickybeak.

Apparently still catering to the lowest common denominator.

The shelves which house the staff picks were astoundingly mediocre: Lisa Jewell... Maeve Binchy... Jeffrey Archer. There was of course the compulsory Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (there's always at least one staff member who dreams of an orgy of drugs and alcohol whilst driving across America in a convertible.)

However, what distressed me more than the staff picks was the large bay of shelves dedicated to Paolo Coelho's novels. In case you're not sure who that is, he wrote The Alchemist which was a memorable fable told in a beautiful way. It's often a good pick if you need an extra text for English during the HSC.

However, as beautiful as the story is, the writing is very simple. This works for the mystical fable and thoughtful message of The Alchemist, but doesn't translate well for the rest of his writing. The novels are so simply written that they are BORING. It's like listening to a three year old struggling to articulate a thought. You know where they're going but you don't want to jump in and finish the sentence for them because that would be mean and unproductive towards their mental health, so you let them struggle on whilst internally you're screaming in frustration. Then, when said three year old finally makes his point, he repeats it 18 times to make sure you get it.

That's what reading Coelho is like. Brida in particular (his latest) is painful. The New York Times commented that: "Coelho is a novelist who writes in a universal language."

Yah- the language of MEH.