'Theft: A Love Story', Peter Carey

Ah, Peter Carey. ‘’My Life as a Fake’’ bored me to tears. ‘’True History of the Kelly Gang’’ was great. ‘’Theft’’ appeared in various Book of the Year lists, so despite concerns of my so far patchy record with Mr Carey I gave him another go. Damn.

I’ve read a few books ‘’about’’ Art (with a capital A) in the past and I’ve never really liked them. I have a somewhat peculiar relationship with art. I like going to art galleries, but only some, and only sometimes. I have my favourites: I loyally visit the BP Portrait Award and Schweppes Photographic Prize every year (the former being by far the highlight of the Aberdonian cultural calendar and thus one of the few things to do in the Christmas holidays). When I’m in London it’s rare that I don’t end up in the Tate Modern or National Portrait Gallery. And yet I think I’m somewhat of a fraud. Whilst I may not have the Supermarket Sweep approach of certain unnamed members of my family (you know who you are!) I do struggle to spend more than 5 minutes in front of a painting. My art history is also abysmal despite having Higher Art, which did require me to load up my short term memory with a bunch of facts about the Impressionists which I instantly forgot (ditto Coleridge, differentiation, or indeed mostly everything I learnt at school with the notable and worthy exception of touch typing). Art’s also part of my life from another angle: I have, on numerous occasions, been known to dabble in sketching, painting, photography; indeed, I spent many a memorable Wednesday evening in Geneva at Life Drawing classes, being exposed to the myriad combinations of body hair and tattoos of the young Genevoises (now that is an education).

Which is a very long way of getting round to saying that whilst I would categorise myself as somehow who likes art, for some reason, I have a problem with reading about it in the abstract. I am being somewhat unfair here on ‘’Theft’’ which, to give it some credit, also has many other subjects, including the complicated relationships between the protagonist, his lover, and his mentally ill brother. However there was enough art in there to distract me. People talking about art irritates me even more, and there’s a lot of it here. Chuck into that a lot of pretension and people taking themselves too seriously and it really wasn’t up my street. In the meantime I will continue to enjoy my arbitrary approach to art appreciation whilst avoiding anyone who might actually know what they’re on about and show me up.

'The Inheritance of Loss', Kiran Desai

One of my (occasionally futile) approaches to expand my literary horizons is to buy whatever most recently won the Booker, Whitbread, Orange, or suchlike. I know it’s not the most learned method, but it’s arguably better than Waterstones’ 2-for-1 table. Thus I bought the most recent Booker winner, ‘’The Inheritance of Loss’’ in a recent Amazon binge (which has resulted in my bedside table doubling in height and perilously endangering my cups of tea), without really knowing what it was about.

So it was with childlike glee that a few chapters in that I realized that it’s set in exactly the area of rural India to which I’ll be traveling in 2 months time. Not only is it based in the Darjeeling region, but more precisely in Kalimpong, a small town in the Himalayas which, on consultation with my tour itinerary, I will be visiting. My tickling at this coincidence largely offset the fact that the novel is not exactly a good advert for the place – it’s mostly set in the damp and gloomy monsoon season during a period of political unrest where militias are lurking in the undergrowth and destroying the local communities.

The story revolves around a young woman, Sai, who lives with her uncle and his cook in a dilapidated mansion in Kalimpong, and in a parallel story, the cook’s son, Biju, who has emigrated to New York. Grand themes regarding post-colonialism, immigration and the search for identity (national or otherwise) abound. In the context of current political rows regarding economic migration, I found the New York sections the most interesting, documenting the practical impossibility of crawling out of a hand-to-mouth existence as an illegal immigrant in America, no matter how good one’s intentions. Personally, I see little problem with economic migrants (just as well, given I’m one myself); it’s the laws in place which so restrict such people that create the poverty which in turn creates problems. The realization that India, although poor, might actually hold more promise than the Land of Hope, was also a blunt reminder that one’s choice of location should not or perhaps can not be made on the basis of future opportunity alone. It’s a dilemma I face right now: a trade-off between what might, or might not, be best career-wise vs. personally; an opportunity of adventure vs. security; a risk of isolation vs. boredom. But before I feel too sorry for myself I’m reminded that at least I have the options available. Unlike Biju.

Hence I liked ‘’The Inheritance of Loss’’ but perhaps not for the reasons that I was supposed to. Regarding the Booker, however, I would have given it to ‘’Mother’s Milk’’ by Edward St Aubyn. Maybe I should give John Sutherland a call and let him know.

‘Madame Bovary’, Gustave Flaubert

Turns out I am the type of person to read Madame Bovary on the bus after all. Well, on my sofa actually, but you get my point. In my defence, it was somewhat foisted upon me – as the first book of the new Book Club I’m part of in Athens. I have attempted to run Book Clubs in the past but it’s never quite worked.

My first in Geneva started as it was to go on, with the 3 people who had actually read the book in the kitchen, discussing the concept of false memory in relation to the Holocaust, whilst the remaining 8 or so people sat in the living room and debated whether David Beckham had really had an affair with Rebecca Loos (he had). The same rapid deterioration of Book Club into social club also happened at my first one in Athens, partly through my reluctance to call people into order and seem like a party pooper. However the latest incarnation seems more promising, with only 3 of us, and all committed to actually reading the books and going so far as to discuss them for a protracted period of time.

So in the true spirit of Book Clubs I ended up reading something totally off my usual repertoire, namely Madame Bovary. This falls into my mental category of Anna Karenina, War & Peace, Bleak House.. all things that sounds long, boring and full of description that I’ll want to skip. I have had occasional successes – I did rather enjoy doing Hardy at school – but also failed to finish countless others. Madame Bovary did surprise me though. Helped by my speed-reading of it (forgetting Book Club was at the *beginning* of January, not the end…) I found it pretty engaging.

However discussing it later was much more interesting. I knew before I read it that the main plot was about a woman who had affairs. But I didn’t expect quite how much I would dislike her and fail to feel any empathy or sympathy at all. Not a jot. I’m sure it must reflect past experiences in my own life and people I know as I felt really quite affected by how much I disliked the protagonist – her selfish self-absorbed nature, only caring to pursue ‘’romance’’ at the expense of anyone else (including her own daughter) or any practical consideration. It rapidly emerged at Book Club that in fact the others didn’t agree with me at all – whilst they acknowledged that she did behave in her own self interest they felt sorry for her and felt a sense of sympathetic tragedy at her inability to be fulfilled. I have no idea of the general secondary literature on the subject and who is more typical of critical opinion (anyone care to illuminate me?). Of course now I’m worried there’s something of the Rorschach test about it (take your own!) and perhaps this tellingly uncovers my cynical bitter twisted nature.

I am looking forward with trepidation to the upcoming Book Club books, but rest assured I will share the pearly wisdom of my thoughts. Bet you can’t wait.

''The Queen & I'' and ''Queen Camilla'', Sue Townsend

Yet more Christmas frippery! As you might have guessed when I’m in the frozen north I do tend to read quite a lot of trash, normally curled up on the sofa in the kitchen attempting to stay warm near the Aga and not get pushed off by the cat. These were more Christmas presents, again not actually mine (my own Christmas books having been sensibly sent directly to Athens via Amazon by my tech-savvy Mother).

Sue Townsend (of Adrian Mole fame) writes about the Royal Family following an election in which a Republic Prime Minister has won and promptly deposed the monarchy. In potentially over-obvious use of contemporary events, they are moved into an Exclusion Zone for ASBO-types and made to live under surveillance. But it’s all light comedy really, with most of the family quickly ‘fitting in’ to what effectively is a caricature of working class ‘’chav’’ life. Playing with the two-dimensional stereotypes that we all know so well from the papers, Princess Anne manages quite well in a down-to-earth horsey sort of way, whilst the Queen is polite and terribly nice to everyone. Will & Harry become boy racers and get together with the local Vicky Pollard types and so on. I think there’s meant to be some political satire in there, but frankly it’s just a bit too obvious to work on that level. It’s not clear whether Townsend is a Republican herself (maybe she’s famous for an opinion but I’ve never heard her on the subject) but it does betray some affection for the Royals. The suggestion is that they’re good eggs, with the exception of Prince Phillip who apparently is the only one who wouldn’t be able to handle it. Personally, I have to confess that I don’t really care. Apparently the Royal Family cost the UK taxpayer less than a pound a year. In which case they’re clearly worth their weight in tabloid sales & commemorative mugs.

'Humble Pie', Gordon Ramsay

Another day, another celebrity autobiography (it could only be Christmas). This time, I purloined my father’s copy of Gordon Ramsay’s autobiography. I have, at this stage, a confession to make. There is something strangely attractive about Gordon Ramsay. I know, I know, I’m mad, he’s a big ugly bully and horrid guy. And I don’t know why, but… (ditto new Dr Who, David Tennant. Although I was horrified when he appeared on The Friday Night Project speaking in his native high-pitched Glasweigan accent which is both disconcerting and also nowhere near as nice as his Dr Who English. Switch, David, switch!). Anyhow. Moving swiftly on.

For once, this was actually quite an interesting celebrity book, as at least Ramsay has achieved something significant in return for his celebrity unlike the latest rash of Big Brother types. He came from an absolutely awful background; I knew he was poor, but his family were in effect homeless and his father was emotionally and physically abusive to Ramsay and his whole family. He was a teenage player for Rangers until he got an injury and then apparently on a whim, decided to go to catering college. He became one of the early tough-guy celebrity chefs, though he started his career with the very first of that gang, Marco Pierre White, and clearly took a lot of crap himself. Since then he’s mostly been a consummate businessman, albeit with some disasters in between (boom and bust, much like Mr Everett). Now his whole life is his career; even his wife has a cookery book now, and his cute blonde gaggle of kids appear in his TV show The F Word. How he can quite justify that sort of exposure when the focus it meant to be on food I’m not sure, but I guess he can handle it.

Book. Reviewed. Done.

'Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins', Rupert Everett

It’s celebrity (auto)biography time of year. I don’t usually go in for that sort of thing, but Rupert Everett was doing the round of the chat shows (or at least the ones on Channel 4, the only terrestrial UK channel I get with my hot-wired Sky box) and his repartee was sufficiently sparkling that I thought I would give it a bash. His autobiography was mostly marketed on the basis of two things. Firstly, that he wrote it himself (rather than having a ghostwriter). Secondly, that it contains celebrity gossip, including lots about Madonna, not-so-subtly alluded to over taupe sofas on morning TV. On both these points it was pretty mediocre. Everett is OK at writing but nothing special, and may well have benefited from a more involved editor. On the celebrity gossip though... well, maybe I’m all gossiped out, but it wasn’t really anything new. Particularly on Madonna – he clearly likes her a lot, so didn’t say anything remotely surprising or interesting. If like me you’re a secret shameful semi-follower of this prurient sort of thing, you’d be better off to check out ‘The Insider: The Private Diaries of a Scandalous Decade’ by Piers Morgan or 'But Enough About Me: From Eighties Geek to Rock 'n' Roll Chic - Adventures in Celebsville' by Jancee Dunn which are much more interesting, or subscribe to Popbitch.

I found Everett’s general life narrative much more interesting, in fact. He has had a wildly eventful time of it, living in various places around the world, seemingly on a whim, and getting into various irresponsible escapades. For someone as logical and considered as I it’s somewhat cathartic to watch someone else flail around erratically. His life, in fact, has been rather like a novel – The Great Gatsby, Brideshead Revisited, or something like that. That upper class type who goes from riches to poverty and back but ends up recreating a terribly privileged life wherever he lands. And now he’ll have lots of money thanks to his book. Smart guy.

‘’The Power of Persuasion: How We’re Bought And Sold’’, Robert Levine

Regular readers may remember in a pique of introspection a whole ago I started trying to work out better ways to influence people at work - in a nice way, like. This book was part of that Saturday-morning haul from the biggest bookshop stocking English books in Athens where I indulged in a bit of retail therapy (self-help books are the new grey, I hear). However this one was quite a lot more interesting – taking a psychologist’s approach, it analyses how we are persuaded to think and behave by various people, media and organizations. Working in marketing it’s a fascinating area although pretty unnerving when you consider it relies on either the goodness of the persuader or the resistance of the persuadee to avoid sinister results. Ah, it’s just like reading No Logo; I’m a sucker for punishment.

Many of the approaches are very familiar to me from day-to-day work. Levine starts by exploring the ‘’Illusion of Invulnerability’’, that common belief that whilst everyone else is influenced by advertising and so on, *I* am clever enough to not be influenced. Thus, when people are asked if they are swayed by advertising, 99% of the time they say ‘’no I’m not’’, despite the patent reality that there would be no multi-billion dollar advertising industry if this were true. (Incidentally it always makes me chuckle when friends say ‘’oh I don’t care about branding or marketing, I just buy from the Body Shop and Morrisons’’. Suckers). So the first thing is clear – we are in fact particularly vulnerable to persuasion precisely because we see it as no threat due to our superior intelligence.

There are many, many other fascinating principles which quickly bring personal experiences to mind. Like the ‘reciprocity principle’ which is so prevalent in the West – if someone gives you something, then you ‘’owe’’ them and feel morally obliged to repay the favour when you are in that position. So want to get someone to do something? Given them something first and they won’t be able to resist. Then there’s the ‘contrast principle’ – the decision you’re making, particularly when it comes to cost, is significantly influenced by what you’re comparing it to. I have a particularly inane habit of not buying CDs because I perceive GBP10 to be ‘’expensive’’ for music (no idea why) whereas I will happily but a GBP40 skirt without flinching. In fact I had a classic experience of value ‘’framing’’ this week when I was looking in the Sales for a new digital camera – Jessops had one reduced from GBP200 to GBP125 which I liked and thought was a great bargain but I didn’t get around to buying it. Then I had a quick check in Duty Free at the airport and found it there – also for GBP125, but this time it said the ‘’reduction’’ was only GBP50 from GBP175. Suddenly, it wasn’t half as attractive. It’s such basic psychology but it’s stunning how affected we are, even when we know we’re being influenced.

Anyway, this is thoroughly recommended both for the cynical marketeer (great P&G word, that; makes me feel like a Mouseketeer) and the assailed and concerned consumer. I will leave you to read whilst I stare out of the window and consider for the 37th time this week whether to chuck it all in.

''Kalooki Nights'', Howard Jacobson

It’s only in my old age (bring on 30) that I realize what my schooling taught me, and perhaps more startlingly, what it didn’t. I mean facts here, not skills – I’m not much in doubt of my 3 ‘’R’’s, although missing Primary 7 when I was put up a year meant I never learnt long division which I’m ashamed to say I cannot do to this day (somehow it never seemed the right day to learn it). Of course it’s all relative – I’ve often been struck by the fact some (ok, most) people see me as a total no-hoper at general knowledge whilst others consider my chit-chat encyclopedic – and yet there are whole areas of factual knowledge that are just missing. Thanks to the bizarre Scottish education system I know nothing about the Tudors and Stewarts. At all. And by dint of being born in 1980, not studying politics at school, and a general lack of interest in newspapers until I was 14, I know very little about recent-ish history and politics, especially the 70s and 80s. This was horribly evident at my Cambridge interview when I was asked a question about Margaret Thatcher and what I thought about her views of the EU. To which I made up something about her supporting it (an early example of when shutting up would be better than making it up, but some things we never learn….). Which brings me to Judaism. I’m not from a Jewish family, I didn’t do religious studies, I didn’t know any practicing Jews growing up, and thus, well, I didn’t know anything. Not really registering a whole section of society on my radar, I was completely stumped when a good friend once pointed out an anti-semitic comment in the newspaper. Firstly, I didn’t recognize it to be anti-semitic as I didn’t get the reference to Jews. Secondly, I didn’t understand the stereotype that was being made, having had no prior opinion of Judiasm or ever heard anyone else talking about it (postivitively or negatively) for that matter.

So, since then, I have made some attempts to fill in the gaps in a somewhat anthropological, mildly voyeuristic way. Kalooki Nights is about a young Jewish boy called Max Glickman growing up in Crumpsall Park post-war (although I never quite worked out exactly when) and his relationship over various time periods with an on-off friend, Manny Washinsky. The majority of the story revolves around Max contemplating the Holocaust, and creating his own illustrated cartoon book of Jewish history, entitled ‘’Five Thousand Years of Bitterness’’. The Holocaust plays an intriguing role in his life – he didn’t live through it, doesn’t know anyone who did, but he knows it’s relevant for him and must be important despite the wishes of his father for him to divorce himself from the traditional Jewish community. Max’s slow discovery of this history is mostly from illicit books with the photos ripped out (although later found) and the playground chatter of his friends including the fantasist Washinsky who has created his own fictional back-history to claim a part of the past for himself. It’s a book about cultural identity dominated by a cataclysmic event and how this is passed on to children who didn’t live through it and aren’t directly taught but discover it for themselves.

However, whilst educative for the first third I must say that after that I tired. Jacobson jumps around in time an awful lot and the plot is pretty plodding and gets a bit monotonous. Reviews of this were mixed – some people thought it was hilarious which frankly I just don’t get, whilst others did note its rather rambling, random nature. So not a high recommendation to be honest although perhaps there’s something richer in there for people who know more about the subject than I.