''Suite Francaise'', Irene Nemirovsky

I have to confess that a snobbish bit of me doesn't want to be moved by books which are sold by appealing to that emotion. I'm also not generally a fan of ''war'' books; despite the fact I studied history at university, I tend to find fictional accounts either too melodramatic or dry (yes, I know, I'm a fusspot). So I'm quite glad that I didn't know the ''back story'' of this book before I bought it, as it would definitely have put me off. ''Suite Francaise'', darling of newspaper reviewers, and seemingly perpeptually on the ''top sellers'' shelf at Borders, is set in Occupied France during WWII, and was written by Nemirovsky, a Russian Jew living in France during that period.



What's phenomenal is that Nemirovsky wrote this fictional work contemporaneously with the events unfolding around her. It's hard to get your head around the fact that this ''Suite'' is only two of her planned five-part series of novellas - she finished the ones based in 1940 - 1942 (''Storm in June'', ''Dolce''), but didn't manage to complete the hypothetical storylines of the post 1942 parts (''Captivity'', ''Battles'', ''Peace'') because she died in Auschwitz in 1942. The manuscripts were kept by her daughters who were smuggled around France and evaded the camps; only when one daughter decided to donate what she assumed were her mother's diaries to a literature institute did she discover that they were an unfinished novel, and they were eventually published in 2004.



Background aside (and I didn't know most of it whilst I was reading; the appendices fill you in later), ''Suite Francaise'' is the story of various people caught up in the Nazi occupation of France - firstly, in the exodus of Paris during the invasion, and secondly in a village where German soldiers lived among the French. In history lessons, the experience of civilians during war tends to be dealt with very briefly, and in between Physics and Double PE I can't say I ever really imagined the war on a human level. Nemirovsky's gift is in bringing the events of the time to a human level whilst retaining the grand perspective - the immediacy of her experience is clear throughout. The account of how life can be turned entirely upside down in days was chilling and felt somehow timeless; as did the behaviour of people being occupied by a foreign force who are, after all, just people like them. Unfortunately I find it very hard to write about things like this without feeling self-conscious at my own mawkish sentimentality, but for once I have to agree that this was a tremendously moving book. Forcing a few Sixth-years to read it along with the Penguin History of the Twentieth Century would probably make for a few more enlightened teenagers and a deeper appreciation of something which really wasn't all that long ago, and somehow feels all too possible to happen again.

''On Chesil Beach'', Ian McEwan

My name is Jenny, and I have an Ian McEwan problem. Here's the issue: I don't like Ian McEwan books very much. But I still buy each new one that comes out. Why? I think it's because somehow I feel I should like him; that a liberal middle-class Guardian reader such as myself should like this most famous of modern authors. And yet, the shameful truth is that ''Atonement'' bored me; ''Enduring Love'' left me cold; ''Saturday'' I could take or leave. Admittedly, I did quite enjoy ''Amsterdam'', and perhaps it was the residual memory of that novel that has made me ''give McEwan a go'' so many times, but I have to say that many other authors who disappointed have not had the benefit of the doubt so many times.

So, strange book lemming that I am, I recently read ''On Chesil Beach'', McEwan's latest (and current favourite on the ManBooker 2007 shortlist). Rather wonderfully, it also turned out to be pretty fantastic. It's a very short novel (a novella? what's the difference, technically?) about a couple on their wedding night in the early 1960s, and crushingly evocative of a time which to people of my generation is rather absent - neither ''history'' nor remotely near to living memory. And yet for all that I couldn't relate to the society in which these people lived, McEwan did a fabulous job of conveying the timelessness of romantic tragedy. Living in a time and place of sexual saturation in the media, it's refreshing to be reminded of the mundane reality of these things on a human, falliable, scale. Without giving too much away, I also loved the ending, for the same reason I liked ''Lost in Translation''. Perhaps I am a little too tragic.

''On Chesil Beach'' has therefore done little to help my McEwan problem. I will now be helplessly drawn to his next in the hope it's this good; what are the chances?

Playing catch-up

Gosh, it's a been a while, hasn't it? I do have a few excuses, but it's all procrastination, really (plus ca change). Between the last time I blogged and now I have:

• moved into my lovely new apartment (on a street reminiscent of either Sex and The City, or Sesame Street, depending on your point of view)
  
• discovered my favourite local haunts -South End Buttery; Turtle; Anita Kurl; Butcher Shop; Orinoco; Oishii (and don't even try to triangulate - my landlord has been woefully slow to put my name on the door; not even the pizza man can find me). Yes, I do live in a fabulous neighbourhood (and my 10,000 gay neighbours clearly agree).


• joined a big chorus - first concert at Symphony Hall on Sunday!


• started to meet some great people
  

I have also read a lot of books, moving to new cities where you don't know many people being what it is. Through sheer laziness however I haven't been blogging, so here goes a very brief summation of some of the books that I can remember (I'm sure there are more, but I have a horrendously bad memory for what I've read):

Highs:

''Complications'', Atul Gawande - a layman's guide to medical ethics which entirely changed my perspective on the role of doctors; simultaneously reassuring and deeply troubling.

''The God Delusion'', Richard Dawkins - Conclusion: yep, I'm an athiest. Thanks for reminding me why. (Note, I am more than aware of the holes in the argument, but they're my holes, and I'm happy with them)

''One Big Damn Puzzler'', John Harding - incursion of Westernisation on a remote Pacific Island; for some reason, this kind of stuff floats my boat (forgive the pun)

''Mountains Beyond Mountains'', Tracy Kidder - challenging account of the work of a young Harvard doctor with an unconventional approach to healthcare in the developing world, with a rather bizarre twist involving Roald Dahl.

Lows:

''Oh the Glory of It All'', Sean Wilsey - tedious, and even more so when I discovered it's a true account.

''Special Topics in Calmamity Physics'', Marisha Pessl - wanted to like it, sure I'm in the target audience, but strangely unaffecting.

''Absurdistan'', Gary Shteyngart - after 3 attempts at reading the first chapter, I gave up.

This time of year will forever be ''back to school'' time (will I ever stop saying 'school night'?), so here's a go at a fresh start. I shall buy a new pencil case and buy a set square in anticipation.