A(nother) Year in Books

''Travels in the Scriptorium'', Paul Auster

2008-07-23T14:12:00.004-04:00

I would like to extend my thanks to Paul Auster for enabling me to feel like a proper grown-up. As frequenters of this blog (um, anyone out there?) no doubt realised long ago, my approach to literature and reading is hardly sophisticated. A nice book cover, a decent review in The Guardian and I'm anyone's. I have also not read half the things that I feel I 'should' have. I was an avid bibliophile until around 12, stopped reading anything non-academic until about 19, and then re-started, somehow circumventing that delicate adolescent stage when one is meant to wallow in The Classics. No, it was straight to Douglas Coupland for me. However, being an ardent fan of Auster has helped redeem me somewhat. A respectable, intellectual, author, who I like! And of whose books I have read many!

Harvard Book Store's bargain basement provided me with my latest fix, and as luck would have it, both a credible book and a great cover (white horses rock). Definitely one of his more esoteric and philosophical novels, ''Travels'' is set in a white room in an unknown location with a protagonist who knows as little as we do. There was a war; he is amnesiac; he may or may not be being held against his will. There's something of the Sherlock Holmes 'mystery of the locked room' about it, and Auster also quickly introduces another of his signature motifs, the book-within-a-book. It all sounds a bit pretentious and obscure, but thanks to Auster's great prose style, a certain amount of plot development and, admittedly, the novella format, it kept me interested. I am tempted to explain my own theories as to what was going on, but on the slight offchance someone actually reads this, and then decides to read the book, I shall refrain. But if you read it, let me know, and we can compare notes whilst feeling like grown-ups.

‘Joe College’, Tom Perrotta

2008-07-06T20:23:00.003-04:00

One of the joys of living in Boston is the awareness of being in the near-presence of greatness. From my office window (OK, OK, the office with a window adjacent to my windowless Dilbert cube) I can see MIT just over the river, and Harvard in the distance, and since I’ve been here I’ve regularly discovered that all manner of people I admire live within a ten mile radius of my house. I’ve yet to lose the frisson of excitement I get each time I exit Harvard Square T on the off-chance I collide into Steven Pinker or thwack into Noam Chomsky. That said, I also find it disconcerting.

Ever since I was a teenager and started loving certain authors (and musicians, much in the same way) it threw me to realize that they’re real people, who one could actually meet. The first few concerts I went to of bands I loved were quite unsettling, and even now I have a tendency to leave them slightly unnerved. Quite why I have trouble reconciling my perceptions of artists with the flesh and blood reality I’m not entirely sure. With musicians, it’s certainly disappointing if, in the rambling between songs, they turn out not to be the witty, erudite, strikingly intelligent people that I’d assumed they would be (luckily dear Neil Hannon is quite as wonderful as the image he creates), or worse still, a bit off-putting (Michael Stipe certainly falls into this camp on occasion). Similarly, I have met a few authors and journalists who turn out not to be quite what I’d imagined. I recently heard at a party that one of my favourite UK journalists who writes on science in the media is actually a rather grumpy misanthrope. But even aside from this occasional gap with my expectations, the fact that these people are just people, and live their lives much like me, still sits strangely. Perhaps it’s the perception that if they inhabit the same world as me, and achieve what they do, then really I should too. But enough amateur psychoanalysis! This is all just a long way of saying, it turns out Tom Perrotta lives in Belmont, Massachusetts, which local readers will know is just north of Boston, and non-locals will now have learned. However I’m slightly more sanguine about the idea of Perrotta existing (I’m sure he’ll be immensely relieved) because based on his books I would imagine he’s a fairly normal person; not flashy, just a good story teller with a characteristic turn of phrase.

Perrotta strikes a balance in his writing which suits me very well: novels with fairly complex ideas, but with a plot that moves along at a clip and pleasingly realistic first person narrators. I first encountered him without realizing it when I saw ‘Election’, which embarrassingly rang a little more true than I might wish to admit (the slightly overambitious school swot bit, not the having an affair with a teacher bit, before you speculate). I then read ‘The Abstinence Teacher’ a few months ago (highly recommended even if it’s a little trite at the end), and saw the film of ‘Little Children’ (also set in Northern Massachusetts although at that point I had no idea he lived in the area). ‘Joe College’ is in a similar vein and style: a coming-of-age novel about a boy from a poor New Jersey background who goes to Yale and oscillates between the two worlds. I enjoyed it, as made clear by the fact I read it in three days, but Perrotta’s weakness is undoubtedly a tendency for overly ‘finished’ endings, which neatly tie up and where the right thing almost always happens (certainly a more complex issue in Little Children, given the subject matter, and yet a certain sort of moral rightness still prevails). A little more cynicism would work better for me, and hey, if I bump into him in J.P. Lick’s or Copley Square I’ll be sure to let him know – for such is the joy of locally-residing authors.

‘When You Are Engulfed In Flames’, David Sedaris

2008-06-30T22:34:00.005-04:00

First, an apology to riders of the Red Line, direction Alewife, on Friday night. Yes, I was the obnoxious woman travelling in an iPod bubble, sporadically stifling giggles in a semi-snorting manner. I’m not entirely sure of the external effect, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. But what can you do? David Sedaris can be funny. Bizarrely, not always so: I didn’t think very much of ‘’Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim’’, and I thought ‘’Me Talk Pretty Some Day’’ was alright. But he slid his way back on to my shelf courtesy of an NPR review (the thinking American’s Radio 4; bless them for trying), a cool dust jacket picture and my fledgling Barnes & Noble Members card (20% off Hardbacks! 10 cents off B&N Starbucks!).

It’s probably a tautology to say that observational comedy can be a bit hit or miss; in fact it was a running joke recently with a friend who was visiting from the UK (and there’s a lot of mileage in that one, given you only have to… observe, to get a laugh). And if your living is made from this sort of thing, there’s the inevitable second-album effect. You’ve been building up to your first release all your life, saving up your best material, and distilling it into the perfect essence of your message, man. As for the second, well, you’ve seen a lot of hotel rooms and junkets and you’d better deliver by July. Lucky, then, that Sedaris got a bit of new material by moving abroad, variously to Tokyo, London, Paris and Normandy. I have no doubt that the moves were contrived entirely for this reason; he claims the move to Tokyo was for the purpose of quitting smoking, but you can imagine the conversation with the publisher: ‘Quitting smoking eh? There’s something in that…. But what about you also go somewhere where people speak funny?!’ The whole lost-in-translation thing was actually not particularly amusing (the title of the book comes from a Japanese fire prevention sign or some such) but there were plenty of other expatriate tales to keep me chuckling along in recognition. Attempting to learn the local language without feeling like a total numpty, hopelessly attempting to fit with the locals and yet being constantly entertained amused by your environment are all part of the joy of being a permanent alien. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to give it up, or if I’ll continue living my life led by a search for random adventures. Perhaps there’s a book in it.

Overheard in the Women's Studies section

2008-06-25T21:34:00.003-04:00

American woman in her early twenties: 'So I'm not sure if I can really ask you this, but what exactly is your relationship with them?'

Slightly scruffy English woman: 'Well yes, I used to date both of them. But I have two boyfriends at the moment and I just don't have time for a girlfriend as well right now.

That's why I love Brookline Booksmith.

''Uncommon Arrangements: Seven Marriages'', Katie Roiphe

2008-06-23T22:21:00.006-04:00

Sometimes, context is everything. Writing this whilst intermittently rubbing aloe vera gel into my sunburn halo (a rare achievement, and one I believe shows I am destined for holiness) I can’t quite separate Katie Roiphe’s book from the memory of lounging on a beach on Cape Cod this weekend. Provincetown must be one of the few places in the world where twee-ly quaint white-washed 1950s style ice cream bars and fishing-themed antique shops provide the backdrop to sights such as wobbly cycling drag queens cackling down the street, incredibly tiny dogs dragging even more incredibly tiny billboards advertising art galleries, and innumerable, undeniably euphemistic, ‘tea parties’ (over 21s only). The beach as you may well imagine is a consistently lovely extension of this most peculiar of all-American towns. Despite the presence of a half-German in our gang, we were prudish enough to skirt the nudist beach (who knew such things existed in Massachusetts?) but our stretch of sand nonetheless provided a sprinkling of family arrangements which may be common in Provincetown, and perhaps even Massachusetts, but are certainly uncommon in most of this great country.

And thus, by way of seamless segue, to today’s subject. Roiphe’s book chronicles all kinds of uncommon arrangements, although an interest in one’s own gender was just a basic starting point for this set of Londoners. As a series of interconnecting vignettes, Roiphe has written an account of seven marriages among the Bloomsbury set: H.G. Wells, Katherine Mansfield, Vanessa Bell and Radclyffe Hall among them. As with much of my general knowledge, I’d vaguely heard of most of these people, perhaps read an article or two but never really engaged. Now, I’m on a mini quest to find out more (this will probably involve an Amazon binge and then the collecting of dust on my bedside table for a while, but as always it’s the effort and illusion of high-minded intellectual investigation that counts).

At a time when Britain was moving out of Victorianism, this tight group of friends were experimenting with what relationships, and in particular, marriage, could be. Of particular interest was how new feminist thinking could be reconciled with the patriarchal institution of marriage, and a lot of this book recounts the tension that arose as gifted women tussled their fierce need for independence with their inevitable wish for close relationships. So much of this is still relevant today, re-lived among my friends and in the agony pages of women’s magazines. Particularly striking was a quote to the effect that women’s tragedy is that they devote so much time and effort to thinking about their relationships, whilst men devote somewhat less and are thus free to achieve and be wonderful. This set developed all kinds of possible solutions including countless ménages, open relationships, ‘trial’ marriages (co-habitation – who’d have thought!), whilst generally adhering to a hedonistic philosophy that the only way to be truthful and honest was to act on one’s romantic impulses. Inevitably, to the modern mind familiar with the basics of psychoanalysis, much of this ended in disaster. But being able to learn of and understand the motivations of this peculiar bunch is fascinating – it’s incredibly rare to have so much insight into other people’s relationships, but the group were obsessive letter and diary writers, and it’s there for all to see, with literary flourish. These flashes of alternate lives left me with a great deal of admiration for the women involved, trying to forge a new society through their personal relationships, but also a twinge of anxiety that so little seems to have changed. These radical sorts would still stir up opprobrium from the Daily Mail, whilst the milder, everyday versions of their lifestyle choices remain politically sensitive. Plus ca change.

Remind me what I was talking about again?

2008-06-23T22:21:00.001-04:00

Oh yes, books (or for the more astute of you, random things that pop into my mind, masquerading as incisive and illuminating commentary on the literature of the day). Best get back to that, then.

''Suite Francaise'', Irene Nemirovsky

2007-10-03T19:27:00.001-04:00

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

2007-10-03T19:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-10-03T18:33:00.000-04:00

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.

''This Book Will Save Your Life'', A. M. Homes

2007-06-16T20:24:00.000-04:00

I bought this book because the cover made me hungry. It only seemed fitting, as I now live in the home city of Dunkin' Donuts where every walk down the street is a battle against temptation. In fact, I am woefully, moronically, irretrievably influenced by book covers. It's totally irrational. I know that it's really very little indicator of whether a book is good or not (insert ''book/cover'' joke here), and yet.... I'm a sucker for the marketing. After recommendations from friends, and newspaper reviews, book covers are practically the only things which guide me once I'm in a bookshop. I was in Barnes & Noble yesterday after work (quick aside - shops that are open after 6pm! Yay!) and ended up totally disoriented due to a lack of anything I recognised, or anything visually appealing. Some day I will have to grow up and get over this, but for now it is my fate. Unfortunately, not only will this book not save your life, it's also a bit rubbish. Shame, it was so appetising.

''Family Matters'', Rohinton Mistry

2007-06-16T20:03:00.000-04:00

Sitting in my temporary apartment overlooking Quincy Market in Boston it's hard to process the fact that I bought this book on one of the busiest, dirtiest streets in the middle of Calcutta, and that that was only 2 months ago. But strange as it may seem for last minute shopping in India (saris? incense? no, English books), there was a reason - Penguin Indian-edition books are GBP2.99. Bargain! Especially for someone who's been living abroad for so long and used to paying a premium. Unfortunately that mentality is now about to get me in trouble as I live in a city of endless bookstores all selling books in English at low prices. Ludicrously, I can even buy books without leaving my office given it's bizarre location in a shopping mall.

Given how much I liked the first Mistry book I read (see below) I thought I would read a second. This time, however, instead of reading in hotel rooms in the Himalayas, it was more of an airport lounge, business-trip read. Therefore I take some personal responsibility for not liking it so much, which I'm sure will relieve Mr. Mistry considerably. There's no doubt that context can make a difference: I read Conrad's "Heart of Darkness'' whilst sitting in my concrete shack in Malawi with no electric light - now that's atmospheric. So I guess it's not surprising that a story of a Mumbai family didn't resonate with me quite so much this time. This book has a lot of similarities with ''A Fine Balance'', although the characters are quite a bit less sympathetic, and there's something of the Soap Opera feel about it. So if wasn't obvious enough already, if you fancy a bit of Mistry I'd recommend ''A Fine Balance'' first. And then maybe you can be a more attentive student than me and give this one a bettter shot.

''Boston'', Eyewitness Travel Guides

2007-05-19T21:42:00.000-04:00

Oh Doring Kindersley Eyewitness Travel Guides how I love you; let me count the ways... For familial reasons I feel compelled to say I also like Rough Guides (those souls who first realised my brother's socialising party ways could be leveraged to good commercial use as a student marketeer), but there's nothing like a good Eyewitness. Those great maps! The cool little museum guides! The photo guide to local food! (incuding my new favourite: ''a sandwich in Boston''). For the past 5 days it has been my trusty guide to this new city; indeed I have just returned from a rather tasty Korean meal courtesy of the brief but well-chosen restaurant guide at the back.

First impressions of Boston have been pretty good, although it was difficult going with such high expectations (anyone who has ever visited, without exception, has sung its praises to me for the past 2 months). Coming from Athens, the main observations are: 1) it's small. Really, really small. Like, from my hotel window I can see fields and sea. Coming from Athens, that's very small. 2) it's clean! bit Disneylandish, but that's OK with me 3) people are really friendly. Yeah, I know it's America, and I know that they want a tip, but I'll accept an ''hello, how's your day going?'' to ''Speak Greek? No? *spit*'' any day. I'm working on the 37th floor which is kind of freaky but fun; plus there's a shopping mall at the bottom of the building which is a whole other level of novelty and gloomingly bad news for my credit card. I have also found somewhere to live, which is always good news as being homeless or hotelbound is not much fun. Unfortunately I'm leaving again in 6 days for a brief European soujourn, but after that I'll be back for a while and hopefully start the settling-in process. In the meantime I shall practice my Bostonian accent - '' could you take me up Mass Ave to Haaaaa-vad please?''

''A Fine Balance'', Rohinton Mistry

2007-05-17T09:39:00.000-04:00

It's been a while... Since the last time I blogged I have flown 13 times, had 5 leaving parties, recorded an album, had my apartment packed into 25 cubic square metres of cardboard boxes, and eaten my first Boston crab cakes. So I hope you'll excuse me for not returning sooner. In fact, I would be tempted to skip the last few books and hurry on to First Impressions of Boston, were it not for the fact that in the past weeks I read a book which will definitely enter my all-time favourites list (if such a thing existed).

Another gem picked out of the Oberoi hotel shop (gosh that feels long ago now), I thought it would probably be rude not to read at least one book by an Indian author, about India. And what good luck I had. ''A Fine Balance'' is about four people living during the period of The Emergency in the 1970s, when Indira Gandhi introduced a series of draconian laws and suspended civil rights following her failure to win the national elections. I had never even heard of this, and the basic subject matter was pretty horrifying - in particular the crude attempts at population control, which involved mass forced sterilisation. However, what makes this book incredibly compelling is the characterisation, and in particular the way that Mistry makes you empathise so thoroughly with the characters, despite the fact your lives are at polar opposites. Having done this, he has you so involved that when tragic events unfold (as you suspect they are going to, from the first page) it's devastating - for wont of a better phrase, he puts a human face on tragedy. OK, I know this all sounds grim and unappealing, but it's so different from anything else I've ever read, that I urge you to go and read it.

Of course, there was another level of meaining for me, as I read this whilst in Calcutta. Sudder St, where my hotel was located (not the Oberoi, but the one with the group), is a hotspot for deformed beggars of all sorts - logical, given the bountiful source of western tourists. There's so many, that it's an obstacle course just to walk to the other end of the road. Practically, there's not much you can do other than try to blank everything out and get where you need to go. If you do want to help, it's clearly much better to contribute to Mother Theresa's mission, than attempt to ''evenly'' dole out money to the hundreds of poor. And if you were to actually engage in thinking about the lives of these people you'd never be able to leave the hotel. It sounds callous, but I can't imagine that anyone would be able to find an alternative way to deal with it. However, reading this novel really hits you if you've been there - humanising people who live like this; telling their back-stories and the often uncontrollable acts of fate which have brought them to this position. Of course it still doesn't provide you with any better alternative for how to deal with the day-to-day of being in Calcutta (or some equivalent place). But it does help you to put it into perspective and in particular understand the political and economic reasons that some people have ended up living on the streets.

I'm a million miles away from that world now, living on the 17th floor of the Sheraton in Boston. But I'm reading my next Mistry, ''Family Matters'' set among the Parsi community of Mumbai, providing me with a small reminder of those 3 weeks which feel months ago now.

Alexander McCall Smith ‘Espresso Tales: The Latest from 44 Scotland Street’

2007-04-28T14:01:00.002-04:00

This was an emergency buy; I certainly don’t normally seek out the opus of Mr McCall Smith. Like the rest of the British population, I have read some of his No.1 Detectives Agency series, but apparently unlike most of them, thought they really weren’t very good. I have nothing against easy reading or light fiction per se (in fact I’m a veritable lightweight compared to most of my peers I suspect) but the tales of Precious Ramotswe were just too twee, patronising and contrived in a ‘’oh look at the sweet simple African woman who’s canny in the way of the bush’’ kind of way. All power to McCall Smith who has furnished many tube carriages with their reading matter and no doubt made much money in the process, but this kind of ‘’lite’’ hurts my teeth. If I dare tempt a mobbing, it’s rather similar to Harry Potter in my opinion. Face it guys, it’s a kid’s book, it doesn’t have an adult sub-plot, there is nothing rather different about it, apart from a darned good marketing plan. Nothing wrong with enjoying them, but don’t start to pretend it’s anything more than children’s fiction (of course there are children’s books with genuine adult-orientated themes & nuances, such as Phillip Pullman’s Dark Materials triology which is light years ahead of Harry Potter). [I am now cowering in a corner waiting for the Rowling posse to come to beat me up]. Don't even start me on The Da Vinci Code or we'll be here for hours.

So I only bought ‘Espresso Tales’ because not much else was available in the Hotel Bookshop (still the Oberoi; yes, I did read a lot there; I was a social recluse, remember?). Therefore it was much to my surprise and all-round happiness that it turns out that McCall Smith is indeed capable of better. ‘Espresso Tales’ is a compilation of his weekly installments in The Scotsman (a bit of a cheek with the whole Dickens-emulation thing if you ask me; but you didn’t), which works pretty well in novel format, keeping the pace moving fast for a plot-junkie like myself. The highlight for me was definitely 6-year old Bertie, a mild-mannered genius with an insufferable mother who forces him to wear pink dungarees and go to a therapist (who, incidentally, she is attempting to seduce). Gentle chuckles all round. It’s also faintly soothing to read about a city (Edinburgh) which I know so well; probably the closest I get to being homesick for somewhere I’m not from (admittedly not the first time it’s happened). Next time I’m in an airport lounge I might just look for the sequel…

Paul Auster, ‘The Book of Illusions’

2007-04-28T14:01:00.001-04:00

There aren’t many authors who I consistently like and ‘’follow’’, but Paul Auster is one of them. I first read ‘’Oracle Night’’ on the recommendation of a friend from Book Club, and since then, if I do venture past the 2-for-1 section to the Proper Grownup Shelves (where you can only see the spines!), I know there’ll be at least one book I’ll like courtesy of this chap.

This novel bears all the trademarks of a good Auster – stories within stories; the power of coincidence; a cast haunted by the past. Briefly, it’s the story of a man who has lost his family in an air crash, who happens upon an old film by a forgotten silent movie star. Cue a series of coincidences, a chase across the country, and an everpresent feeling that All Is Not As It Seems. I’m not sure it’s his best – it certainly is a bit too long – but this is Quality writing with a capital Q.

Toby Litt, ‘Finding Myself’

2007-04-28T13:56:00.000-04:00

In true form, I read rather a lot of books on my holiday (indeed my friend Lisa will tell of when I was ostensibly on a ‘’wild’’ group holiday on a Greek island but behaved more like a skiving librarian; it’s not unusual). So, now I’m back in the land of the Ancients, I have to cast my mind back to various hotel rooms and airport waiting lounges in an attempt to remember what I read. Luckily, I was jotting down some random musings on the trip and there’s a few hints back in the margins…

So, way back in the Oberoi hotel in Calcutta I rather enjoyed Toby Litt’s book, ‘’Finding Myself’. At first glance it manages the dubious distinction of sounding simultaneously pretentious and Chick Lit. If we’re going to get all textual-analysis about it, it’s a first person narrative which is being annotated by a second person and retrospectively edited in the light of further events. Not promising, eh? But contrary to expectations it’s really quite good. A novelist decides to write a book by inviting a group of friends – who she expects to behave badly – to a country house for a month, where she will observe them and then write it all up. The second person annotation (handwriting on top of the typewritten text) is by her editor, who is also one of the people invited to the house and is frequently involved in the story. The editor proves to be one of the most amusing characters, despite only being ‘’present’’ by a few words on each page.. gosh, this is starting to sound like a GCSE essay, apologies. Anyhow, there are plenty of mildly ludicrous twists and modern ‘’Big Brother’’ references, but in the end it’s clever without being annoying. Recommended reading for laying around a pool in Calcutta.

''Buttertea at Sunrise'', Britta Das

2007-04-02T09:08:00.000-04:00

Being on your own in a foreign country makes you think waaaay too much. And as someone who is already guilty of that in the extreme, it can be a bit ludicrous. Combined with my apparent inability to strike up a conversation with strangers (despite the fact this hotel is full of young Europeans in their 20s and 30s, clearly working for NGOs and the like) it does strange things to the head. One topic on which I have been frequently mulling for the past 2 days is how shockingly inelegant Northern Europeans (read: me) are, particularly on holiday. Right now I am in proper Brit-on-holiday-in-developing-country mode: i.e. I am scruffy, wearing ill-fitting clothes in various shades of khaki which I would never go anywhere near at home. What is it exactly that causes British women to throw all that Trinny-and-Susannah advice to the wind as soon as we’re out of the Schengen area? Anyhow, this effect is significantly exacerbated when in India, for the simple reason that even the most casual look of the average Indian woman is gorgeous elegance brought to life. Hence I have been plodding (an apposite verb in the situation) around the hotel looking like a monster (particularly with my uns-tyled hair, which friends will tell you is definitely not a good look), brushing past legions of beautiful Indian women in wonderful saris and perfect hair. In addition, the world played a cruel joke of dealing me some pretty, tiny, Thai women for my spa treatments, which meant a constant battle to suppress the thought that they must be horrified by this big white fleshy short-haired creature. But enough! The great thing is, it’s liberating not to have to care about what you wear or look like, and within a few days I will have got everything back under perspective (and hence a collective sigh is heard around the world).

It’s not the first time I’ve been the odd one out however – in Malawi it was bizarre to realize one’s fame in the entire neighbourhood, and oddly disconcerting to know that it was impossible to be anonymous in a crowd. The same held true for Britta Das, the author of the latest book I read, ‘’Buttertea at Sunrise’’. As part of my traditional pre-trip Amazon splurge I bought this as it one of the few books available on Bhutan (I did also attempt to buy a Bhutan guidebook but after promising it would come within 10 days Amazon seems to have lost the ability to locate it….). It’s the story of a German-born Canadian woman who goes to work as a VSO volunteer in remote Bhutan for a year. As a tall blonde she too became the tourist attraction of the area, although she had no intention of letting this get in the way of her integration with the community, working as a physiotherapist in the local hospital. The memoir doesn’t particularly attempt to cover the more general culture of Bhutan, its history or suchlike, but it is a nice portrait of a small community and it is Britta’s relationships with her workmates which is the most interesting part of the book. Particularly when you come to realize that ‘Das’ is an Indian surname and she’s not married at the start of the book…. So I am now armed with a few facts which may or may not be helpful when I head up north on Friday: a popular dish is chillies inside soft cheese; it gets so foggy you can’t dry your underwear overnight; there are white monuments called Chortens which mark out trails and also perform religious function (quite what, I didn’t catch). Sadly my lack of a guidebook means I’m none the wiser about anything else, but perhaps that’s a good way to travel.

''The Diviners'', Rick Moody

2007-03-31T08:53:00.000-04:00

Greetings from Calcutta! In my bid to go on holiday in the least likely tourist destinations in the world (Uzbekistan, until now, a worth winner) I am currently vacationing in Calcutta, most famous for having a Black Hole. For those history buffs out there, this is when they threw a bunch of Brits down a large hole. Great! In fact, from first impressions, it strikes me that Calcutta doesn’t really deserve it’s reputation – it seems to be (marginally) cleaner than New Delhi and not apparently poorer. Feel free to correct me; this is purely based on my 12 hours here so far. The 30 minute taxi drive to the hotel this morning though was a great reminder of what makes traveling here so fantastic, namely the entertainment value. In that half an hour I saw: a gaggle of orange-robed Buddhist monks, one of whom winked at me; hundreds of people at the side of the road brushing their teeth and washing their hair (my company must do great business here…); 30 foot long bamboo poles seemingly flying along the road but in fact on top of very small, very spindly bicycles; another bike with maybe 30 chickens attached to it by their legs; and a lot of competitive Haircare advertising (I only left the office 24 hours ago, I haven’t got into holiday mode quite yet). So far, so fun. I am now happily ensconced in a rather lovely hotel which will provide the needed wind-down for the next few days before it’s off up north to do some proper-people traveling. I will miss the hotel though and particularly my divine Indian Head Massage this afternoon; do pop in, next time you’re in the area.

I will make no attempt to segue into the latest Review then, as it’s really not relevant; I didn’t even read it on the plane (although my latest book, ‘’Buttertea at Sunrise’’ by Britta Das is much more on-topic, and I will try to write it up soon). It’s the story of a TV production house creating an epic mini-series, written in an epic style (see what he did there? See? See?). Yes, it’s rather pretentious, yes some of the writing style is ludicrous – particularly the first 30 pages describing sun rise around the world time zone by time zone – but after the first 100 pages I did get into it a bit given the hint of a plot. It is seen from the perspective of various different characters who interweave here and there, a bit reminiscent of ‘’English Passengers’’ by Matthew Kneale (which was, incidentally, far superior). On a tangent, the most persuasive review I ever heard was for Kneale’s novel – David Baddiel on the TV show of the Booker Prize Ceremony who declared that when he found out this was a long, heavy, historical novel with multiple narrators he thought it would be crap, but in fact it was really quite good. I had a peek on Amazon and the reviewers there hated The Diviners, but I found it mildly entertaining. Clearly I’m not The Voice of The People then. Another career ambition thwarted!

'Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping', Judith Levine

2007-03-11T07:01:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I’m a glutton for punishment. Despite the nature of my job (of which more later) I am masochistically drawn towards books on anti-consumerism, anti-globalisation and the like. It certainly makes for interesting dinner party conversation when people from work are round and wonder why I have a bookshelf of Naomi Klein and Noreena Hertz. So I’ve done it again – this time, by reading journalist Judith Levine’s account of living for a year without buying anything.

Levine’s project started following a particularly miserable day leading up to Christmas when she found herself miserable, anxious and stressed out by the shopping hoardes, prompting the question, what if I simply drop out of this consumer culture? I have a significant amount of sympathy for this thought. I felt a profound contentment when I lived for six months in Malawi, totally detached from being a consumer of any significant kind (excepting the food we bought at the market, and the occasional African souvenir); I often feel a similar relief when I’m on holiday, particularly in developing countries, wearing the same clothes every day, not doing my hair, not thinking at all about what to buy or being exposed to shops or advertising. After a period of adjustment, I enjoyed living in Geneva where the shopping was ‘’bad’’ compared to the UK (Chanel, Dior or H&M are your options) and hence I stopped shopping as a leisure activity, constraining it to bi-annual gluttonous bouts when I came home for holidays. What is clear for me is that the very act of going to the shops creates a desire, and the simple fact that you can’t have everything, makes you feel frustrated. Don’t go to the shops, don’t feel the desire. But even this state of affairs wasn’t, and isn’t, entirely satisfactory, as every Christmas I end up home in Scotland in a frenzy of buying which after two or three days makes me depressed and wondering what all the excitement was about.

So I can see the appeal of Levine’s venture. However despite it being a simple principle (‘’only buy what’s necessary’’), most of the book is taken up with a prolonged debate about what we need vs. what we desire, why we feel so strongly about the matter in the first place, and what should be done about it and by whom.

The concept of ‘’need’’ is one of the most interesting. Levine and her husband argue about this; for them, it’s about things like wine and theatre tickets. But it’s entirely relative – what one person feels they ‘’need’ is radically different from another. And frankly, who’s to tell someone they can’t have what someone else has? (The frequently quoted statistics about the environmental impact of all the Chinese population buying a car is a typical example of the difficulty). Many consumer items make life tangibly easier and free up time which could be used for more worthwhile pursuits. Granted, most people don’t do that, but just re-invest the time in buying something else, but surely that’s up to the individual? Another murky area for Levine was when the profit for the good she wanted would go towards something worthy – such as buying tickets for a charity concert, or buying clothes in a second hand store. She noted that even when trying to distance herself from the consumer economy, she was inevitably woven back into it.

Over the year, Levine inevitably wanted to buy things and had to restrain herself, which brought up the question of why she felt she wanted them in the first place, and why was it such an emotional strain. In large, it linked back to the concept of being an independent adult – without money you are like a child, reliant on other people’s care and kindness, and with a limited ability to control your life or surroundings. In our society having money and being able to buy and own things defines you as a citizen. Even some of the most extreme people Levine met, such as a friend living on $5000 a year in a log cabin, was still defined by his ownership of the shelter. There’s also an interesting question about the more aesthetic side of buying things. Levine lusted after some clothes (which she did in fact cave in and buy) because they were so beautiful – and why not? A lot of impulse shopping is driven by a desire to own things of beauty; it may not be functional but you could argue exactly the same about art.

So then, if buying and owning things is not wrong per se, but the rabid obsession with it is, then who should be responsible for driving change? Ultimately corporations are only interested in making money and driving shareholder value, but that means providing things which consumers want; manufacturers can only survive if there is demand. Therefore a lot of power is in the individual who has a free will to choose to buy whatever they want. Levine leans heavily on the side of government regulation to control corporations to keep in line and not discard human rights in the path of profit; she is skeptical of the ability of individual consumers to make any difference. This, I think, ignores the fundamental supply and demand of the market place – goods are developed to meet consumer needs and wants, so of course consumers have influence, but they need to be aware that they are trying to be persuaded. And that’s part of being a grown up – understanding there are different agents trying to influence you in different ways, and choosing your own route.

The final ambiguity Levine highlights is that of the people involved in the anti-consumer movements. She recognizes a lot of self-righteousness, moral inconsistency and hypocrisy, particularly amusingly with the head of the Take Back Your Time group who’s unable to find time to meet her for the next four months. She herself is prone to this – a friend points out that if she’s to carry out her experiment properly she shouldn’t really be telling people what she’s doing, or they will excuse her and make allowances, and attempt to compensate for her lack of buying (which is exactly what happens). Levine attempts to dampen her sense of moral superiority, but frankly she doesn’t manage.

This ambiguity and frustration led me to really like this book; it’s not ‘’buying is bad, not-buying is good’’, but acknowledges the way in which consumerism is ingrained into our society and complexity of the situation. The elephant in the room, of course, is that my job is perpetuating precisely this culture which I am so uneasy about. ‘’Meeting the needs of consumers’’ is the lifeblood of a culture which encourages unending and escalating consumption, and has an unsustainable end. Marketing is what prompts people to believe that this next purchase will be the one that changes their lives in a simple cash exchange rather than any meaningful effort on their own part. For sure, I have been ‘’lucky’’ in a way to work on products which can be strongly argued are a ‘’need’’, but I can’t argue that the way in which they are marketed and sold is simply to meet this ‘’need’’. And yet, if you take the argument to it’s logical end, you must really renounce the right of corporations to pursue their own growth and generation of wealth as a goal; and hence, the whole capitalist system. Which sounds very grandiose, but I don’t see another logical outcome. This is the point at which I become confused and instinctively feel that the right way is some path whereby corporations are allowed to continue their search for share growth but restricted and guided by strong government regulation, and where consumer action can dictate what those corporations do (after all, if people don’t buy something, corporations will stop making it). Does that make me right wing, left wing, stupid? No idea. The one thing I do know is that the whole issue makes my head hurt and is what I regularly come back to in my six-monthly cycle of job-anxiety and ‘’what’s it all about’’. For now I will concentrate on my own consumption in a bid to enhance my own happiness. Then perhaps I’ll work on everything else.

'Clear: A Transparent Novel', Nicola Barker

2007-03-05T09:08:00.000-05:00

If someone really irritates me, then, assuming they’re not a close relation or sitting at the next desk to me at work, I generally prefer to avoid them. Yes, I’m a self-confessed avoider, non-confrontational First Class Honours. So, it’s hard to know what to do when you just don’t like a first person narrator. Nicola Barker’s book is about a 28 year old, Adair Graham MacKenney, working at the London Council during the illusionist David Blaine’s stunt when he was suspended in a glass box above the Thames and didn’t eat for 44 days. It’s a (fairly) interesting premise, and creates lots of easily accessible themes, but… I just didn’t like the protagonist. Which made it rather difficult for me to like this book; if given the choice, I would have rather avoided MacKenney and allowed someone else (preferably Aphra, his erstwhile love-interest and collector of antique shoes) narrate instead. Instead, it made reading this book an effort when I mostly read to relax.

On a related but entirely tangential note, as part of a corporate ‘’Work Life Balance day’’ on Friday I attended a short course on ‘’Advanced Reading Skills’’ run by a remarkably over-eager English woman who lives in Frankfurt (maybe she was just super-keen to be away; who would blame her?). As part of a discussion about ‘’what reading is’’ (ahem) I said that for me, it’s all about relaxing, and ‘’switching off’’, and was rather surprised that no-one else in the group seemed to agree with me, and found it a drag. In fact, even at work I would far rather read reports than be in a meeting, but that’s my secret introvert coming out (don’t get me started on that one….). I suppose my ‘’Johnny 5’’ (trademark Lisa) abilities may help, although my Words Per Minute test came out at 320 WPM, rather far below the ‘’speed reader’’ average of 500 WPM. It does beg the question though, why would you want to read that fast? The course leader suggested it would be fun to choose a big novel and challenge your friend to who could read it over the weekend… Not sure competitive reading would really cut it for me, but whatever floats your boat (granted, it may be the most interesting thing to do in Frankfurt of a weekend).

So, (fairly) good story, (fairly) interesting ideas, (very) annoying narrator. Treat with caution.

'Fall Out: A Memoir of Friends Made and Friends Unmade', Janet Street-Porter

2007-03-05T09:05:00.000-05:00

I’ve only known Janet Street-Porter in the comparative twilight of her career, appearing as a talking head on various compliation programmes, a guest presenter on The F Word and writing in the Independent. As with Julie Burchill, I mostly know about her past as a youth icon in, well, her self-penned articles about being a youth icon. So clearly I’m a glutton for punishment, reading her autobiography.

The most surprising thing about it is how badly written it is - JSP is a journalist, for God’s sake! And it’s not simply unliterary but sloppy and inconsistent. The paragraphs jump between time and space every half page, and stories which were just about to begin abruptly end. The content might have been interesting but I was so distracted by the clear evidence of someone absent - mindedly dictating to a secretary and then having it transcribed, that I lost motivation.

All of which is a shame as there’s something irresistibly appealing about vilified women in the media. The sheer venom that JSP has attracted, largely for her accent, appearance and confidence, is indicative of far more than simple aesthetics. Woe betide her her success, driven by a pig-headed determination and a daring to be willfully different just to provoke. I don’t particularly admire the specific choices she made – it’s clear why so many friends were ‘’unmade’’ – but I rejoice that women like her exist, to question, challenge and shake things up and not stop shouting until people react. Pity she can’t write better books.

“River Dog”, Mark Shand

2007-02-09T02:57:00.000-05:00

It feels a fitting evening to write this review, curled up on the sofa feeling rather miserable due to the side effects of my typhoid vaccination this morning. Not only that: Mark Shand’s book ‘’River Dog’’ is about his journey down the Brahmaputra and through rivers of bureaucracy. Ah, the resonance. The description ‘’Kafka-esque’’ is arguably used too liberally by people with a story to tell no worse than a rather long wait at the Post Office. But I wager that I have just cause to use it following my eventful morning. How difficult could getting vaccinations be? Well, firstly, it seems most Greek people are at best dimly aware of the concept of having tropical disease vaccinations (holiday destinations being defined by the question ‘’which island?’’) and entirely confounded as to where you could get such alien things in this country. It took asking at least 10 people (in parallel with my friend Lisa who was also looking for vaccinations), and finally, someone at work, who phoned a friend, who phoned another friend, who recommended a website (in Greek, naturally), which had a phone number for a clinic, who then gave me the address of another government clinic, which doesn’t do reservations but where you just have to pop in (only on weekday mornings, obviously). Lisa & I chose this morning to brave it. For those unfamiliar with the plight of the non-Greek speaker in Greece, the first thing involved is walking into a huge building with no reception (there never is, for some reason) but a huge list on the wall of medical departments, written in Greek. Sadly, my Greek extends to ‘’Happy New Year’’ and ‘’W****er’’, and not ‘’Tropical Disease Immunisations’’. So, we then walked around until we found a person and after some gestures (‘’Injection! Injection!’’, said thumping one’s arm) were directed to another hallway where there was a scrum of people holding their passports. We waited in the line, handed over our passports (why?) and then got given a piece of paper which had a date in mid March written on it. Ok, we explained, Lisa is going in 2 weeks, so that’s too late, we need to see someone sooner. No Speak English! (This is a frequent and amusing phenomenon when a minute earlier the person was having a fully comprehensible conversation with you in English, and is indeed simultaneously translating what you’re saying to their Greek friend and laughing, but claims to have lost their linguistic skills in the past minute). We pushed; we were told ‘’absolutely no appointments!’’. At this point it seemed we would be chalking another one up to experience and I would be buying an Easyjet flight pronto.

But the saga continues! We went to a pharmacy as Lisa had heard from someone you can actually buy the vials of the vaccinations at the pharmacy and could take them to a doctor to be injected (also untrue, as it happens). There, we started explaining incredulously what had happened to us and the pharmacist was very confused – no, you should have definitely got straight in! There’s no need to wait in a queue! He had a consultation with the Dr Scholl orthopedic shoes sales representative (seriously, no joke) and they decided to phone the clinic. Cue 5 minutes of shouting, gesticulating down the phone, and then suddenly Lisa was put onto a woman speaking English, telling her that ‘’of course’’ we would have an appointment straight away, come back! So (are you getting tired yet?) we then head back in. And discover that the office we need to get to is behind a door that is being physically barricaded by the woman who previously refused us entry. At this point, being foreign was actually in my favour, as said woman was about 4 foot 10 and hence a deliberate move towards the door allowed me to push through whilst, and I am not exaggerating here, about 15 Greek woman shouted and surged towards the door, screaming madly at Lisa and I. We found the English-speaking Anastasia who was giggling away and then led us along a corridor, down a staircase, into the basement, past a big pile of cardboard boxes, along another corridor, and eventually to a door marked ‘’Ebola’’ (in Greek). But of course! We popped in and were then told to wait outside. Ok… 30 minutes later (not that there were any patients in there, mind, it was important coffee-drinking time) we got in. Success! Er, no, too early. Lisa started explaining that she needed her Hep B injection. No no no no no! Sorry? No! You cannot have that in Greece! Lisa starts to clarify – I’m going to Argentina, it’s important I have it. No! We only give injections to poor people! Don’t you know how Hep B is spread anyway?!?! Lisa: No. Mad Doctor: Sex! Right, so none of that then. Likewise, it’s ‘’impossible’’ to have a Rabies vaccination because you only have that if you get bitten, apparently, contrary to pan-European medical opinion. All of which reinforces my wise decision to have never involved myself in the Greek medical system thus far. There is a good ending for the story for me at least (Lisa has decided to go ahead and take the risk, for of course she has the lovely Yiorgos at home) as I did manage to get the typhoid & polio which luckily for me are known in the Land of the Ancients. However, the only malaria tablets available are Larium, which are no longer prescribed in the UK as they are seriously dangerous for you and have severe side effects. The doctor did in fact acknowledge this but informed us that no alternative is available in Greece. Oh well!

This whole experience was in fact considerably less traumatic than my early experiences in Greece with the police, electricity company, telephone company so on and so forth. But it’s good to have a reminder of what I (on the whole) don’t have to deal with any more. A swift Starbucks and post-match analysis cheered me up whilst my typhoid-induced headache began.

Which is all an extremely long way of saying that I could empathise with Mark Shand’s bureaucracy nightmare which went so far as to ruin the premise of his book – being the first person to travel the full length of the Brahmaputra. When I got to the last 20 pages and he hadn’t entered Tibet yet I thought ‘’hmmm something’s up’’. Which indeed it was. The other big theme of the book was the support of the team of people around him throughout the journey. Rather reminiscent of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing, it was impressive to see what Shand achieved and yet he was constantly followed by various porters (including a group of barefoot 9 year old girls at one point) doing exactly the same journey except with all his luggage on their backs and setting up and dismantling the camp every night. I’m not one to speak, of course, about to head to India and Bhutan with a group in a truck with a driver, guide and cook. Perhaps one day I’ll be an independent explorer but I’ll need more than 25 days a week vacation unfortunately.

'Theft: A Love Story', Peter Carey

2007-01-31T05:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-31T05:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-16T15:57:00.000-05:00

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.