Just Finished - Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Finishing this *ahem* Man Booker Prize Winner has made me happy. Firstly, it was a bloody good book, which dragged me in from the word go. Secondly, it is HUGE. I was given the hardback edition for Christmas and it weighs a tonne. The Man Bag has struggled and my thigh is bruised where its vicious corner bounces against my leg. Being bigger than your average book, it's taken me around a month to finish, but it was worth it - worth the time, the effort and the physical pain .

It follows the life of Thomas Cromwell, who was an adviser to Henry VIII. The Tudors are a dynasty I studied at school, and I've always found their reign an interesting period. It was a time of massive political upheaval and in England, among other places, of previously unimaginable religious change too. With the basic knowledge I have, I had heard of quite a few of the characters before, but I've been used to seeing them depicted very differently. For example, I went to a Roman Catholic secondary school where there were four form groups in each year, each named after an English Martyr. Thomas More and John Fisher were among these- chosen for their extraordinary virtue and unwavering faith, and also crop up in Wolf Hall. In the book you're shown events from a dramatically different angle; More especially becomes a particularly unlikable character, while Cromwell and Cardinal Wolsey are painted in an entirely different, favourable light - which, I believe, is the opposite to what they normally receive.

While the history of the time is well-known, the viewpoint from which it's witnessed here is completely different to anything I've read before, and had me hooked from the beginning. Mantel takes a story that has been told a hundred times before, but makes you appreciate the characters as people, with clear personalities, rather than cardboard cut-out historical figures. She takes the history, dusts it down and delivers it in a way that entertains throughout. Possibly my favourite this year...

Just Finished: Mao's Last Dancer by Li Cunxin

This is not a book I ever would have chosen myself, but, in an effort to broaden my literary horizons I've joined N's book club. The reason I would never have chosen it is that it's an autobiography - whenever I hear that a 25-year old footballer or Z-list Big Brother survivor is penning a written account of their life thus far I get angry. I understand that not all autobiographies are written by brainless, gold-digging halfwits though, and that many have a true story to tell.

That's the case with Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin is not a writer, so the writing style can be a bit difficult at times, but for me this made it that bit more real - it reads like he's telling the story himself, there's little embellishment or polish, it's raw. And it's really interesting - Li Cunxin grew up under Chairman Mao's regime, and was chosen by Madame Mao to leave his poor commune near Qingdao to study dance in Beijing. The effect of Mao's politics on China is well documented through Li's descriptions of his life in the dance academy and at home in the commune, particularly the indoctrination of the populace and the fear of being seen to disagree, or question, any of Mao's teachings.

I'm still not a fan of the autobiography as a genre - one thing that got on my nerves was Li's sentimentality, but then again how difficult must it be to remain objective when you're writing about your own life and the people you love.

Li Cunxin did lead an incredible life - from intense poverty in communist China to affluence in the West - and his story gives a fascinating glimpse into both the hardship of living under Mao's regime and the heartache of being separated from everything you've ever known. I suppose I should give his autobiography a little more credit - if it had been labelled as a novel I probably would have moaned about how grossly unbelievable the plot was - it's definitely a story worth telling.

That said, I'm ready for a bit of fiction now so have chosen a big fat novel to sink my teeth into.

Next up - Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Just Finished: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

Last night I awoke from a dream about being stuck in a lift convinced that there was something spooky in my room. There wasn't, I don't think, but I was stuck half way between being asleep and being awake. This happens to me quite often - earlier in the week I convinced myself that the moon was moving to a different point in the sky each time I shut my eyes. I realise now that I didn't just shut my eyes, I fell asleep for ages then woke up again and so the moon had actually moved. Yes, I had had a drink. But alcohol was not what made me think my room was haunted - that was Sarah Waters' fault.

The Little Stranger is set after World War 2, in Warwickshire (which is where I went to university, incidentally). It follows a doctor who, over the course of the book, becomes close to the upper class family who live in a big, old house. Yes - I see what you're thinking - a big, old house, a ghost...it's been done. But this is a very clever book. Firstly because it moves incredibly slowly without being boring. It's a long old read before even a whisper of paranormal activity. What's even better is the books commentary of social change in the postwar years - the rise of the middle class, the decline of the aristocracy, even woman's rights. It was evidently a tumultuous time, and Waters captures in a really vivid, detailed way.

And it is spooky. Very spooky. It's like the only sort of horror film I'll watch: one where you don't see what's scaring you or what people are running from - the monster is in your imagination and you can only see its traces. Take Signs for example - brilliant film, until you see the shit alien costume and find out it's scared of water. Describing just enough, but leaving the rest to the imagination is the best way, in my humble opinion, of really scaring the b'jesus out of someone. And that's what this book does. Anything that wriggles its way into your subconcious so that you wake up thinking there's a dead Edwardian child in your room must be pretty effective.

Next up: Mao's Last Dancer by Li Cunxin...not something I'd normally choose (it's an autobiography for a start, which I've never been into) but I've joined N's book club...my first one. Eeek.

PS Well done FFC for holding out against the mighty Hamburg...COYW!

Just Finished: The Amnesia Clinic by James Scudamore

Set in Ecuador in the 1990s, The Amnesia Clinic follows two fifteen year old boys who couldn't be more different. Anti, the narrator, is a British expat - pale, unattractive and prone to asthma attacks. Fabian is the good-looking, athletic and popular Ecuadorian who takes Anti under his wing. One thing they do share, and what forms the basis of their friendship, is a talent for storytelling; both the boys, Fabian's uncle and a host of other characters are seen using imagination to embellish the reality of what's happened to them. In Fabian's case, it's the death of his mother and father. As his mother's body was never found, Fabian concocts a series of barely plausible possibilities explaining how she survived and where she is now - something that Anti later encourages by suggesting she's a patient in an invented Amnesia Clinic on the coast. This leads to a trip across Ecuador to a fishing village that's not on the map; a trip that ends with a bang.

The storytelling theme is recurrent throughout; many characters have opportunities to go off on their own tangent and it's largely up to you decide whether the narrator is reliable, or whether it's complete bollocks. I think everyone's felt, at one point or another, disappointed with the reality in which they find themselves, and longed for something more interesting to be injected into their daily lives. The Amnesia Clinic follows Anti and Fabian at a time in life when the imagination begins to fail - when what is becomes more important than what could be. It's a coming of age story about leaving childhod fancies behind, and learning to accept life how it is - no matter how grim it seems.

The final twist is the icing on the cake - I wish I could go into it more but I don't want to ruin it for anyone. Suffice it to say that it realigns your perspective on the events and characters you've been reading about, just when you think you know what happened.

I've never been to Ecuador, nor South America for that matter, so I'm not sure how good Scudamore's descriptions are - but in my mind it certainly evoked the colour, passion and confusion that I imagine to exist there. This is a good read - it took a while to get into, and I wasn't always sure what to believe but I think it's very cleverly written. Scudamore's characters manipulate your opinion of them with their stories and keep you guessing until the end. This means you can't really trust any of them, and instead wonder what the reality is, beneath the stories and lies.

Next up: The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters

Just Finished: Everything Is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

This book is so good, I decided I had to take a picture once I'd finished it, to commemorate the moment. I jest not - this is one of the best books I have ever read and thoroughly deserves the high praise splashed all over the inside covers. This is why it's taken me so long to write this, I can't do it justice. But I've given up. I won't do it justice, but I have to write something. I have to recommend it!

Everything is Illuminated follows a Ukranian student called Alex. An American Jew named Jonathan is visiting the Ukraine to find the woman who saved his grandfather's life during the Nazi occupation. To help him find her, he's procured the services of Heritage Tours, Alex's fathers company; Alex will be his translator, and Alex's grandfather, their driver.

The story is split into three alternating arcs. One part is written by Jonathan; a novel he's working on describing the trials and tribulations in the lives of his Ukranian ancestors. He paints a colourful picture of life in the town of Trachimbrod from its foundation in the 1700s, right up to the Holocaust. These chapters are full of odd twists, turns and bizarre happenings and read a bit like Garcia Marquez; it's impossible to predict what's coming next. Foer has an amazing imagination, I wish I could think like that.

Whenever he finishes a chapter, Jonathan sends it to Alex, who responds with his thoughts or comments on it. These chapters are written in Alex's own special English - which he admits is less than 'premium' but his use of a thesaurus is second to none. As such, he will find things 'rigid' rather than difficult, and will 'repose' rather than sleep. His grandfather's guide dog is referred to as his 'seeing-eye bitch'. When I first started reading this, I didn't get it, but it doesn't take long to figure it out, and the humour Foer gets out of this really makes the book something special; I laughed on the Tube, a real hearty laugh I tell you - not just a mere snigger.

My tolerance of Alex's written English wasn't the only thing that changed; I initially hated Alex, finding him arrogant and boastful and uninteresting. However, with each chapter I read he became more and more impressive, and by the end I loved him. Loved.

After he comments on Jonathan's work, he'll then describe the events of their quest together; their search for Augustine, who saved his grandfather from the Nazi forces who occupied the Ukraine. As it's written by Alex, you sometimes have to read sentences twice to figure out what he's getting at; but again, this is one of the things that makes this book so good.

I don't want to say much about the story as I don't want to spoil it, but it's fantastic. It's funny, moving and at times completely off the wall - five stars from me :) My best book this year...

Next up: Amnesia Clinic by James Scudamore

Just Finished: The Masque of the Red Death (and Other Stories) by Edgar Allan Poe

I should admit that 'just finished' is a bit of a lie, I finished it about a week ago and am already halfway through my bloody brilliant new book.


I can't remember for the life of me where I heard about the Masque of the Red Death. I do know it was referred to in a book, a reference that flew unimpeded straight over my head. To ensure I grasped the full meaning of the sentence, I looked it up and thought "Hang on one minute - that's sounds a bit interesting!" and so added it to my list of books for 2010. Being a man of a short attention span, I didn't really read into it too much and as such I was unaware that this is a book of short stories. This is a good thing; had I known, I probably wouldn't have picked it up. I've never really been a big reader of short stories, and the words "And Other Stories/Tales etc" normally cause me to put the book back on the shelf and walk on by. I like to get into a story you see, to get to know people. However, as I said, it was a good thing I didn't know, because it meant I gave the book a chance.


And it was worth it, I'm pleased. Poe is obviously a rather large deal in American literature, and it's not hard to see why - the stories were wickedly gothic, twisted and dark, which is just how I like it. They do seem to follow a quite rigid, almost predictable formula*, but I suppose the man knew his art and his audience and, well, if it ain't broke - don't fix it.

*

• Beginning - "you won't believe me/I'm mad"
• Middle - "Something funny's going on here old chum...events have taken a rather odd turn!"
• End - someone dies.

They don't all follow this pattern, and I like I said I do understand that this has a purpose; each piece is finely tuned to shock or to spook, but after a few stories it had almost the opposite effect - I started to feel like I knew what was coming. I think I read, however, that at least some of them were originally published in magazines and I reckon that if you were reading them monthly or quarterly this wouldn't be a problem - it's because I was reading each one immediately after finishing another that I became acclimatised to Poe's writing style.


I won't bore you with all of the stories, but here's my top three:

• The Mask of the Red Death - while a plague ravages his country, a nobleman locks himelf and his friends in his castle for a giant rave up. However, bricks and mortar can't stop the Red Death, and events take a worrying turn. There's also a very odd clock.
• The Pit & The Pendulum - a prisoner is tormented by the clerics of the Inquisition who use a series of imaginative methods of torture in attempts to kill him. One of the stories that breaks free from the formula above, but is spooky nonetheless.
• The Cask of Amontillado - lulls you into such a false sense of security you forget the beginning, and are shocked by the ending.

Overall I'd say this was a rather enjoyable read. I like most things gothic, Poe is obviously a master craftsman and I got to experience a form of prose I wouldn't normally consider. However, I'm heading back to not-so-short stories for a while now, I need something juicy to get my teeth into.

Now reading: Everything is Illuminated by Jonathan Safran Foer

Just Finished: London Belongs To Me by Norman Collins

When I was a wee lad, sitting in the back of the car on drives through London, I'd gaze out of the window at the massive houses and think that the people that lived in them would have had to be really rich. How else could you live in a house with three floors and a basement? What I didn't realise, is that they weren't built for one family, and that each floor would more often than not have its own separate tenants. It's a house like this that forms the backdrop to most of Norman Collins' London Belongs To Me; a book that revolves around the trials and tribulations of the residents of Number 10 Dulcimer Street, Kennington.

I decided I was going to read this book after reading the Book of Dave in December/January. Because I'm waddling around London like, every day, I think it's sometimes easy to forget what an interesting place it actually is. It's easy to take it for granted. I find when I'm reading books set in London, I get a bit of a spark back, I appreciate it again. That's why I chose this one to read; it's described on the back cover as "the Capital's great vernacular novel", and I can't think of a better description. The word 'romp' is also used in this description, and 'romp' is a word that I love. Romp. Just rolls of the tongue...

Anyway, it's Christmas Eve 1939 when we're introduced to the loveable Josser family and their neighbours. The threat of war rumbles threateningly in the background, but the novel concentrates on the domestic, everyday battles fought by a group of very ordinary people. Along with the Jossers, there's the landlady (the respectable and stern Mrs Vizzard), doting Mrs Boon and her ambitious son Percy, the hypochondriac Mr Puddy, washed-up actress Connie and false-medium Mr Squales. Their stories interwine in soap opera fashion, the narrative leaping from one to the other, delving into one account before breaking off and reacquainting you with another.

I read afterwards that Collins was something of a big deal at the BBC when it first started, and for a time was in charge of the more popular, lighthearted programmes on BBC radio. You can see this in his writing - it's written so that you never have enough time to get bored. But this doesn't mean you don't get to know the people you're reading about - the book has over 700 pages so you still spend plenty of time with each character, just in lots of small doses.

As I mentioned, the stories don't unfold in high society - it's a warts and all account of a few months in the lives of a few Londoners as they struggle to against their worlds turning upside down. The protagonists are all ordinary, working class folk trying to make ends meet. There's no heroics - just the grim determination of a group of Londoners in the build-up to and disruption of war. For a lot of the book, particularly at the beginning, not very much happens at all, but you're swept along nonetheless. It was also comforting, in a weird sort of way, that in the past things weren't quite as different (nor as good) as the Daily Mail might like to make out. Women were already becoming more independent, the elderly feared the young, fraudulent insurance claims were made, students didn't study and everyone enjoyed a drink. It was set in a time that was at once reassuringly familiar and refreshingly different. In his introduction, Collins writes, "Real Londoners - some in love, some in debt, some committing murders, some adultery, some trying to get on in the world, some looking forward to a pension, some getting drunk, some losing their jobs, some dying, and some holding up the new baby." And lately there's been at least one reading his book on the Metropolitan Line, bloody loving every page.

It's so easy to read, I couldn't put it down. I laughed out loud at times, and sometimes it's incredibly touching and poignant yet never too heavy. I honestly can't recommend it enough. It made me proud of where I live, where I work - it made me see London in a new light - a huge expanse of city providing the backdrop to millions of separate stories every day. It captures the excitement and the tedium, the hustle and the bustle of life in the city - or, as Collins puts it "all the sheen and slime, the murk and magic."

Next Up: The Masque of the Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe.

Just finished: American Gods by Neil Gaiman

By Jove it's been a while. I've been rubbish! I have, in my defence, been busy drinking away my salary, and my recent return to Debt's cold embrace should mean that between now and the end of February I should have plenty of time to dedicate to my neglected blog.

When I was young, I had a book on Greek mythology. The illustrations were gory and gaudy and the various myths and legends separated into tasty chapters with titles like "Wicked Women" and "Evil Men". I read it cover to cover, even spending hours on the "Who's Who" section at the back. This inspired an interest that I've never really given up - N discovered my love for all things mythological soon after we met (despite my efforts to keep it hidden, for fear of being branded a geek) and encouraged it with even more mythology books. I was in my element... Often with things like this though once you've read one version you've read them all - with them being such old and well-known stories - so it was great to read about the gods and goddesses of old in a completely new light. The Greek pantheon might be left out (perhaps being too well known?), but Odin, Kali and Anubis are all included, alongside a host of more obscure deities and monsters that I'd never heard of, but don't disappoint.

The basic premise is that when immigrants arrived in the Americas from the rest of the world, their belief in their particular gods brought their gods, or versions of their gods, over with them. So when an Irish woman who believed in leprechauns arrived in the newly formed US, leprechauns existed there, too, as well as back in Ireland. Am I making sense? Perhaps not. Hope so! Anyway, there's loads of these gods about, from all over the world. They've experienced a drastic drop in popularity though, and this has forced them underground where they are being hunted down one by one by a new group of gods who influence technology, media and infrastructure. The book's protagonist, an ex-con called Shadow, is drawn into this war when a Mr Wednesday gives him a offer he can't refuse the day he leaves prison and learns that the lift he'd hoped to return to was impossible after the death of his wife.

He accompanies Wednesday all over America, meeting old gods and dodging new ones. Every few chapters you'll be taken somewhere else entirely, to learn about another god and how they've adapted to life in the States. They stop off at various places around the US that I'd never heard of, away from the beaten track we're used to seeing on the telly or at the cinema. The road-trip builds like a crescendo, with plenty of bumps and surprises along the way, to go out with a bang with a great ending.

I appreciate that I probably haven't really sold this very well, and not everyone shares my obsession for mythology, but it's definitely worth a go - and it's definitely not one for the kids - there's a fair bit of gore and the odd lashing of something saucy on the side ;)

Tis my favourite this year.

Next up: London Belongs To Me by Norman Collins.

Just Finished: The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly

My unstoppable reading binge continues unabated. I'm devouring books like they're going out of fashion - I blame January skintness leaving me with little else to do but immerse myself in a fictional world where money isn't an issue...

So for the last two weeks or so I've been a regular sight on the rush hour trains and tubes clutching a copy of The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly, a book I admit I was mainly attracted to because of the cover. Well, I'm pleased I'm that shallow because I really liked the book. It's about a boy, David, growing up in wartime London, whose mother dies and father remarries. His father and stepmother have a new baby, leaving David feeling a bit miffed, jealous of the attention and refusing to accept his new stepmother. Soon enough he finds himself dragged into another world, where interpretations of all the stories he's read take shape. It's not a happy place - horrific monsters are ten-a-penny and an upcoming war threatens everyone he meets. He soon finds out that he's been taken there on purpose, by a nasty piece of work called the Crooked Man, and is told that only the king will know how to help him. So David begins a journey through a world created in part by his own imagination and in part by the imaginations of others, on a quest to find a dying king who he's been told can send him home.

When I was a few chapters in, it felt a bit Shrek-like; a different take on age-old fairytales, adapted for a modern audience - but it's more than that. Like Shrek, classic children's stories are featured in a way that's completely different to how they are usually told, but the Book of Lost Things is about ten times darker. In fact, it's pretty grim in parts. [I nearly wrote Grimm then, but I thought that would be a pun too far...] So what you're left with is a children's book, for adults; a story of a boy starting to grow up and realise that there's more to life than his once narrow view of the world. It's a clever book, as soon as you feel like you're reading a book written for children, a really gruesome scene comes from nowhere and shocks you back into adult fiction - monsters don't disappear in puffs of smoke but are hacked to bits, and the heroes don't always live happily ever after.

You're actually witnessing the beginning of the end of David's childhood, and the start of his adulthood, and it's the fairytale characters he meets along the way who help David come to terms with problems he's having in real life. Through his adventures he learns to deal with grief and value the things he has.

Furtermore, it actually made me laugh out loud at one point - there's a chapter on a fat, lazy, nasty Snow White and her seven communist dwarves which is particularly funny. There's a lot to get into; a few laughs, some interesting modern twists on old ideas and a couple of disturbing scenes to keep it from being too easy a read, with a classic good vs evil backdrop.

2010 has been a good year for reading so far...

Just Finished: The Road by Cormac McCarthy (and Bus Journey Paranoia)

The rumblings of discontent alluded to in my previous post seem to have blown over. The office was a happy place full of mirth today. On my way home, I jumped off the train just in time to jump on a bus. As soon as I got on I felt them judging me. The hard core of bus passengers - those that buy a ticket and travel from one end of the route to the other. You see, I do get the bus fairly regularly on my way home...and in all honesty I could walk home - it's only a mile or so - and I feel like the hardcore know this, and think I'm lazy. Today was worse than usual; there was a little official looking man surveying people on the bus. I was dragged from my music bubble by the question:

"Excuse me sir, do you have an Oyster card or a travelcard?"

Come on tbr, you know this one. "An Oyster Card!" I stated proudly.

"And do you top up in the shop or at the station?"

"Shop my good man, it avoids the queues!"

"And how far are you travelling on this bus today?"

"What?"

"And how far are you travelling on this bus today?" The bus fell silent. Where before there had been chatter and the white noise of IPods on too loud, there was nothing. The driver stopped the bus and turned round. All the lights went off apart from the one above my head.

"Erm...well...erm...the end of the road." I mumbled, shamefaced.

"Where?"

"The end of the road...you know, near the pub."

"Oh." And normal service resumed. Should I be embarrassed by this? Perhaps not, although I'd prefer my laziness not to be quite so obviously exhibited, held up for the delight of the long-distance traveller. I even considered rushing to defend my honour, by saying that I don't often take the bus, I always walk when I can, and the roads are like ice rinks. Trouble is, this would have made me look guilty, and I would also have been lying. Fortunately I wasn't alone, there were three suited and booted types and a student who gave the same response to the dreaded final question. We all got off at the same stop. We all felt ashamed.

In other news, today I finished The Road by Cormac McCarthy. My expectations were high - the inside covers are crammed full of rave reviews and I'd heard good things. I honestly can't decide whether it met my expectations or not. Let me explain. I'd like to start with what I didn't like.

Firstly, and in this the fault is mine, this is a bloody awful book to read in January. The sky is grey, the bank account's empty and the whole country's on a post-Christmas comedown. Dead Christmas trees line the streets and there are no drinks to be had after work. Everything is grey and everyone is miserable. And my word, what a miserable book. However, its depressing plot is not a fault, not in the slightest. I should just have thought about it a bit more, and chosen something a bit more uplifting from my collection, to divert me in these difficult first days of 2010. Let's face it, if you wrote about a trek through post-apocalyptic America and made it sound happy, it probably wouldn't be a very realistic book - I should have seen this in advance.

My biggest problem with this book though, is the lack of punctuation. I'm not a grammarian - I make plenty of mistakes, but I do try to write correctly. McCarthy, however, leaves out as many commas, apostrophes and question marks as he can, which in my most humble opinion leads to quite an uncomfortable read. I wouldn't mind if the lack of punctuation meant something, so, in case it did, I googled it. One person quite cleverly explained it by saying it was symbolic; just as the protagonists cast aside everything that isn't absolutely necessary, McCarthy omitted any embellishments in the text, leaving the style as bare as the landscape they were travelling through. I would have appreciated that, but apparently he always writes like that, and this stripping away of embellishments theory doesn't apply to his other works. Someone else said it was evidence of McCarthy's 'post-post-modernism'. Now, I'm not sure what that means but I would have looked into it. I would have, but I found out, thanks to Wikipedia, that he just sees no reason to 'block the page up with weird little marks.' This I don't agree with. There is a point, and that point is to make things easier to read, and the lack of punctuation made me struggle. I could be missing something, I probably am, but I found myself skim-reading whole paragraphs, yearning for a comma, or noticing missing apostrophes rather than actually reading the text.

Now, unlike the book, this isn't all doom and gloom. Despite what I said above, part of me loved the book. It made me look forward to the commute a bit more than usual, and apart from my gripe above it's a fantastic story. The relationship between father and son, the way they both support, protect and rely on each other, was beautifully presented. And the boy...the boy - if I ever had kids, I'd want him. Parts of the book were so heartbreaking I nearly put it down; the things the boy had heard of but never seen being one of the things that depressed me most. It also makes everything around you seem a little bit more fragile. It is a great book, and I have a feeling I'm going to keep thinking about it for a long time, I just missed the commas.

Just Finished: Out of the Silent Planet by CS Lewis

First things first; this isn't the actual cover of the book I'm reading, but I googled the title and thought this one was far too delightfully retro to be passed up. HOWEVER, there were no pictures of the characters on the book I read, which meant my imagination had been trusted to build an image based on the descriptions given - until I saw this one. Retro as it is, it's illustrations conquered my mentally-built images and took their place. Much like Daniel Radcliffe and Harry Potter...the two become one (involuntary Spice Girls reference).

Anyway, down to the nitty gritty - Out Of the Silent Planet by CS Lewis. This is the first in a trilogy, which I may well read later but have to plough through the 20 books I got for Christmas before giving myself new ideas. First published in 1938, it strikes me as remarkably ahead of its time.

The plot revolves around a philosophy lecturer named Ransom who is kidnapped and taken to what later turns out to be Mars. Upon landing, he's due to be handed over to some tall, gangly aliens when a Martian shark tries to eat him and he escapes. The planet is known to those that live on it as Malacandra, and Ransom spends a great deal of time there, living among and learning about the various species that inhabit it. It's a bit of a utopia - all three species perform different tasks, interact with one another but don't fight, steal or demand. Everything ticks along quite naturally, everyone's happy and the world is a lovely rosey place.

Initially I thought this was a story about how, like in Avatar, nature is an infinite web of cooperation between different species. I've since decided this is wrong. Or maybe not wrong, but it's not the main focus. I think what Lewis was drawing attention to was the corrupt nature of our world and how, had we all been good Christians since the dawn of time our world now would be a really nice place to live. The Silent Planet is Earth. You see, each planet has its own Oyarsa, which is a kind of angel that you can't really see but you can visit and talk to. Each Oyarsa rules over the people and species on his planet and works to make their lives as happy as possible. Our one though, was a bit of a megalomaniac and threw a strop before heading down to earth to thoroughly fuck us up. He's now embroiled in a bitter fight for power over us, against the big god who rules over all or Oyarsas. Any biblical bells ringing here? Ransom's kidnappers represent the greed of commerce and the dangers of science and technology taken too far and there's a little conversation on how humans relentlessly pursue pleasure throughout their lives, whereas the good people of Malacandra are happy to experience it once and then remember it for evermore - a handy little list of all the things we do wrong.

Now, it's been a long time since I've been welcome in the House of God, and I'm not religious. Usually, if something is overtly, in my face Christian, I get a bit annoyed and decide I hate it. I didn't with this one though, because it's a good story, and perhaps it does have a very valid point - that we're a greedy bunch of bastards and should be a bit nicer too eachother.

Oh! At the end Lewis reveals that Ransom contacted him to ask him to publish his factual account as a novel, so that its message could reach the maximum number of people. He's even tacked on an piece of correspondence between Ransom and himself, saying things like, "I really wish you could have mentioned this, or gone deeper into that." Nice touch I thought, you think it's finished and then there's a totally new bit which adds a new dimension to the story. Clever.

Still...I think I prefer Narnia...

Just Finished: The Book of Dave by Will Self

It's half 4 in the morning and I've given up trying to get back to sleep. I've been tossing and turning all night, terrified of the horrors that are bound to be lurking in my inbox. A decision has been made: I'm never taking time off near Christmas again. It's not worth the stress.

I may even go to the gym! Yes...yes let's do that. Eeek.

But first, a few words on a book I've just finished; The Book of Dave by Will Self. In brief, it's comprised of two stories, set maybe 500 years apart. The first follows London cabbie Dave Rudman's life as he spirals out of control. During a mental breakdown, he writes a book in which he records his views on the world he lives in and buries it. It's meant for his son, but is found instead 500 years later after London has flooded and society crumbled. In the future, it's become a holy book, and is now the basis of a new religion (interesting, as Dave was not a nice bloke, being as bigoted as he was psychotic).

The story set in the future follows the people of Ham and shows how Dave's book has been interpreted and his views enforced. For example, Dave's anger at the fairer sex after Michelle's actions, and his struggle to maintain access to his son leads to the forced separation of males and females and children splitting their time between the two. It's also written in 'mockni' and comes complete with a glossary to explain what they're talking about. Some of the mockni words are better than others - I liked 'the headlight' for the sun and especially the adjective dävine - divine. Others were a bit more tenuous and perhaps a little strained. And I didn't really understand where the motos (pig-human crossbreeds?) came from, but that's probably me missing something.

It's a good read; quite slow moving to begin with, but this just means that by the time you're halfway through you have a cast of fully-formed characters you can sympathise with or understand. It's an odd feeling to switch from Dave's story (depression, psychosis, alienation) to the future which is a lot more fantastical. And maybe it went on a bit too long - but this could well be due to the fact I haven't been on a train in two weeks (that's where I do my best reading, you see).

I loved Dave's description of contemporary London - there's a line that I wanted to put in about Shoreditch, where the City of London becomes the 'real East End' but I can't find it now. N works in Shoreditch you see, and has in the past pointed out a similar thing - a road where the glassy financial centre gives way to the east end - and bins make their first appearances outside of the Square Mile.

Well, it's so early this probably doesn't even make any sense and is very unlikely to grab me my first follower, but never mind - it has been written, and so it shall be posted.

Off to gym...and back to reality :(

tbr

LINES I LIKE 2010

A selection of lines that caught my eye while reading...

Norman Collins - London Belongs To Me

"And the people. They're London too. They're the same Londoners that they have always been, except that from time to time the proportion of refugees has altered a little. At one moment the doubtful-looking newcomers are the Huguenots. At another the Jews and it is the Huguenots who are the Londoners wondering whatever London is coming to. They're all Londoners - the French and Italians in Soho, the Chinese in Limehouse, the Scotsmen in Muswell hill and the Irish round the Docks."

"Real Londoners - some in love, some in debt, some committing murders, some adultery, some trying to get on in the world, some looking forward to a pension, some getting drunk, some losing their jobs, some dying, and some holding up the new baby."

Edgar Allan Poe - Ligeia

"There is no point, among the many incomprehensible anomalies of the science of mind, more thrillingly exciting than the fact...that, in our endeavours to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of rememberance, without being able, in the end, to remember."

Jonathan Safran Foer - Everything is Illuminated

"He removed several pages of death certificates, which were picked up by another breeze and sent into the trees. Some would fall with the leaves that September. Some would fall with the trees generations later."

"The Wisps of Ardisht - that clan of artisan smokers in Rovno who smoked so much they smoked even when they were not smoking."

"Your train ride appeased you?" I asked, "Oh, God," he said, "twenty-six hours, fucking unbelievable." This girl Unbelievable must be very majestic, I thought."

"It's like your name, you don't notice it for so long, but when you finally do, you can't help but say it over and over, and wonder why you never thought it was strange that you should have that name, and that everyone has been calling you that name for your whole life."

"...once you hear something, you can never return to the time before you heard it."

"I do not think that there are any limits to how excellent we could make life seem."

James Scudamore - The Amnesia Clinic

"A chaotic bus rattled past, a burst of salsa music escaping from its windows. I thought how it might have been the same one that had dropped us off three days and a million years before."

"You're nothing but a patchwork, you know. A patchwork of what's happened to you."

"Even as I waited for the plane, I could feel my memories beginning to solidify and coalesce into picture postcards."