Books read in September

The following are short reviews of the books that I read in September 2009. The marks I have given them in the brackets are out of five.

The Post-Birthday World – Lionel Shriver (3.9)
This might well be subtitled a novel of sex and grammar. It concerns middle-class middle-aged navel gazers, debating whether or not to have an affair, yet it is strangely compelling.

The Sliding Doors concept means the book is written with artifice and mathematical precision, almost like a ‘boy book’ but with a female subject matter, reminiscent of Carol Shield’s Happenstance. The first chapter is the same – Irina and Ramsey go out to dinner on his birthday and she is tempted to kiss him despite the fact that she is in a stable relationship with Lawrence. In the words of the author, ‘Thereafter the narrative splits into two parallel universes: the one in which she gave into temptation, and the one in which she remained faithful to her partner and demurred.’

The eternal love triangle is not exactly a revolutionary theme for a novel, but it is observed with such intense scrutiny that many nuggets are familiar, although some of the dialogue is unrealistic.

The two men offer the choice of companionship versus eroticism, and Irina discovers that not all excitement is good and that security is hugely undervalued. Obviously Ramsey and Lawrence are opposite sides of the same coin. “If you put the two of them together – Lawrence’s discipline, intellect, and self-control, Ramsey’s eroticism, spontaneity, and abandon – you’d have the perfect man.” The reader is practically invited to get involved – which man would you choose? In Irina’s situation, what would you do?

The artifice of the novel occasionally intrudes, and Shriver deliberately draws attention to it. In this novel of linguistics and semantics, every word has significance and connotation. Every utterance is analysed for meaning or pretention and the imagined children’s stories that Irina illustrates are both fascinating and relevant.

Transition – Iain Banks (4.2)
This novel is supposedly the mid-way point between Iain Banks and Iain M Banks, so you get the best of both worlds; nitty-gritty realism and fanciful sci-fi imaginings. From the opening sentence – “Apparently I am what is known as an Unreliable Narrator” – you are immediately plunged into chaos and confusion.

The narrator is a transitionary, someone who can flit between worlds where they can interfere and affect outcomes. Some of the tasks of the Transitionary are to do good; to intervene by introducing people to each other, leaving a book lying around for them to discover, stopping them from entering a building that is about to collapse. But these are not the roles the Transitionary relishes and which keep him awake at night.

Some people are able to tandem, which is to take another person with them when they transition. Most transition with the help of a special chemical in tablet form, called septus, although the Transitionary does it by sneezing, like Nadia Popov in Rent-a-Ghost. An organisation controls the transitions and the quantities of septus, but what happens if people can flit or transition without it? Also, some people are able to pervert the natural order by assuming new bodies and simply refusing to age or die. As with all of Iain (M) Banks’ novels there is an element of paranoia and the fear of powerful corporations, and he advocates disorder and natural arbitrariness.

With or without the M, Ian Banks is instantly recognisable and any novel of his will provide a good read. You know what to expect up to a point. His genius is that he can take similar ingredients each time – sex, torture (this gets a bit preachy and there is an obvious swipe at the Bush administration and Guantanamo Bay), drugs, whisky and of course, Scotland – and create an entirely new concoction.

Desdemona, If Only You Had Spoken! – Christine Brückner, (translated by Eleanor Bron) (4)
This collection of eleven monologues was written by Christine Brückner and translated by Eleanor Bron who adapted them for the stage. Brückner wrote imagined monologues of women who were famous but had never had a chance to be heard. The subjects range from the Virgin Mary to Clytaemnestra or Desdemona. Some of the characters are fictional heroines, others are real characters, like Gudrun Ensslin (part of the Baader-Meinhof group) or Katharina von Bora, who was married to Martin Luther, founder of the Protestant movement.

Each speech is introduced with a concise and informative explanation of the character and their relation to history. In these monologues, many of the women rail against their invisibility, demanding to be considered in their own right, rather than as a wife, mother or unpaid housekeeper. Brückner has given these women a voice; all of which are varied, but all of which are real.

Eleanor Bron seized upon the opportunity to translate these pieces and perform them. She confesses she was helped by the fact that, “Monologues, once the province of after-supper recitation and revue, had recently started to find favour once again. This revival owed a lot to Alan Bennett’s television series ‘Talking Heads’, which resuscitated the form by demonstrating its richness and variety.”

All of the women have things to say, which range from relationships and motherhood to politics and war. All of these women are angry, which makes their emergence from the page to the stage very dramatic. All of these women are powerful. All of them deserve to be heard. And Christine Brückner and Eleanor Bron should be commended for bringing them to our attention. Now we just need to sit up and listen.

Lucky Man – Michael J Fox (3.8)
When Michael J. Fox ‘came out’ to the media that he had Parkinson’s disease (or P.D. as he terms it) in 1998, the disease came to international attention. He is quick to point out that it affects people differently and their reaction to the drugs they take will vary. He can only relate his story and he does with candour and honesty that is touching and informative.

Dealing with the disease forced him to alter his way of life, deal with his drinking and address his issues with his family and fame. In order to explain what changes he made, he relates details from his career and his lifestyle, some of which he is ashamed.

He describes the world of fame as a hall of mirrors – an unreal world in which you get given free stuff all the time and the police let you off speeding tickets in residential areas. The freedom that came with this fame proved to be his undoing as he constantly pushed the boundaries only to find that there weren’t any and if he wanted some, he would have to put them in place himself.

And then he woke up one morning with a hangover and a twitching little finger that wouldn’t go away. For a long time he denied the symptoms and attempted to carry on life as normal, but eventually he saw an analyst, gave up alcohol and forced himself to confront his illness. “I experience the full panoply of classic Parkinsonian symptoms: rigidity, shuffling, tremors, lack of balance, diminished small motor control, and the insidious cluster of symptoms that makes communication – written as well as spoken – difficult and sometimes impossible.”

He takes medication to quell these symptoms but he can’t stay on it all the time so he experiences a sort of Jekyll and Hyde melodrama depending on whether he is on or off his medication. He arranged his life so that he could act or be seen in public when the drugs were in effect ensuring no-one knew he was sick. When the acting and hiding of symptoms got too exhausting, he finally decided to publicly admit his illness. But he didn’t want pity from his audience; he wanted to be able to do something positive.

He found that breakthrough research is being done into Parkinson’s that cannot be funded – the Bush administration’s stand against stem-cell research is far from helpful, if not downright criminal – but according to a professor of neurological sciences, “of the big three degenerative neurological diseases – Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and ALS (Lou Gehrig’s) – we think P.D. will be the first domino to fall.”

MJF didn’t just want to be a poster boy for P.D. so he set up his own organisation to help researchers find a cure within find a cure within the decade. “Our optimism on this score was matched only by our impatience.” We can only hope that his impetus helps bring a cure for this debilitating disease. And sooner rather than later.

Burnley banner

Burnley used to believe that Owen Coyle was God. He raised them from the second division to play in the premiership alongside the footballing superstars. Now he has abandoned them and gone to Bolton. True, he used to play for Bolton and his heart is more likely to be there, but it's a bit of a kick in the teeth from the man who banged on about loyalty.

Burnley fans are understandably bitter, but they know money talks. After all, they were among the first clubs who introduced player's wages to the league in 1885. They've been paying for it ever since.

Him Outdoors says he's 'very disappointed' but he's ready to shrug it off and get on with it, but not without cheering on this banner, dsiplayed at the recent fixture between Bolton and Burnley. The one below isn't quite as witty, but it fits on the page.

My newest favourite thing: artists on the green

It was a scorching hot day as I walked down to Arrowtown Village Green for a spot of art and craft. The shady positions were highly sought after as the artists and artisans sold their wares.

I love Leslie Duggan’s artwork and we have several of her colourful and vibrant fabric creations adorning our walls. One (of red hot chillies and ice cool martinis) was given to us as a wedding present. The quirky cats and jaunty pukekos are also favourites. I see she also does triptychs of more subtle korus and kiwis in muted tones which would make great wall hangings too – check them out at her garden shed gallery.

I met the charming Rex Charlesworth with his fabulous display of handcrafted glass beads and jewellery. He is inspired by dragonflies; their iridescent colours, fragile wings and superlative aerodynamics. Some of the beads featured in pendants and earrings are fashioned to represent their startling eyes.

We discussed photography and patience – he clearly has lots of it as he used to spend hours photographing dragons and damsels in minute detail and extreme close-up. You can follow a link from his Queenstown Hotglass website to see some of these wonderful images.

I was also pleased to meet the artist Christina Roach who, despite being inundated with golfing fans for the Michael Hill NZ Open, was still smiling as she painted her Central Otago landscapes. This is the scenery with which she chooses to surround herself and you can tell her connection to it with each loving brush stroke of the oil on the canvas or the dots of colour that represent glorious autumnal leaves on Tobin's Track.

Christina had almost sold out of her paintings and so was completing some more to add to her stock. Today she was painting from a photograph – a panorama of images taped together, which she kept in the front pocket of her apron. I suggested that it might be difficult to imagine the landscape while she looked out at the Arrowtown street bustling with summer visitors, but as she mixed more pockets of paint, she said she knows these hills like the back of her hand.

Driving Forces

People who drive sign-written vehicles can be startling stupid. I ride my bike around the Wakatipu Basin a lot and I see some alarming driving. Many cars (usually 4WDs) cut me up or don’t understand the concept of share the road. I know this is mutual and there are quite a few cyclists who display a reckless disregard for fellow road-users also, but that’s not what this post is about.

Last week I was carved up three times in less than ten minutes in Arrowtown by the same vehicle. Arrogance or ignorance; I’m not sure which is worse, but it certainly motivated this bloke’s attitude to the road. He ended up pulling into his driveway (overtaking me and then turning inches in front of me, causing me to brake heavily) so I know where he lives. If he continues this behaviour, I will let you know where he lives too.

And this is where those with sign-written vehicles come in. It’s all too easy to think you are in your own little bubble when you drive, but your antisocial and unthinking actions affect everyone else in your vicinity. You are blatantly advertising that you don’t give a toss and are reckless, thoughtless and completely inconsiderate. Do you really think anyone would want to do business with you? I’ve witnessed a lot of woeful driving; dangerous overtaking and careless corner-cutting. I won’t mention it here, but I know who you are.

I must also give credit where it’s due – there are some sign-written vehicles in the area who display consistent courtesy and I would certainly recommend their business to anyone who requires their services. Among the more noticeable champions of the road are Nomad Safaris, Otago Southland Waste Services, Addstaff and Ministry of Works.

Of course, not everyone wants you to know who they are. Once, Him Outdoors was racing around the Lake District when a car pulled out sharply in front of him forcing him to slam on the brakes and take evasive action. He waited until the driver was looking his rear view mirror then flashed a rude signal and mouthed obscenities very clearly, which the other driver couldn’t help but lip-read.

The flashing blue lights popped up and Him Outdoors was reluctantly pulled over by the unmarked police car. After trading ‘You shouldn’t have pulled out like that’ and “It wouldn’t have been a problem if you weren’t speeding’, the policeman allowed that he had another pressing call to attend and that Him Outdoors was lucky to be let off without a fine. His parting shot was, ‘Just watch who you call a f*&%ing t#%t in future, sir.’ Which goes to prove, you can never be too careful on the road – someone is indeed always watching.

Boy Books

The latest list to challenge my Libran (and female) sensibilities is Esqire's 75 Books Every Man Should Read. Clearly, I am not a man, but I'm always interested in the difference in reading habits between the sexes, so I took a look. I have read about a third of their list so I suppose I am entitled to some insight.

One of the things I took from this list is that men don't read books by women - we know this anyway. Often on men's top ten favourite reading lists, the only female author you will find is Harper Lee. I often thought this was because, what with the androgynous name and general lack of public appearances, many blokes think she is a man. Perhaps the same is true of Flannery O'Connor, as she is the only female included in the 75. I think that's pretty shallow. But then, why 'should' someone read a book? To find out about things they don't know, or to reaffirm what they already do?

The books have little blurbs to sum them up. A large proportion are about war. Others are about dogs, horses and cattle or mountains and seafaring - exploration in other words. Men 'should' read about tough manly heroes and their pursuit of survival; adjectives include raw, unrelenting and revenge.

They admire stories about slaves, prison, spies, scandal, presidents, journalists, detectives and the Holocaust; apparently these are manly topics. They are also encouraged to read tales of mateship, farting and sex; childhood, highschool and college. There is usually an edge about having a passionate longing (whether or not it is requited) with your best friend's girlfriend/wife and a troubled relationship with your father.

Of course, there are heaps of titles about drugs and drinking. Descriptions are full of words such as crazy, drunk, hallucinatory, boozing, brawling, fighting, whiskey and defeat. Naturally this leads to a chronic onset of navel-gazing; dirty, damned, grotesque, trapped, desolation, darkness, loss of self.
It's no surprise that the quintissential boy book, Heart of Darkness makes it onto the list, although I am puzzled by the omission of Albert Caumus' L'Etranger. Apparently men should read of cold brilliance, sparseness, animalism, brutality and deception.

I find this list somewhat depressing, mainly because it suggests that men are still living in the past. They dream of swashbuckling adventures where men were tough and women were unimportant. If there was a war to fight, then all the better, as they could prove their valour and value. They could then adopt an attractive world-weary pose to demonstrate strength and knowledge of unspeakable things. When they lost their pioneering capabilities they retreated into drugs and alcohol, unable to face reality, assuming a delusional paranoia that everyone was out to get them.

In real life they are drinking in bars, working in offices and playing pointless computer games by themselves. They read these fantasies but they don't discuss them (how many men do you know in book clubs?) because they like to believe they are the explorer who has discovered new territory. They still don't have any friends and they still don't care what women think.

My newest favourite thing: cherries

Cherries are the heralds of summer. They are the rubies in the centre of the golden stone fruit bowl.

When children, and some adults, swing the ripe red pendulums from their ears and pretend to be wearing sumptuous earrings, you know the season has arrived.

Obviously, when they arrive depends on where you live. Here they arrive just in time for Christmas, but in the Northern Hemisphere I associate them with my sister’s birthday. The Weevil was born in July and we were often abroad in European orienteering countries for the event.

I have a childhood memory (of course, they are notoriously unreliable) of the Weevil skipping joyously along carrying a Black Forest gateaux (I suspect we may even have been in the Black Forest itself) and tripping; sending cream, cherries and chocolate shavings in all directions. The tears had nothing to do with the skimmed knees.

A stall in Arrowtown tempts you with luscious delights; the sellers have come from That Dam Fruit Stall in Cromwell. You can try varieties and pick a favourite punnet, if you are decisive.

Otherwise you struggle with your choice; red, white, pink or purple? Sweet or tart; ‘subacid’ or ‘bland’ – those last descriptions are not mine but come from the Horticultural Society. They probably provided the more prosaic number and letter naming system, while someone with a little more imagination came up with ‘Liberty Bell’, ‘Stardust’, ‘Columbia’ and ‘Staccato’.

Not only do they taste delicious, but apparently they are good for you. Cherries contain high quantities of the antioxidant anthocyanin, (also found in grapes and berries) so you can claim you are being healthy as you puff out your cheeks with the pips.

We would count them as children to see who we were going to marry; tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich-man, poor-man, beggar-man, thief. There was never any mention of electrical engineers so I can only assume their powers of prediction are equally as good as any other form of divination.

If you’re not counting the pips, you can always spit them out. My mother will be pleased to know that I haven’t entered (or even witnessed) the cherry pip spitting championships, but there is a hotly contested regional round of the competition in Cromwell at the start of the season. They make their own entertainment in this area, you know.

And when the cherries have all gone, it's not too long to wait for the blushing blossoms to appear. Symbolising the ephemeral nature of life, they are bashed and buffeted by the winds but some survive.

They are revered in Japan and in 1912 the Japanese gave a gift of some 3000 trees to America to symbolise their blossoming friendship between nations. Is it even more symbolic that these ornamental trees bear no fruit? Whatever, they look simply beautiful.

Books read in August

The following are short reviews of the books that I read in August. The marks I have given them in the brackets are out of five.

Border Songs – Jim Lynch (4.5)
The anti-hero of Border Songs is tall, autistic, dyslexic Brandon who thinks in pictures, compiles mental lists of all the birds he has seen daily, and makes temporary art that is obviously influenced by “the great Andy Goldsworthy”. He joins the Border Patrol to catch drug smugglers and illegal immigrants, and discovers an uncanny talent for turning up in the right place at the right time.

His father, Norm has a failing dairy herd, a half-built yacht in his barn, and a wife (Jeanette) who is suffering from Alzheimer’s. He fantasises about Sophie the masseuse, who may or may not be writing a book about the inhabitants of the small town, and turning a blind eye to illegal immigrants in return for bundles of cash. His neighbour, Wayne taunts him from the Canadian side of the border where the drug laws are different, and Brandon falls in love with Wayne’s daughter Madeline who puts her gardening skills to good use.

No one actually knows where the boundary is, and a lot of money and effort seems to be poured into a ditch. The novel is whimsical and lyric with gentle prose which leaves a lasting impression. Full of a cast of picaresque characters and universal themes of exploration and defence, this book is simply beautiful.

Two Caravans – Marina Lewycka (4.4)
Marina Lewycka’s second novel covers some of the same ground as her first, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian, but in this she focuses more on the experiences of immigrants, legal or otherwise, in England. Obviously there are good and bad people of all nationalities – Ukrainian, African, Polish and even English. Told from a variety of perspectives, the story is also an expose of the demise of socialism in favour of the exploitation of the labour force.

This is not a novel about the unemployed underclass. Everyone in this book wants to work, even if it is low-paid, often demeaning in appalling conditions (the chicken farm is a narrative highlight), and usually illegal – no union members are employed. This is a capitalist society where self-preservation is everything and the human cost in employment rights is the first casualty.

Bizarrely, where there is exploitation, there is also integration as people are treated similarly despite class, gender, religion or race. Many of the immigrants came to England with hopes of a bright future, escaping “that old derelict Soviet world that we are trying to leave behind”, only to have their dreams of the Promised Land shattered by the reality with its hints of the violent underworld; human trafficking, guns, stolen passports and underage prostitutes.

There are constant shifts of point of view as we follow the different characters and this makes it difficult to get to know any of them well. It develops into a Mills and Boon/chick-lit type romance but there are acres of slapstick shenanigans and economic politics to travel though en route. Much of the plot is implausible but that’s not really the point, as it is more a novel of ideas and principles. It is far from dry and sterile, however, and the humour and language is as sparkling as in her first.

Timoleon Vieta Come Home – Dan Rhodes (4.5)
The title obviously brings to mind Lassie Come Home, and the fact that it features a mongrel, Timoleon Vieta, encourages the comparison. Cockcroft is a faded English composer and socialite who lives in a dilapidated farmhouse in the Italian countryside. He dreams of his previous lovers and lives only with his dog, with whom she shares a deep friendship. When a mysterious stranger arrives, known only as The Bosnian, the relationship is tested, and we have to question who is indeed man’s best friend?

The Bosnian and Timoleon Vieta don’t see eye to eye and the Bosnian persuades Cockcroft to drive the dog to Rome and abandon him there. Timoleon Vieta immediately sets out to walk back to the farmhouse. Along the way he encounters various people who are living out their own tales of love and pain, offering a kind of solace to those around him who take him in and feed him for a couple of days, giving him various names, before he resumes his own incredible journey.

It’s a hard-to-categorize book, written in a deceptively simple style. There are disturbing moments and there are heartrending passages, but it is a fantastic little read – like a twisted parable that has no moral. Life just is. This could be a Canterbury Tale based in Umbria – the dog’s tale, as it were.

The Sonnets – Warwick Collins (2.3)
I don’t understand the point of this book. Warwick Collins has taken Shakespeare’s sonnets and woven a very loose and not particularly entertaining story around them. Half of the novel is actually comprised of the sonnets themselves, which anyone with interest will have read already, and he even makes up a couple, passing them off as the ones that got away.

He writes his story in Shakespeare’s voice as he stays with the Earl of Southampton, his patron, when the theatres are closed. Southampton is fatherless and placed under the guardianship of Lord Burghley, Queen Elizabeth’s chief minister. Lord Burghley sees his ward as a rival and despises Shakespeare’s verses. Southampton, on the other hand, is flattered and impressed with the sonnets although he advises caution, telling Shakespeare to couch his sentiments in ambiguity; a handy explanation of the obscurity of the sonnets which allows Collins to interpret according to his will.

There are rumours of homosexuality to be countered. Through the questioning of Shakespeare by Southampton’s mother, who demands the household needs an heir, it is made clear that the love expressed towards the young lord in the sonnets is purely platonic and an example of artifice. Meanwhile, the dark lady is a married courtesan who becomes the mistress of both Southampton and Shakespeare. Christopher Marlowe gets a cameo role as he competes for Southampton’s attention, and is frequently compared with Shakespeare.

Collins has chosen to write in the first person but he doesn’t want to relinquish the omniscience of the third, which results in a dissatisfying effect. Collins also attempts to circumnavigate the restrictions of the first person narrator by having Shakespeare imagine a scene at which he is not present, which is awkward and jarring in its construction. He does capture the Warwickshire scenery of parks and woodland, but he also has a repetitious turn of phrase. Generally, this is a shameful exploitation of one great man’s art by a much lesser writer.