So, after a week of reading all morning every day, (and usually most afternoons and evenings), I can finally begin using this blog for one of its main purposes: as a digital, communal ‘Book Diary,’ a place to record all of the books I’m reading and my thoughts on them/their effects on me.
(My Mum keeps a Book Diary, partly, I have a suspicion, to avoid reading the same book twice. Apparently it only works if you remember to write down everything you’ve read in it, as she discovered last night when 50 pages into ‘The Help’ which I’d lent her. After several, regularly timed cries of “This sounds familiar…” and “Hang on, have I read this before?…”, she realised that she had, indeed, read it before).
‘Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid On Earth’, Chris Ware
This is the debut ‘graphic novel’ (aka comic) from a guy who is now one of the most famous illustrators around, from what I can tell. This had been in my cupboard for only six months, but due to its mass, (it is a squat, thick, colourful book), it leapfrogged other books which have been patiently waiting their turn for years due to the fact that a) it is quite beautiful, meaning I wouldn’t want to trade it in once I finished it, b) it is quite heavy, meaning I wouldn’t want to drag it on my travels anyway, and c) being a comic, it looked like I could finish it quickly, and finishing books quickly gives me a buzz of achievements at the best of times, even when I don’t have a readership to impress and inform.
I was immediately disappointed. My brother and sister-in-law, better versed in graphic novels than I am, had shown disdain for him in the past, but I soon discovered why: whilst the sketch-style of illustrations appeals to me, this was the perfect example of style over substance, with a confusing, fairly dull storyline and a depressingly awkward main character. I have only ever given up on reading a book once in my life, (having both a stubborn streak, and a belief that I can learn at least as much about literature, and what I enjoy about it, from works that I dislike as those that I love), but I was tempted to add this to ‘Ulysses’ on the scrapheap.
I’m glad I didn’t, as the story did eventually improve. Specifically, the twin story-lines of a modern-day Nobody his and turn-of-the-last-century Chicago ancestors were at one point explicitly defined by the author in a ‘time out’ from the confusion, almost as if someone had test-read the book and, at this point, explained that they were lost, confused, slightly lonely, and didn’t want to read any further. The pathetic main character is put to one side for a long stretch to allow us to follow his grandfather’s depressing, but fascinating childhood (and abandonment) in Chicago at the time of the first World’s Fair, before the story ends focused back on the alienated modern day antihero and antiMidas, everything he touches turning to sh*t.
Funnily enough, last year I managed to find a copy of Voltaire‘s ‘Candide‘, a great fable from one of my favourite ever autorst, in a modern Penguin edition willustrated by Ware. I was horribly disappointed to find that he had only illsutrated the cover, (a miniature masterpiece, representing all of the characters and the entire story in the space of a fold-out flap jacket), but now I feel like I got the best of both worlds: the sketch-style, South Park’y illustrations I enjoy so much coupled with a timeless story.
(Incidentally, this leads me to another aside of why I even buy books, or why anyone does, for that matter, with things I’ve learned of recently called ‘libraries’ existing. I already have ‘Candide‘ on my shelf, albeit it in the original French, but I’m a sucker for a great cover, a beautiful edition, stunning binding, or special paper. This is something I think publishers have cottoned onto recently, with second-hand shops in the ascendancy, digital media freely available, and people wondering why they should spend their hard-stolen money on buying a real-life book. Personally, I’m a sucker for the rough-hewn, old skool folio thing many of them are doing with pages these days, making them smell even more incredible and book’y. You book-loving, page-sniffers know what I’m talking about.)
‘Black Like Me’, John Howard Griffin
This is one which has been nestled, hidden, in my ‘To-Read’ cupboard for over a year, finally unearthed in one of my regular, space-freeing rearrangements: a tiny, 1960’s copy of a book which I had heard about years ago and spent months searching for, finally tracking it down on a second-hand maket stall. The true story of a white journalist who, with the aid of pharmaceuticals and UV treatment, darkened his skin enough to wander the streets of the Deep South and pass himself off as an African American, (or Negro, as that is the term employed throughout the undercover exposé).
This was one of the most fascinating and terrifying books I have ever read: a man who, if caught in his investigations by those he is attempting to defend and promote, could have been the victim of insulted anger; and if caught by the racist whites he is attempting to expose and educate would certainly have been the victim either of the violence casually meted out to the second-class citizens if he kept his peace, or of violence springing from a sense of betrayal if he managed to convince them of his true colour.
The ultimate message of the story is a tragic inability to communicate, logic twisted by those convincing themselves that there can possibly be reason behind their racism, of two worlds which never come close to meeting. It was heartbreaking to think that this was not a fantasy world or distant past, but the status quo in the United States barely a generation ago, and more worryingly a sneaking suspicion that it is not far buried in some places yet.
Towards the end of the book Griffin is hitchhiking through Alabama and each driver offers a lift merely to titillate their lewd sexual preconceptions, the atmosphere often teetering on a knife-edge between jocularity and violence if any insubordination is suspected. You can feel the author’s indecision between keeping up the placid façade and risking educating the ignorant, an almost impossible line to walk. The reader is left in no doubt of the moral bankruptcy of a racist theory based on fallacies like the African American lack of sexual morals and desire to ravage the pure white woman leading to fears of racial impurity, when constantly placed alongside the seemingly endless tales of white southerners who, to quote one driver, hired a lot of ‘colored girls’:
“And I guarantee you, I’ve had it in every one of them before they get on the payroll.”
How did the country get to this state? I was struck by two quotes, the first exposing the self-deception of the white majority, or indeed as Griffin points out regularly of any repressive majority:
“…who possess an impressive store of facts, but no truths…”
The other is a simple idea which highlights how far the religious can stray from the spirit of the holy, and seems to be as applicable today as it was in the shameful days of segregation:
“…the only solution to the problems of man is the return to charity,(in the old embracing sense of caritas)…Or, more simply, the maxim of St.Augustine: “Love, and then do what you will.”
’25 Poems 3 Recipes and 32 Other Suggestions [An Inventory]’
‘Instructions, Guidelines, Tutelage, Suggestions, Other Suggestions and Examples etc, An Attempted Book By Tim Key, (And Descriptions/Conversations/A Piece About A Moth),’‘ Tim Key
Sometimes, the title pretty much says it all. I was on the toilet the first time I visited one of my bestest friend’s new places down in Brighton a few years ago, and this was her sole Toilet Reading.
(I hope to someday write a PhD on the social relevance and importance of Toilet Reading on society, and to have shelves in every bathroom if/when I finally settle down).
Luckily I was already on the toilet, because otherwise I may have wet myself.
Tim Key won the Perrier Award as funniest new comic in 2010, and has set about quietly building a following through low-key supporting-act appearances, (he plays Alan Partridge’s hapless radio sidekick on the Foster’s Facebook comedy skits so eagerly awaited last year, for example), his comedy/jazz band, and his limited edition collections of (awful/random/hilarious) poetry, ramblings and surreal humour, one of which I had discovered toiletside and immediately went home and ordered myself on his website, joined by his second book as soon as it was released a year later.
What is in them? Monty Python poems, potential new facial expressions, horrific horoscopes, pretty much anything that seems to come out of Tim’s headbrain, essentially. What’s that, you’d like a sample, you say? Well, at the risk of being shut down for trademark infingement, here are extracts from one of my favourites: ‘An Idea For A Country’:
“NAME: The Respbulia of Latvakia
LANGUAGE: Quite throaty, (lots of words like ‘gstom’ ‘gstoch’ and ‘ache’).
DOES IT HAVE CAPITAL PUNISHMENT OR NOT? Yes, it does.
NATIONAL DISH: chilli, fish, unleavened rice, lots of Italian food
NATIONAL HOLIDAYS: Same as us: Xmas, Easter, a variation on pancake day, (16,000 people died on this day in 1982).
DO MEN GIVE WOMEN FLOWERS? Oui. The men are very romantic in Latvaki They often give flowers on various occasions, (on Valentine’s Day, when they’ve committed adultery/incest).”
‘Post Office’, Charles Bukowski
The past week of reading has thrown up an enormous amounts of coincidences, many of which you will soon hear about, but one of the most surprising led to this choice.
I had gone to The Cupboard to decide what to read next, and to leave it out, fresh and ready for the next morning and a walk I was taking, (much like I used to lay out my school uniform the night before when I was nine years old, down to the socks un-popped and laid carefully over the bottoms of my grey school trousers). I had it down to either a collection of short stories by Donald Barthelme, (which writers I liked had kept name-checking), and the only Bukowski I own, (ditto plus my old friend Kelly who would never stop going on about him).
I settled on the Barthelme.
And then, under the ‘Further Reading/Other Options’ page at the back of the second Tim Key book, (I usually skim through these generally dull, business-only acknowledgements and ISBN/edition/legal fluff pages in the hopes of finding another ‘A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius’ by Dave Eggers. If you haven’t read it, or didn’t find the DVD extras, check out the publisher’s page next time you’re in a bookshop/library/friend who owns the book’s house). Sure enough, the very first line was: “Anything by Bukowski.”
So, that settled that then.
I wandered the streets on the way to my appointment with this, his slim first novel. It was about as gritty, honest and offensive as I had been expecting, shades of Henry Miller’s tropics, like Kerouac with all of the boring traveling taken out and all of the sex, cruelty and bodily functions left in, (I can’t be the only one who found the ‘classic’ ‘On the Road’ one of the dullest books of all time? Can I?)
Hung on the frame of a man struggling to make a living, (read: enough to gamble, drink and whore), from a sadistic job as a postman, (why is it that the UK has the Royal MAIL, whilst the US has the National POST?), the fast-moving story veers from deep social criticism of cut-throat capitalism to sexist, mindless violence, (and marriage). Brutally funny at times, depressingly bleak most of the other times, I was really enjoying this beat throwback until a casual rape scene threw me and made me feel guilty for enjoying the attitude that had led there.
But the work scenes are honest and at times extremely funny, (his bluffs and small victories against superiors makes you wonder how America became a superpower in the 70s if this was even vaguely representative of the workers’ and bosses’s attitudes), and there are even moments of tenderness, although almost always undermined by a misogynistic, even misanthropic attitude which can never quite be kept down: on seeing his new-born daughter for the first time, you start to wonder if the lead character does have any feelings. The very next paragraph, he is commenting on the nurse’s figure.
Reading this did make me want to pick up one or two more, to see in which direction Bukowski’s writing went, but even more it made me want to see the movie they made of his life, ‘Factotum’ starring Matt Dillon as the’s fictional alter-ego Bukowski first created here. It also confirmed my initial and recently ever-strengthening conviction that I never want a job.
Favourite line: “I went to the bathroom and threw some water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that face, I thought…”
‘Pigeon English,’ Stephen Kellman
As mentioned briefly in my opening blog, I have a passion for lists. I make them, I read them, I consider ‘High Fidelity‘ to be one of the greatest books I’ve ever read, (and one of the best cinematic adaptations to boot. That’s a great saying, ‘to boot.’ I don’t even want to know where it comes from, or what it really means. I love it unconditionally).
It will therefore come as little surprise that when people get together and make a list of the best half-dozen or so books produced in the Commonwealth, (if you don’t know what the Commonwealth is, don’t ask…well, don’t ask me at least, as I’m not 100% sure), and then choose one of them, and subsequently create a list of those winners over the past 40 years, I will probably want to read the winners on that list. Furthermore, if I happen to be (unfortunate enough to be?) in Britain in the weeks leading up to said announcement, I may well get caught up in the shortlist, too. This is what happened with this year’s Man Booker Prize, (previously less Manly, and more Bookish). When combined with the discovery of a ‘new’ bookshop, (new to me, at least: Hatchard‘s appears to be the oldest bookshop in London…), which specialises in signed editions, (lists and autographs! My achiles foot!), the result was me picking up a couple of the five short-listed books for 2011, new authors both to me and to publishing, and the first one I decided to read was ‘Pigeon English,’ partly purchased due to its beautiful cover, in bright orange and red silhouette.
Inspired by a tragic and epoch-defining event in the UK in 2000 when a ten-year old Ghanian immigrant was murdered in London, the book begins as a standard, modernised reworking of many coming-of-age school-days tales, (reminding me most of ‘Black Swan Green‘ by one of my favourite authors, David Mitchell). The youthful slang is easy to decode, recalling more strenuous readings of ‘A Clockwork Orange‘ and ‘Trainspotting’ as you get used to the novel used of the qualifier ‘even’ and the smattering of Ghanian vocabulary, and the black and white certainty of pre-teens who can preempt any argument with the simple conversation closer: “Everybody agrees.”
One interesting facet of the writing was that the book never slips into the sentimentality of ‘struggling-immigrant-in-London’ storyline which it could have done. This is due to the fact that Harri, the recently-arrived Ghanian protagonist, appears to fit in better than I would due to being a schoolboy, and all 11-year-old schoolboys seem to have the same concerns: being cool, having the right trainers, (sneakers, to all my transatlantic readers), not getting beaten up, and making anything worth doing if you’re doing it to win points, (a very similar theme being raised in a book I read two weeks ago when comedian Marcus Brigstocke admitted to getting his infant kids to do whatever he wanted merely by telling them he was timing them, and they had to beat the record time).
-What’s the difference between a Lamborghini and a hard-on?
-I don’t have a Lamborghini…
This initiated a ten minute joke-off, and culminated with me going home with the only one of his books I hadn’t read, inscribed with the set-up of one of the filthiest jokes I’ve ever been told by an internationally best-selling author: “To Doron, Indefinitely! David Sedaris” (aka illegible scrawl).
Even knowing all of this, I was still surprised by how filthy this collection was, from page one. From what I remembered, his other, fantastic collections, (‘Naked’, ‘Me Talk Pretty One day’, ‘Dress Your Family in Corduroy’), all begin gently with similar recollections of childhood idiosyncrasies in the Sedaris family: by page six of ‘Barrel Fever’ I was already reading one of the dirtiest, (and most libelous?), stories about the narrator’s relationship with Charlton Heston, (“…one of the tightest men I’ve ever known…”). This is trumped mere pages later with the story of a new relationship with Mike Tyson, and what he gets up to with his false teeth.
I remember the ubiquitous question in university essays of whether it is necessary to know an artist to appreciate their work. I had always come down on the ‘no’ side, that art should be able to stand and fall on its own merits. But knowing who David Sedaris is makes it hard not to sputter at seemingly innocent lines in stories such as: “I can love just about anything on all fours…”
Disappointingly for an author I had grown to love, ‘Barrel Fever’ descends into darker, less laugh-a-minute territory than his other books: it is downright bleak at times, (is it me, or did half of the stories begin with the mention of the death of one of his parents?), a patchy collection of varying length pieces and of varying comedic value. However, it was written waaaaay back in 1994, so maybe he became funnier with fame/money/time? The major evolution in his work appears to be a shift away from fiction, which this was, to the more gentle autobiographical satire which has developed, but this still shows his trademark biting wit and observational nuggets such as:
“If you’re looking for sympathy, you can find it between shit and syphilis in the dictionary,”
“It is confusing when a stupid man plays dumb,”
and an exchange from the excellent closing story ‘SantaLand Diaries’ which transported me straight back to my time teaching in Japan:
“Often the single adults are just foreigners who just happened to be shopping at Macy’s and got bullied into the maze by Entrance Elf…
‘How many in your party?’
The foreigner answers. ‘Yes.’
‘How many in your party is not a yes or no question.’
One of my favourite chapters in ‘Unweaving the Rainbow’ by one of my favourite authors, Richard Dawkins, tackles the issue of coincidences. I love coincidences, but I enjoy their logical or mathematical explanations just as much, for the insight they give us into how life can fool our often not-so-logical brains. (One of my favourites is the fact that you only need 23 people to have odds better than 50/50 that two of them will share a birthday, not 183 people!)
Still, on deciding to get my second Man Booker nominee out of the way, (being signed too, it was one which wasn’t going to come traveling with me and end up given to a fellow traveler or exchanged at a second-hand shop), I was struck by the fact that I appeared to be reading a summary of the teach-yourself Russian book I have been working my way through for the past few months, every phrase, building, square, Moscow street name and even the unpronounceable airport popped over within the first few dozen pages. Much of the plot even revolves around an oil-based ‘joint venture,’ a phrase which had been inexplicably introduced in Chapter 4 of my Berlitz book and which, I was fairly sure, I would never even come across in English, let alone Russian. Providing even more cross-textualisation, the story’s babushka reminisces on a cathedral which “…the communists had turned into a museum of atheism…”, a fascinating concept which I would have had no idea about had I not three weeks ago finished the fantastic ‘Empirium‘ by one of the world’s greatest journalists, Poland’s Ryszard Kapuscinski.
After getting over this surprise, I was first struck by how the early chapters seemed to be merely a catalogue of clever ex-pat observations on Russia loosely strung together on the frame of a weak storyline. This both fascinated and frustrated me a little since, as many of you know, I have recently finished writing a novel which may be merely a catalogue of clever ex-pat observations on Japan loosely strung together on the frame of a weak storyline.
This is Miller’s debut novel, too, and the pace of the thriller is slow and understated, but as the dual plots of dubious business deals and dubious private relationships unfold, they seem to merge. The reader is left with the impression that in Russia business is all politics, and love is all business, and all are a sham and, more importantly, impossible for an outsider to penetrate. This seems to be the main thrust of the tale, the narrator’s realisation that pride comes before a fall. Early in the tale he shows disdain for his fellow London businessmen who float through their time, remaining aloof and unaffected by their surroundings, whereas he is proud of his linguistic development and apparent understanding of Russian society, (I personally appreciated the line: “I was on my way to being fluent, but my accent still gave me away halfway through my first syllable.”). By the end, however, he (somewhat inexplicably) doesn’t even fight what he makes out to be his immoral destiny when he sees that he has been trapped by his naivety and the ruthlessness of those it comes up against.
This reminded me of a debate I had years ago with a friend on the merits of the 2006 Oscar-winning movie ‘Babel.’ I had seen it as an ‘Inspector Calls’ style ode to randomness and chaos theory, my friend as a disgraceful call to stick with what you know and avoid adventure. This time, my opinion had flipped, and I came away with the slightly depressing message that we can never know a culture so seemingly similar but fundamentally different as the Soviet one; as an inveterate traveler, and lover of new cultures this left me with a slightly depressed feeling, summed up by the sweeping maxim:
“…communism didn’t ruin Russia, it was the other way round…”
The depressing undertones are accentuated by the depressing overtones: even more than the death and scams the storyline throws up, it is the doomed romantic aspect which got to me. The novel is a confession letter to a new love, but written with full openness on the narrator’s self-deluded love for the mysterious Masha. The romantic notions, shown in passages such as:
“I was already thinking of her and me as real life, and the rest as somehow distant and less important…”
leaves you with the very clear impression that all love is relative, and wondering why this new love interest should believe anything such a desperately self-deluded romantic says.
Both of my Booker books lost out to Julian Barnes’s ‘The Sense of an Ending,’ which I had no intention of reading but may now have to sometime to keep up my listamania, but despite enjoying them both I was left with the question: are these really two of the best five books published in the UK, Australia, Canada, who knows how many other countries, (why is the Commonwealth even a relevant entity in the 21st century, anyway?) ‘Midnight’s Children‘ or ‘The Remains of the Day’ they certainly ain’t.