tenderhooligan does a little bit of literaryism

Ah, do you remember when I used to read all the time. I used to have about four books on the go at once. (It’s to do with a generally short attention span but there was a book for every mood. It’s the only way to read, I think.) Then, Bad Things Happened and I stopped reading for a while and I am only now starting again. I’ve found, however, that my favourite authors are not pleasing me any longer. Take Will Self, for example. There was a time when I would have lived and died for the next Will Self publication but now I think that he and I are just about through. Yeah, he’s pretentious, arrogant, tautologous and he certainly doesn’t have any bother turning a reader’s stomach when he puts his mind to it, but I did love to read him so. (I do have an attraction to a sordid mind, it has to be said. See above for Bad Things Happening.) Two of Self’s recent novels have not pleased me at all, however.

The Butt, a cautionary tale about stopping smoking I think, was my first disappointment. Well, it was about what happened to one Tom Brodzinsk, really, who, on holiday in an unnamed location, flicked his last ever cigarette from his hotel balcony and burned the living hell out of a sunbather below. That’s a mistake our Tom won’t be making again for he finds himself at the mercy of a seemingly corrupt criminal justice system when he’s charged with ‘assault’. There’s a questionable (and possibly paedophilic) ambassador or helper or something who appears shortly after the cigarette-flicking incident and it’s all downhill from there. So far, so good, one would think – right up my street – but I just couldn’t feel it. Tom wasn’t at all interesting or sympathetic and even when his wife and kids took off (for reasons that were not at all clear), I couldn’t muster up any compassion for him. (Of course, Self is not famous for creating sympathetic characters but I want to be able to feel something.) I ended up quitting Tom and his dubious friend about half way through their adventure. I have no idea how it all ended up, but I would say it was in tears.

Then I gave a collection of Self’s short stories – Dr. Mukti and Other Tales of Woe – a go. Bearing in mind the aforementioned limited attention span, I thought this may be the one to get me back on my feet. The first of the short stories concerned a certain Dr. Mukti and his rival and tormentor Dr. Busner (who, you may recall, first appeared in the Quantity Theory of Insanity). In a bid to outdo each other in both love and life, they trade some poor unfortunate psychiatric patients and it all… erm, that’s all I know. I gave up on it too. I just didn’t care again. I actually gave up mid-sentence, realising that while the battle was clearly important to Drs Mukti and Busner, it was not at all important to me. I enjoyed the next short story – 161 – much more. Real people, real lives, real pain, real sentiment. When I’d finished that, I decided that would be enough of the whole thing. The volume is now in the Possibly for Oxfam pile.

In non-Self news, I next read a Bukowski. I was much younger, much more naive, and much, much, much less feminist when I read my first Bukowski, Post Office. Chinaski, the autobiographical protagonist in many of Bukowski’s novels, is a hard-drinking, hard-talking, hard-loving gentleman of letters who has as many hangovers in a year as he does female conquests. And he never seems to blink an eye. When I first encountered him all those years ago, I fancied myself quite in love for a while. Such freedom of spirit and expression. And the sex; so much sex. I was all sorts of taken with it. I had put off reading Women, the last in the Chinaski trilogy, for reasons I can’t quite remember now, but I picked it about a month ago. Dear Lord! What a fucking horrible man. How could I ever have had a soft spot for him? How could I ever have even have liked him!? Abusive, nasty, misogynistic, horrible, horrible man. That’s the point, of course, and exactly what we’re supposed to think of him, but still. Horrible! To hell with freedom and love and passion, the man’s a fucker and reading about his escapades was torturous (“I got drunk, I got up, I slept with some poor woman, I wrote a poem, I fell over, I got drunk, I got up, I slept with…”). I thought I was going to have to scrub myself with bleach to get rid of him from my mind, but it turns out he hadn’t infiltrated it all that deeply this time. Bukowski was certainly one of the most talented writers of his generation, and his depictions of ordinary, far-from-perfect lives were very affecting at times but MAN, I hate that Chinaski. By definition, I suppose I probably now hate that Bukowski too.

Reading etc.

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The Interpretation of Murder – review

I mentioned elsewhere that I’d started to read The Interpretation of Murder because I felt like getting stuck into a whodunnit. Oh my life, I wish I hadn’t bothered. I said to Himself at the weekend that I never fail to finish a book no matter how bad it is, but last night I ate my words (literally). I got to page 161 out of 550-odd and I realised I couldn’t get any further.

The Interpretation of Murder is absolutely dreadful.

We have Freud with his typical misogynistic ‘maybe she asked for it’ theorising, Jung being rude and offensive, another psychoanalyst whose role never became apparent, and our very dull protagonist. Add to this one dead victim, one alive victim, and a host of other characters (all with the same name, I’m sure of it), none of whom were properly introduced and therefore completely forgettable.

Awful, awful, awful, tedious, unstructured, amateur rubbish. It’s the very worst book I’ve ever opened, I think.

I thought I would try to sell it on Amazon Marketplace but 553 copies are for sale already. I think that says it all.

I’m now on to Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. Much more like it.

On Chesil Beach; Love Lies Bleeding – review

Oh, and I forgot to mention two other novels I’ve recently read.

On Chesil Beach was a beautifully moving story of the wedding night of a young, innocent, virginal couple. He was trying to be brave and masterful in the face of his fear, and she was trying anything she could to escape the inevitable consummation of their wedding vows. In the end, they both walked away from something magical, without really trying to fix it. It broke my heart. The novel was set in Oxford which made it even more wonderful for me, as I watched this young and perfect couple walk through the places I’ve walked a hundred times. I really disliked the first McEwan novel I read – Enduring Love – but he certainly redeemed himself with Chesil Beach.

Then I read DeLillo’s Love Lies Bleeding. It’s touch and go whether or not I understand a word that comes out of DeLillo’s mouth, and this was one of the times that I didn’t. A dying man, his son and his former and current wives explore death or something. The dying man doesn’t actually say anything. It’s Very Very Deep. I’m Very Very Bored.

I’m think that’s all of them.

Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules; The Lemon Table; England, England; Shampoo Planet – review

I can’t remember the last time I penned my thoughts about a book here, but I have been reading. Not as much as I like, for the constant exhaustion often overwhelms, but enough.

Children Playing Before a Statue of Hercules (David Sedaris), then.

I’d read anything by David Sedaris. If he scribbled something unintelligible down on an envelope, I’d pay to see what he said. He never fails to please. Children Playing… is a collection of short stories he’s edited, so it isn’t actually his own work, but parts of it were enjoyable nonetheless. I read most of them. I knew the rest weren’t for me in the opening paragraphs. I wouldn’t suggest you bother if it’s your first foray into Sedaris territory (obviously) but if you’re somewhat nuts about him, like me, then you should definitely try to pick up a copy.

Another edited collection of short stories – The Lemon Table by Julian Barnes – was less enjoyable but these stories were clearly written by, shall I say, more sensible folk. The theme throughout the collection was ‘ageing’, apparently, but most if that evaded me when I skipped half of it out. It was a bit dull, truth be told.

Old Barnesy made amends, though, in the next novel I read: England, England. Here Barnes constructed a wonderful tale of global satire and absurdity, and made it provincial enough for all of us England-dwellers to get a kick out of. Of course, as an Oirish, I do like to poke fun at the English sometimes, and he gave us fodder for that too. His premise wasn’t quite as believable as some of those proposed by other satirical novelists (*) but he did quite a good job overall. I didn’t really need to read two chapters on what became of the protagonist at the end – I’m not sure we were even supposed to like her – but I suppose Barnes had to finish it off somehow. There was probably a message about greed, selfishness, cold-heartedness and loneliness in there, but I didn’t really care.

Next I went for a Coupland I’ve been meaning for a while. I don’t know why I bother really because every time I read a Coupland, I’m reminded of what I haven’t read one in a very very long time. Shampoo Planet was no different an experience. Yes, we’re all living in a souless consumer culture; yes, we’re all shallow and self-serving; yes, we’re all lacking in self-awareness and empathy for others; yes, we’re all decadent and grotesque, etc. etc. etc. Douglas, we’ve heard it all before. Every single book you write tells us the same thing, and you still haven’t got me caring. I should have given up after Generation X.

I’m now reading what is sure to be a ludicrous whodunit (with a psychoanalytical bent) which features none other than Freud and Jung in New York in 1909 solving a series of murder. I felt like something stupid. I won’t be disappointed, I dare say.

——

(*) Dare I mention, as an example, one Ben Elton. His novels are thrown together by an illiterate four-year-old, I’m sure, but his satire is generally right on the button.

Bookshelf

Here be the twelve [very brief and disconnected] book reviews I’ve done on the Facebook bookshelf application. (It’s only the second application I’ve ever added on Facebook, I addition.)

I’ll be doing more ‘reviews’ when I get a chance, I hope.

On The Body Artist (Don DeLillo): Impossible to wade through.

On Cock and Bull (Will Self): Hilarious. I don’t care if Will Self’s far too pretentious for his own good; his ability to make me laugh is second to [almost] none.

On A Clockwork Orange (Anthony Burgess): Possibly the best book ever written (1).

On Dead Babies (Marin Amis): Dead Babies was my first Amis read, and it got me hooked on him. Amis can turn his hand to dark comedy like few others can. Just don’t expect to like any of his characters that much.

On The Corrections (Jonathan Franzen): I can’t remember a thing about it, although I know I’ve read it. Something to do with a big family?

On Girlfriend in a Coma (Douglas Coupland): Overrated. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, frankly.

On The Girl and the Lion D’Or (Sebastian Faulks): So dull. I think I fell asleep in between each page.

On On the Road (Jack Kerouac): I wonder if anyone else agrees that this book is too long, too dull and too overrated.

On This Other Eden (Ben Elton): Elton’s satire is very clever, but his writing style lets him down every time. It turns a great idea into something very tedious and predictable.

On Brave New World (Aldous Huxley): Possibly the best book ever written (2).

On The Alchemist (Paulo Coelho): I couldn’t understand what any of the attraction was to this book. I hated all of it.

On The Trial (Franz Kafka): Kafka scares the bejaysus out of me. I’ll bet he does the same to everyone. He’s in good company with Huxley and Orwell when he describes a world we should be very afraid off.

The Water’s Lovely – review

I recently read a piece in the New Statesman that I disagreed with. It was entitled Magical Mystery Tour and argued that Ruth Rendell – ‘the mistress of the whodunnit’ – is the most important chronicler of modern day Britain. I grimaced at the suggestion frankly, and immediately came up with two far superior chroniclers in Martin Amis and Will Self; but I figured that I should probably actually read one of Rendell’s books before I jumped to such conclusions.

The next time I was in town, I picked up The Water’s Lovely and I finished reading it last night.

In The Water’s Lovely we have sisters Ismay and Heather who live in a flat downstairs, and their demented mother Beatrix and her sister Pamela who live in a flat upstairs. Some twelve years ago, when the house was one, Ismay and Heather’s stepfather, Guy, drowned in the bath. Due to circumstances on the day of Guy’s death, Ismay believes that Heather killed him. This is the central storyline of the book. There’s also Ismay’s cruel boyfriend, Andrew; Heather’s adoring boyfriend, Edmund; Edmund’s manipulative mother, Irene; Irene’s mercenary friend, Marion; Marion’s wealthy boyfriend, Barry; and a smattering of other characters whose lives intertwine throughout the story.

For what felt like most of the novel, Ismay conducts a tedious and repetitive internal monologue about Heather’s alleged involvement in Guy’s death. The rest of the novel, the author flits from one character to another describing their carry-ons and interactions. It’s gripping, I’ll admit, in that easy and unchallenging way one sometimes likes in a book. I couldn’t help be irritated, though, at the book’s appalling editing. For example: ‘It wasn’t a free-standing bath.’ Two pages later, ‘It was a free-standing bath.’ Or: ‘Ismay and Heather lived downstairs; Beatrix and Pamela lived upstairs’. A page later: ‘Ismay and Heather decided to return to their flat upstairs.’ There’s just no excuse for that, really.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed my time with them all and was happy to see that Rendell tried to end her novel with a couple of twists (one I predicted and the second was unrelated to anything and a bit of a letdown), although I won’t read her again. Rendell’s got a talent for intrigue, I dare say, but an important chronicler of modern day Britain she simply is not. I don’t know where the author of the New Statesman’s piece got that idea but I can say with confidence now that I disagree with him. More Amis for me, I think. Now there’s an important chronicler if ever there was one.

Oranges are not the only fruit – review

Jeanette Winterson is fast becoming my favourite author of the moment. Frankly, I thought The Passion was overrated and I couldn’t wait to be done with it, but I enjoyed Oranges are not the only Fruit immensely.

The novel focuses on a young girl, Jeanette, who is reared in an obsessively religious home until she falls foul of her family and community with her ‘sinful ways’. It’s not the first novel about religion’s intolerance of homosexuality, but it could well be the most entertaining. I grew up surrounded by religious excess – although thankfully my immediate family was and is more moderate – so I could identify with this element of the book. Winterson’s depiction of obsessive religiosity is hilarious, and while she clearly made an effort to illustrate her characters with compassion, she certainly didn’t discourage us from disliking them. Jeanette’s mother is one of the most sorry, yet vulnerable, literary characters I’ve come across in a while; I despised her for everything she stood for but I felt sorry for her because she wasn’t able to think anything for herself. The Pastors are simply genius! I’m not sure how much of ‘Oranges’ is autobiographical. I must find out.

I’m glad that I didn’t let The Passion taint my view of Winterson’s work because I would have missed out on the marvel that is Oranges, and now I can’t wait to read another from her. As with all good things, one mustn’t be spoiled, so I’ll leave it a couple of months before I read her again. Besides, I wouldn’t want to run out of her now that I’ve started to really love her. I actually started Written on the Body a few years ago but it wasn’t the right time for it because of what I was going through at the time, so I’ll go back to it next. Looking forward to it.

Choke – review

I finished my first Chuck Palahniuk novel a month or so back. It was on LC‘s advice that I picked it up initially after he was surprised to learn that Palahnuik wasn’t on my ‘list’. So I bought the first novel I saw of his because I had no preconceptions about what would be good and what would be bad. As it turned out, Choke was an excellent first read.

Choke is a novel about sexual addiction, although only about half of the book focused on that. The remainder of the book was about Victor’s – the protagonist’s – elderly (and devious) mother, and his best friend, Denny, who was also a sex addict. The three of them, and the many characters they met (and shagged, generally) along way were a sorry bunch all told, but it made for great reading. It became rather more a novel about lonely and lost souls than about addictions to sex.

By my guess, Palahniuk’s main art is in the creation of despicable characters for whom we can’t help but develop an affection. I base this suggestion on Victor, mainly, but also on his manipulative mother. They’re both vile in many ways but I found myself really growing to like them. Fight Club’s Tyler Durden also comes to mind, but as I’ve only ever seen the film, I’m not sure how closely the film character was to the Durden of the novel. Here are three characters, however, who most of us would avoid in real life, but who absorb us in the written form. We don’t like them, probably, but we do sort of love them. In fact, I’ve often wondered had Durden been played by someone much less pretty than Brad Pitt, if this trait would have been more obvious. Marla Singer – there’s another one.

In any case, I want more Palahniuk now – he’s a very talented man. Suggestions are welcome.

In The Country of Last Things – review

Oh, I could probably do with a bit of Catherine Cookson or something soon because for the last fortnight, I’ve only been reading how we’re all doomed. Paul Auster’s In the Country of Last Things was about as doomed as you can get really, but I flippiny loved it.

Anna Blume is in the country of last things which is a city – probably New York – in what seems to be post-apocalyptic times. There is no order in the streets, no laws to protect the weak, few places to live, little to eat, only back-breaking ways to make money, and widespread corruption. If you’re lucky enough not to die, you will sleep where your body stops for the day, and eat what you can afford on your tiny earnings. Life is about as hard as I imagine it, but you can always choose to kill yourself if it gets to much. There are even clubs to join to do so: the Runners (who run and run and run and run until their bodies just expire) are a popular choice for many.

Anna Blume is there to find her missing brother, William, and writes a letter about her experiences to an unnamed friend or family member. Her letter is the novel we read. We never find out what becomes of Anna, or her brother, but we get to see this harsh reality through her eyes. It’s not nice.

I find it hard to fault Auster, and I’m not about to do so now, but I did prefer the first third of this book to the remainder. In the first third, Auster (Anna) describes the city and its people wittily and satirically, and one can’t help but think that it might be quite intriguing to live there for a little while. For the remainder, Anna tells us of her struggle to survive and the people she met and loved along the way; it was interesting, but it wasn’t fun anymore. Perhaps this was intentional on Auster’s part because no one was happy there and we probably weren’t supposed to be happy reading it.

Don’t get me wrong – Auster’s a frickin’ genius, and I would recommend this book to anyone but I do wish he’d kept the satirical style he started out with. And I’m still a little worried about Anna Blume a week after reading her last words, but I’m sure he can’t really be blamed for that.