Blocks for Writers, not Writers' Block

I'd love to write a book. Really, I would. So far, I've published (in the loosest sense) three chapters, and a fourth has been under way for a good while. However, I've found that it's just not happening for me. Why?

Well, as always, life is getting in the way of art (no sniggering please). I have one more unit left in my MTESOL course, and a lot of my spare time is spent reading journal articles and taking notes which I'll never look at again. I also have a family that (rather unreasonably) expects attention when I get home from what is laughingly called 'work'. However, the main obstacle to a career as a world-renowned author and a well-deserved Nobel Prize or two (I'm nothing if not confident) is my back.

Yes, my back.

Regular readers may already have gathered that I have had back problems over the past six months, and while the young whipper-snappers among you may scoff at such a wimpy excuse, the older of my followers will probably empathise (and if you don't, well, bugger off; I like my readers sycophantic and sympathetic). You see, while I'm able to dash off rubbish like this in my sleep, my writing requires deep concentration, and it's difficult to drum that up when my back is throbbing like... (fill in your own simile - nothing dirty, please...).

Swimming, stretching and the odd day off work will, I'm sure, help me back to full fitness, but until then, my poor protagonists are frozen in the literary ether. Which must be very cold for them. If you are one of the select few who have downloaded my efforts from Smashwords, well, firstly, thanks a million for dropping by. Secondly, I do apologise profusely (rest assured, I flog myself on a regular basis). Finally, I will try to get my act together some time soon.

Possibly. Don't hold me to that. I'm an artist, don't you know...

Review Post 12a - Australians All, So Please Rejoice

With my new regime of posting this year (weekly posts on multiple books, enforced mainly by other commitments and a dodgy back which doesn't like sitting at the computer all day and all night), my little compositions appear to have become more theme-based of late - as seen in my previous effort. Even so, I've outdone myself with today's offering: not only were all three books borrowed from the lovely people at Narre Warren library, they're all by Australian writers. Beauty. Pull up a lamington, and let's get stuck into a belated Australia Day literary bonanza!

*****

We head first to Brisbane, the capital city of the northern state of Queensland, to enjoy a book by Nick Earls. I've read a fair few of his early books which could be categorised as lad-lit, albeit of a high calibre (more Nick Hornby than Mike Gayle), and usually contained a fair amount of slapstick moments (a date, a need to urinate, an unalert cat - let's just leave it at that). However, his previous novel, The Thompson Gunner, marked a move away from his usual style into a more adult, dare I say literary, genre, and his latest book, The True Story of Butterfish, continues that trend.

Curtis Holland, a member of the incredibly successful (and now imploded) group Butterfish, has come home to Brisbane to get away from it all and get on with a second career as a small-time producer. He buys a house next door to the Winter family: single mum Kate, Lolita-esque sixteen-year-old Anneliese and grungy teenager Mark. Throw in his (gay) brother Patrick and a surprise visit from Derek, the off-the-rails lead singer of his band, and you have the mixture of characters around whom Curtis' new life will form.

However, it's a bit more subtle than that, and the story is just as much about people who are no longer around as it is about those who are. All of the characters are making new starts, attempting to move on after losing, or being rejected by, someone special in their life. Patrick has accepted the end of his long-term relationship, and the Winter children attempt to balance their new life with occasional visits to their father. And Curtis? Well, he has more than his fair share of ghosts to deal with on his return Down Under.

It's a bittersweet story, and Earls handles it skilfully, avoiding the slapstick and forced happy endings of his early work in favour of a snapshot of a life most ordinary (if you ignore the fact that Butterfish sold twenty million records in the US). Does Curtis manage to create an ordinary life in the Brisbane suburbs, or does he, like many an Earls protagonist, manage to mess things up in a spectacular way? It's worth finding out...

*****

Our next book also takes us off to sunny Queensland (after a short detour via North America). Australian superstar writer Peter Carey's His Illegal Self is centred around Che, a young boy from a rich American family. One minute he is off to see his long-absent mother, the next he is hitchhiking along unpaved roads in the Sunshine Coast hinterland in Australia. As you can imagine, this causes poor Che (and the reader) a fair amount of confusion.

Set in the early 1970s, a time when the Vietnam war was raging and young men from both the States and Australia were being sent off to the slaughter, His Illegal Self touches on the political counter culture of the time and brings Che (or Jay, as his East Coast grandmother prefers to call him) into contact with a group of society drop-outs in the Queensland bush, on the run just as much from the brutal police state of Premier Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen as from the threat of the draft.

The book's blurb concentrates on Carey's depiction of the innocent child, stolen from his home environment and forced to make sense of the exotic, alien Queensland landscape, but I didn't think that Che actually stood out much. For me, the character of Dial, the academic with the hidden past, was much more interesting. Once this highly educated working-class girl found herself in the jungle setting, her carefully-constructed persona (an image built to distance herself from her humble beginnings) slowly starts to crumble. The contrast with the enigmatic hippie Trevor, illiterate but street smart (or should that be bush savvy?!) is fascinating: Dial finds herself manipulated by the community she has landed in and is frustrated at her inability to outwit a bunch of stinking drop-outs.

I found it hard to get into this book; the first few chapters were good, but then it slowed down with a burst of flashbacks and multiple perspectives. It wasn't until Dial and Che were established in their new (temporary) home that the novel came to life again and Carey was able to show us the effect of a change of environment on our hapless American protagonists. In a book that ponders the meaning of family and strangers (and where we're not always on the side of the family) and takes the main characters half way across the world, Dial (which, of course, is a nickname) is very aptly named: Anna Xenos - in Greek, the stranger or foreigner...

*****

Our third slice of Australiana comes courtesy of Greek Melbourne writer Christos Tsiolkas, and I have a warning for the delicately formed among you: if you are offended by homosexuality, sleeping around, drug use, bodily fluids and functions, blasphemy and anti-Semitism, it's time to go and do something else - your time here today is done. If however, you are still curious, let's continue, and I'll do my best to make sense of Tsiolkas' novel Dead Europe. No promises, though.

The writer divides his story into two strands: one follows young Greek-Australian Isaac on a trip around Europe, starting in Athens and moving on to Venice, Prague, Berlin, Paris and London; the second starts in Greece in the 1930s and is part folklore, part horror story. The reader suspects that the two parts will intersect, but the way they eventually do is as fascinating as it is horrific. Tsiolkas combines casual sex, fantasy, horror, violence and racial tension in a novel which starts slowly and gently increases the pressure until something has to explode. And does.

The genesis of the story is when a Greek couple agree to hide the son of a Jew from the invading German forces in return for a box full of jewels; however, the wife (after certain illicit nocturnal activities) persuades the husband to kill the man in order to avoid the risk of retaliation from the Germans. This act of brutality and betrayal has far-reaching consequences - both in time and space. As Isaac goes about his merry way on the old continent, he begins to experience strange sensations, feeling out of sorts, physically and mentally. And then he starts to get strange cravings...

To be honest, I struggled, initially, to identify with Isaac. Not particularly because he is gay, more because of the way he seemed to be screwing and snorting his way across Europe. We are expected to believe that he loves his partner, Colin, who is the breadwinner of the pair and stuck in Melbourne, while Isaac behaves like a gap-year student on a twisted Kontiki tour. Later, it becomes clear that this behaviour is actually suggestive of events which will happen towards the end of the book; Isaac is, almost from the start, unable to control his desires, be they for sex, drugs, alcohol or blood.

I am a little squeamish at times (definitely not a big fan of slasher films), and there were times, standing and reading on my commute home, where I visibly flinched at some of the events of the later stages (probably making other passengers edge carefully towards the other end of the carriage). It was hard reading; there was some powerful and disturbing stuff to take in. It is, though, precisely this which makes the book a success; its ability to shock the reader and make them consider Isaac's situation and how they would act in that position. Tsiolkas also plays a little with the reader as we are never completely convinced that we understand what is real and what is imagined; as you may have gathered from what I've already said about Isaac, he is far from being a trustworthy narrator by the end of his travels.

What's it all about? The new world (Australia) versus the old; the curse and strength of the Jew; racial and ethnic tension; sexual freedom and exploitation. And blood. The blood of your ancestors running through your veins, and the blood keeping you alive. A thirst for blood.

You'll love this book. You may not enjoy it.

Review Post 12 - The Master versus The Apprentice

This week we are off to Tokyo, a sprawling, seamy metropolis of salaryman drone armies on trains by day, and Cadillac-driving Yakuza by night; and it is the night which especially interests us, a night interrupted by neon lights advertising pachinko parlours, karaoke bars and places nice people like you and I would never dream of entering (Starbucks). And who better to guide us through this vision of the future today than not one, but two (TWO!) of our favourite authors?

Ladies and gentlemen: in the Red Corner, the outsider, the challenger, the master of the multiple perspective, all the way from England, let's hear it for DAVID MITCHELL! And in the Blue Corner, the king of the surreal, the undisputed heavyweight champion of mixing the mundane with the magical, the man with the plan (and usually a cat or two too), from the other side of the barrier, put your hands together for HARUKI MURAKAMI!

But I digress...

*****

Mitchell's second novel, number9dream, follows nineteen-year-old Kyushu native Eiji Miyake to Tokyo on his quest to find the father he has never met. While this seems to be a more straight-forward narrative after the jumping around of Ghostwritten, it is actually anything but: from the very start, we are thrown around in the whirlpool of Mitchell's imagination as we experience Eiji's daydreams and fantasies, as well as diary entries and slightly-strange short stories. In a taste of things to come from Mitchell, the timeline of the book is anything but stable and linear, and, in a style vaguely reminiscent of The God of Small Things, we leap back and forth through Eiji's life, learning about the fate of his twin sister, Anju, and his strangely absent mother.

While it is Eiji's search for his father that drives the narrative on, it eventually becomes clear that this is more of a search for himself than his father. Leaving his home environment for the first time, our young hero is forced to come to terms with the real world and step out of the dreams he has been living. A bit like Kafka on the Shore in reverse...

The Murakami influences don't stop there. It's difficult to see Eiji and his cat without thinking of Haruki and his love for all things feline while the book Eiji regrets not finishing during one of his surprisingly frequent Yakuza encounters (I mean that while expecting to be bludgeoned to death he was regretting not having finished the book, not that he wanted to read it while being beaten from pillar to post - that would just be weird) features a familiar tale about a man down a well. And where do you think the Mongolian comes from, hmm? Let's just say that I have my suspicions...

*****

When reading After Dark, it would be quite easy to imagine Eiji Miyake somewhere in the background (probably being dragged into a den of iniquity by Yuzu Daimon), but the atmosphere of this work is a lot slower. Number9dream channels the adrenalin of a city that never sleeps; Murakami shows us the few hours when Tokyo's pulse is barely ticking over. Over the course of one night, we follow Mari Asai and the friendly musician Takahashi through a choice selection of late-night cafes, jazz bars and love hotels. Meanwhile, back at Mari's house, her beautiful sister Eri is lost in an unnaturally-long sleep, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. And then the television in the corner starts to flicker...

A lot of people have trouble liking After Dark, and it's the Eri part which is usually to blame. It is perhaps a little too out-there and forces the reader to search for connections to the other strand, ideas which may or may not have anything to do with Murakami's true intentions. If, however, we look at Eri's story more metaphorically than literally, we uncover typical Murakami themes, albeit in a slightly different version. Just as his usual 'Toru' characters struggle (in a very relaxed fashion) against the strains and stresses of modern life, Eri is fighting against the role the world has made for her. Groomed to be a model and sex symbol from an early age, she feels trapped and needs a way to escape to a normal life, something Mari has painstakingly created for herself. Admittedly, you don't get many televisions that work without being plugged in in normal life, but that's Murakami for you.

Despite the familiar themes, After Dark is a rather experimental work for Murakami. The writing is several degrees more detached than his previous novels, and it wouldn't surprise me to hear that this was originally meant to be a play, or maybe even a screenplay. Were it not for the danger of alienating the audience with Eri's slumbering dramas, I would suggest that this is a perfect book to be filmed once Norwegian Wood has come and gone. In fact, if we pitch it at the art-house french-film-loving public, we may just have an idea...

Having read the book for a second time now, I have to confess that it has grown on me. Yes, it's different from the usual Murakami fare, but it can only be a good thing for authors to experiment, especially Murakami (who really could just phone it in if he couldn't be bothered - as shown with the hype over the still-not-available-in-English 1Q84, he can sell a million copies without anyone knowing anything about the book). If we enjoy it for what it is, a minor experimental work from a great writer, then nobody will be disappointed - just don't go expecting Norwegian Wood.

Let us finish by returning to the rather laboured boxing metaphor. If I were the referee, I'd have to give the decision to number9dream (unanimous points verdict). Mind you, I'd probably have been predicting an early KO before the fight. Of course, one caveat I'd introduce is that this was a slight mismatch; After Dark was definitely fighting out of its weight class. Now Cloud Atlas v The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: that would be a genuine clash of the heavyweights. Tickets, anyone?

Review Post 11 - From the Comfortably Sublime to the Absurdly Ridiculous

It's March, so it must be time for Doctor Thorne, the third of Anthony Trollope's Barchester Chronicles (the one I've read the least as it took me ages to get a copy - pre-Book Depository, simpler times...). In this novel, we move away from Barchester itself and spend a while in the country area of Greshamsbury, home to the fallen gentry of the Gresham family. The Greshams have blood, but they no longer have much money; therefore, it is the duty of the young heir, Frank Gresham, to marry money. But wait! A penniless childhood sweetheart? Familial discord? A rival suitor? Don't you just love Victoriana...

So where's this Doctor then, you may ask (no, not that Doctor; there are no blue police boxes in this story)? Well, the Doctor, although (as Trollope himself admits) he may not be the true hero of the story, is nevertheless the key figure in the story. Uncle, and guardian, of our heroine, Mary, confidant and adviser of Frank Gresham's father, and executor of a will which may alter certain opinions (and prospects), the tireless Doctor Thorne winds his way through the novel, mending broken heads and hearts alike. While those familiar with Barchester may be forgiven for initially likening him to our old friend the Warden, it soon becomes apparent that he is a very different character. He is a much spikier, more independent and capable person who has no qualms about standing up to the 'quality' of the county, even when the weight of generations of blood oppose him.

Blood, more notable in this book (despite the title) for its metaphorical rather than literal appearance, is at the heart of events. Breeding may be important for livestock, but is it important for people? While Frank Gresham's qualities and the Scatcherd family's failings may suggest that it is, Mary's finer points and the absurd, patronising behaviour of the ancient De Courcys hint that having a traceable family tree isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

Of course, we all know what is going to happen; Trollope never lets suspense build up when he can tell us in advance what is likely to occur. However, in this book, I feel that there was too much inevitability about the plot. As always with Trollope, the characterisation was spot on, and some of the scenes (the Thorne-Gresham confrontations, the depiction of the drunken, dying Scatcherds) are fantastically written. I just thought that at 550+ pages (and with the ending as plain as could be from about half-way through), the book may have outstayed its welcome a little. It's still a pleasure to read, but it's not the best of the series by a long way. Next stop, Framley Parsonage in April...

*****

Blood also features in my other review today, albeit of a more literal kind. Albert Camus' classic novel L'Étranger tells the story of Meursault, a French Algerian, from the death of his mother through a serious crime and the ensuing trial. It's a fairly simple story (luckily for me; my French isn't what it used to be), but the ideas behind it are anything but. The story serves as a vehicle for Camus to expound upon his philosophical ideas and his take on existentialism.

Meursault is a curious character. The death of his mother leaves him cold, and he seems to be completely devoid of any real emotions. Despite the extreme situations he finds himself in, he never appears to get upset or hot under the collar. The reader is forced to decide whether he is emotionless or simply egocentric and unconcerned with the affairs of others. The answer, perhaps, is the latter; however, it's slightly more complicated than all that...

You see, Camus was one of the pioneers of Absurdism, a philosophical theory which basically held that life's a bit of a joke, and you have to make of it what you can. He developed the ideas of the Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard, who said that there are three ways to make sense of life: suicide, religion or accepting that life has no meaning except that which the individual can make of it. However, while Kierkegaard plumped for option b, Camus rejected religion as being a waste of time and went for the third option (in this novel, this choice extends to Meursault in his discussion with the prison chaplain).

Meursault plays this taking life as it comes role to perfection: no tears at his mother's funeral, no emotion when his girlfriend talks about marriage, no fear when on trial. He simply rolls with all that life throws at him and makes the best of his situation without stressing out about it. In the end, it is this 'unnatural' attitude which brings about his downfall. Although he is ostensibly being tried for a crime, the trial actually focuses on his behaviour before he commits it as the prosecutor and judge (and the jury) are unable to believe that someone who behaves so calmly could have acted on the spur of the moment. In effect, the trial becomes more a discussion of Meursault's inhumanity than of his guilt.

This is a wonderful read, short and (thankfully) fairly simple, while at the same time rather thought-provoking. For those of you without a guiding purpose in life, it's well worth a read. Those of you who are of a more religious nature may be a little more wary, but there is no strong anti-religious message here, simply a rejection of someone else's faith by a man who doesn't need it. Dorothy, we're not in Barchester any more...

Review Post 10 - News from the Colonies

It's been a long time since I last went to the library (and, if you read this post, you'll know why!), but I steeled myself a couple of weeks ago and finally got a few books out. The first was The Woman who Walked into Doors; the third is waiting to be read. The second is Nobel prize winner V.S. Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas. And a lovely book it is too.

I'd never read a Caribbean book before (in fact, the closest connection I have to that part of the world is a Trinidad & Tobago football shirt I bought cheaply after the last World Cup and a love for cricket which confuses and infuriates my wife in equal measures), and it definitely wasn't what I'd expected. Naipaul is of Indian heritage, and the book, set in Trinidad, focuses on the lives of an extended clan, and wider society, of expatriate Indians, the principal of whom being (of course) the titular Mr. Biswas. His full name is Mohun Biswas; however, right from the start, the writer gives him this rather unusual address whenever he is mentioned outside direct speech. Curious?

Not really. This emphasis on his name is part of the point of the book. Living sporadically, from a fairly young age, with relatives and then in-laws, Mr. Biswas's name is part of his identity and the way the writer lifts him up above the hordes (and there are hordes) of other family members living in the same house. It is this desire to be different, not to be more successful or richer, just to live his own life, which leads him to ruffle feathers and make plenty of mistakes in his quest for the ultimate in achievements: a house of his own.

I live in a country where home ownership is seen as a right - and where increasing house prices and interest rates are viewed as unfair and (the most negative of adjectives) 'unaustralian'. However, in WW2-era Trinidad, just having a roof over your head (even if it is shared with a few other families) is seen as a luxury. Mr. Biswas, however, cannot be content with residing in a cacophony of chanting, impromptu school lessons and squawking in-laws; at every opportunity, he attempts, in the face of derision and incredulity from both his relatives and his own wife, to build or buy himself a house: a house of his own.

From the first page we know that Mr. Biswas is, paradoxically, a success story and a tragedy. He will die young, but in a house of his own. The house is shoddy and rickety, but it is his. He has put his ambitions ahead of his family interests, but he is master of his own abode. At the end of the book, there is a tinge of sadness, regret, in contrast with the feelings of pride and success Mr. Biswas radiates in the prelude to his life story. The reader, at the end of 600+ pages of wonderfully-told family drama, is left to answer the question posed by the writer: was Mr. Biswas' life worth it? I won't answer that, but I can say that the book certainly was...

*****

One event I recall from Mr. Biswas' slow social ascent was an invitation to a writers' group where he was asked to read something he'd written. After toiling for a while, he had something, but he couldn't find an ending. Having read plenty of post-modernist literature, however, he didn't see that being a problem...

...which brings me neatly to the second part of my trawl through Katherine Mansfield's Collected Stories. Following on from reading her earliest works, I worked my way through Bliss and Other Stories and The Garden Party and Other Stories last week; to be perfectly honest, 300 pages of short stories, even in sporadic doses was a bit much for my constitution.

These two collections were, as Mansfield herself thought, much more developed than the earlier stories. Aside from the two title stories, I greatly enjoyed Prelude and At the Bay, two longer tales featuring the same Wellington family, and Je ne Parle pas Francais, a wonderfully moody story featuring an enigmatic Englishman, his long-suffering partner and a Parisian narrator who is everything a literary Parisian should be. Some of the twists in the writing in these collections were breathtaking: one particular example was Bliss where the palpable joie de vivre of the main character is frozen in a heartbeat by one simple act. Class tension, domestic drudgery, social roleplaying, repressed homosexuality... all in a handful of wonderful pages.

I suppose it's my own fault for reading the two collections one after the other, but it did become a bit of a chore towards the end. I found myself wanting to get it over and done with, and the pile of gleaming, unread books on my bookshelf caught my eye more than ever before. Still, Mansfield is not completely innocent in all this. I really do not want to read about anyone with 'weak nerves' for the rest of the year, and while stories about spinsters may be all well and good in moderation, they are as bad for you as any drug if you overdose on them.

I suppose the main problem with reading a collection of short stories is that yes, they are great to read - while you are reading them -, but when you are between stories, and you're not currently reading one, there is nothing to draw you back, nothing to tear you away from your i-Pod, your computer, your television. In short, there is little motivation to return to the book as you are, in effect, starting from the beginning.

Please don't think that I am criticising these collections (far from it; as short stories go, they are excellent). It's just that when people describe Katherine Mansfield as the inventor of the modern short story, I'm not sure whether it's meant as praise or blame. At any rate, the final part of the collection will have to wait for a good while; I'm off to immerse myself in a voluminous Victorian novel, and I won't be out for a week or so...

Review Post 9 - You don't have to be Irish

You may remember recently, dear reader, that I took you on a journey through space (well, the Kansai region of Japan anyway). Well, today's post is more of a journey through time instead, as I guide you (with the help of three books) through Ireland's recent history, from the mid-fifties up to a few years ago. It's OK, you can thank me later...

*****

We start in the 1950s with Heinrich Böll's Irisches Tagebuch (Irish Diary), a delightful collection of reflections and sketches covering his time travelling and living in Ireland. Böll has quickly become my favourite German writer, and his usual humorous, non-judgemental style works even better here in an informal setting than it does in his weightier (fiction) works. From a land far away, where people smoke anywhere and everywhere, pounds still have shillings, and footwear is a luxury, rather than a necessity (even in a country of incessant pouring rain), the German novelist brings forth the true character of the Emerald Isle.

The work successfully evokes an image of an Ireland of the past, and while the writer touches on the down side of Irish life, the overall effect is one of a gentle, admirable way of life. In many ways this book reminds me of the way Luciano de Crescenzo (in Thus Spake Bellavista) lifted the life of Naple's poor out of the gutter and gave it a sort of nobility in its (involuntary?) rejection of modern business norms. The anecdotes of the 'bona-fide travellers' who cycle from their village to another at least three miles away (passing each other in the process), in order to circumvent the Sunday drinking laws; the traffic policeman who, after a long meandering conversation, asks for a driver's licence and is not at all bothered that the driver hasn't got it; travelling from Dublin to the West of Ireland on the promise of paying at some later date: all these tales are told with a wry humour which emphasises the affection the writer has for the country, and people, he is describing.

The darker side is, as mentioned, touched upon, but this too is done in an almost poetic manner. Böll and his family, out for a weekend walk, stumble upon a ghost village, deserted and left to decay in the countryside. This collection of houses, roads and even a church, left behind by those who fled for pastures more fertile during the potato blight epidemic and the ensuing famine, leaves the family spellbound and dumbfounded. The locals hadn't even found the spectacle worth mentioning; after all, it was just one of thousands dotted all over Erin's fair land...

*****

Let's move on to the 70s and 80s now, as we take a look at life through the eyes of one of Roddy Doyle's most impressive inventions, Paula Spencer. In my post on The Van, I mentioned that the slightly misogynistic view marred my enjoyment of the book: well, perhaps Roddy realised this himself. In the wonderful The Woman who Walked into Doors, Doyle creates a Dublin housewife, a prisoner of the soul-crushing suburban poverty of a poor country - and a victim of brutal abuse.

Against a background of boom and bust, and the faded dreams of the Irish in a post-decimal, IRA-present, heavy-drinking (and smoking) era, Paula tells us how she met Charlo Spencer, how she fell in love (violently) and how she was knocked off her feet (metaphorically and then literally). Still in love with her husband, despite the frequent beatings, she drowns herself in drink, denying the abuse and making it through her days as best she can, trying (and failing) to bring up her four children properly. From the very start, we know that Charlo is dead, shot by the police at the scene of a violent crime - and we know that Paula is well rid of him.

The first three-quarters of the book are absorbing and thought provoking: Paula is brutally candid about what she is, what she was and what she is unlikely to become. And then... And then Doyle lets loose. Where in the first part of the book the abuse is mainly hinted at, reported, suggested, all at once the reader is confronted with a sickening train of events, a constant barrage of attacks which leave us feeling almost as shell-shocked as Paula herself. The assaults pass by, one after the other, no end in sight... It is brilliant writing. It is horrible writing.

At the end of it all, Paula is free, but shattered. Her life is in tatters, but she has the support of her family. Her children are scarred but (mostly) still functional. We are left wondering what has become of Paula and her family...

*****

For about six hours anyway! I've had a copy of Paula Spencer, the sequel to The Woman who Walked into Doors, for a fair while now, and this seemed like the perfect time to read it. We rejoin Paula about a decade later: the Celtic Tiger has roared, and panic-stricken emigration has now turned into mass European and African immigration; the Pound, whether decimal or not, has disappeared over the Irish Sea, replaced by the Euro; and cigarettes have finally become a social stigma with smoking banned in pubs and restaurants.

Paula has been sober for around a year when we meet her again, and she is slowly getting herself back into a 'normal' way of life. Her four children are now grown up: baby Jack is sixteen and working hard at school; Nicola, the eldest child, is a mother herself (and just as much to Paula as to her own kids); Jon Paul has returned from his drug-induced absence, a calm example of how to survive life after addiction. And Leanne? Well, it was too much to expect four well-adjusted children to emerge from the wreckage of Paula and Charlo's marriage...

Paula Spencer is actually less about Paula herself and more about the effect her marriage and her alcoholism have had on the people around her, especially her children. Emerging from decades of drunken numbness, she is trying to mend the ties strained by her neglect, mostly succeeding but, in Leanne's case especially, occasionally unable to make things right. In Jon Paul, she has a picture of what you need to do to avoid temptation, but it is hard: very hard.

Although it's a good read, the sequel does not have the kick of the original. There's no defining purpose to the novel, no scenes of physical abuse (or even the eventual disintegration of a family as described in Paddy Clarke... ). I kept thinking that there was a twist around the corner, that Jack could not be as well adjusted as he appeared, that Paula's various ailments were concealing something more serious. It never appeared.

Still, a third installment of Paula's life would not come amiss. Perhaps a post-GFC story chronicling Ireland's downturn and the wave of emigration back to Eastern Europe of the workers drawn by the Irish success story. Roddy Doyle has already written The Barrytown Trilogy and the Henry Smart trilogy, so you never know. I wonder what Ireland's future will bring... Sorry, my trip through time isn't going any further today; you'll just have to imagine it for yourselves.

Review Post 8 - We Are Family

As mentioned in an earlier post, Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's most famous work, The Makioka Sisters, is set in the Kansai or Kinki region of Japan, the area I lived in for three years around a decade ago. Reading books set in places you know is always a particular pleasure, and this is especially true when the book is one you've wanted to read for a good while.

The story, as you would expect from the English title (the Japanese title translates as a light shower of snow...), relates a few years around the start of World War II in the lives of the Makioka sisters, four scions of a famous Osaka family. Although there are four sisters, the eldest, Tsuruko, is slightly distant from her sisters, and the book focuses on the trials and tribulations of the younger three sisters. Sachiko, married to the admirable Teinosuke, is the focal point. She spends her time attempting to arrange a marriage for the traditional (and shy) Yukiko and worrying about the headstrong, westernised baby of the family, Taeko.

The book is a work of many contrasts. The familiar East-West, Kanto-Kansai rivalries appear, with life in the new capital, Tokyo, contrasted with life in the Kyoto-Osaka-Kobe conurbation. Tsuruko's symbolic distance from her sisters is emphasised by her husband's move to the capital, deserting the stuffy old Osaka family seat. There is also a contrast between the epic struggle to find a husband for the incredibly shy Yukiko and the way Katharina Kyrilenko, a Russian emigre living in Japan, sets off for England by herself and is married within months.

The differences between the Japanese way of life and that of the foreigners the Makiokas come into contact with are outlined subtly by Tanizaki, and the relationships are much less black and white than is sometimes the case. Sachiko often compares her family to the German neighbours, the Stolz family, and Taeko's acquaintances, the white Russian Kyrilenkos. While their habits may occasionally seem strange, the comparisons are not always made to the good of the Osaka natives. When it comes to Japanese who have returned from extended trips abroad, however, there is a strong sense of scepticism and prejudice...

This year, I have been influenced in my reading approach by the studies I am doing for my master's degree, Intercultural Communication in this semester, and it is fascinating to read The Makioka Sisters in this light. The picture sketched in the book of elaborate nuptial rituals and the importance of family connections in any possible relationship ties in neatly with the reading I have been doing on Collectivist cultures. I also read each spoken exchange with literal and pragmatic meaning firmly in mind: there were many very interesting exchanges from a socio-linguistic point of view!

It's a very good book, the closest thing I've read so far in Japanese literature to the long Victorian pot-boilers I love, but that's not to say that I was totally convinced. One of the blurbs on the cover claimed that Tanizaki was the greatest Japanese author of the twentieth century, but I would not go that far on the basis of this book. I found the style a little too repetitive on occasion, a string of events recounted one after the other with little variation of pace and tone. Compared to some of the Mishima, for example, that I've read over the past year or so, it all seemed a little dry at times.

Of course, as always with foreign novels in translation, it may not be the author's fault. There were a plethora of typos in my version (always annoying), and I'm not convinced that the translation was all it could have been. I'm not sure when the translation dates from, but I doubt it is that recent; one clue for this was a translator's footnote to explain a Japanese delicacy - sushi...

Those slight quibbles aside though, The Makioka Sisters is well worth reading. Get your sukiyaki ready, pour out some sake and sit down and relax with a very enjoyable novel. As for Tanizaki's greatness, however, I'll reserve judgement until I've read some more of his novels. Now, where's that Akashi-Yaki got to?

Review Post 7 - Naughty and Nice

February began with the second of the Barchester Chronicles, the wonderful Barchester Towers. The story takes up life in Barchester a few years after the events of The Warden, where the old Bishop is on his deathbed, peacefully passing away just too soon for his son, the ever-formidable Archdeacon Grantly, to get political approval to replace him. A new bishop is appointed, but it soon becomes clear that despite the official decision, there are several people in Barchester who believe themselves to be top dog...

Don't be fooled into thinking that Trollope's stories are too clerical to be entertaining; the Barchester Chronicles are less about religion and the church than they are about petty fighting, internecine warfare and a love of tribal conflict. The invasion of Barchester by the Londoners who now hold the palace represents the incursion of industrialisation and progress into England's peaceful, bucolic heartlands. Mr. Harding's tribulations with The Jupiter in The Warden were merely the first warning shots of the coming struggle: this is the real thing.

Dr. Proudie is the Bishop of Barchester by appointment; Obadiah Slope, his personal chaplain, has the run of the diocese and enough intelligence to make himself pre-eminent in Barchester; Archdeacon Grantly virtually did the job himself during the final years of his father's life and sees no reason why he should not continue to do so; and Mrs. Proudie... well, you'll need to read the book to see how and why this Amazon hopes to take the power for herself!

These petty wars with their mini-Napoleons are beautifully characterised by a writer who had an unerring eye for the beautiful and absurd in the everyday. One of the best scenes in the book is the confrontation at the palace where, for the first time, the contenders for the real power of the Bishopric stand arrayed, each intending to be unrivalled in Barchester, scrutinising the other claimants with an experienced eye and preparing to dive headlong into battle. Of course, also present, standing quietly to one side, is Mr. Harding, whose readmittance to the post of warden is the field upon which the battle is to be fought. Four proud, worldly gladiators - and a modest, sincere, religious man (who, ironically, fades into insignificance whenever his matters are discussed).

Throw in a family of clerical absentees, whose return to Barchester from Italy stirs up affairs in the cathedral town, a wealthy young widow, wooed by three suitors from all the different camps and a couple of deaths and marriages, and you have a wonderful 500 pages of Victorian literary magic, perfect for a rainy day curled up on your favourite armchair. How does it end? Well, I'm sure you'll know after about 100 pages, but that really isn't the point: the writer himself hints at certain points what will and will not happen - and, in some cases, reassures the reader that certain feared events will not come to pass. It's not the destination, but the journey which is the attraction, and I, for one, am happy to go along for the ride. Next stop: Doctor Thorne at the start of March ;)

*****

I mentioned above Trollope's intrusion into his novels as a narrator, albeit an occasional, benevolent and good-humoured one, and Milan Kundera also likes to put himself into his works. However the emigre Czech writer's style is very, very different. Laughable Loves, a collection of (longish) short stories about love, lust and the games consenting adults play, is one of his earlier works; however, in some ways, it is more reminiscent of later works (Immortality, The Unbearable Lightness of Being) than his debut novel, The Joke.

The seven stories relate the interactions in relationships between men and women in post-invasion Czechoslovakia, a place of great cynicism and little hope if one goes by the atmosphere of the book. Infidelity is rife, despite the nosiness of the neighbours, and there seems to be a curious disregard for the notion of staying faithful. It's a very male-centred universe, with an expectation that it is simply part of a man's daily life to pursue, and conquer (if desired), any attractive woman one comes across. This is not to say that the women are the victims; they are quite prepared to use their charms as currency to find an easier life for themselves.

It all sounds a little pessimistic and unappealing (and no wonder given the external context), but the stories are intriguing, a fascinating insight into the battle of the sexes - which is just as much mental as it is physical. The reason for this is Kundera's detached, quasi-scientific style of writing, which treats his characters almost like specimens in a laboratory. The great skill in his stories lies in his ability to take his subjects, drop them into a setting, add a catalyst (in the form of an attractive woman, a weekend out of the city or a political investigation) and watch them continue in their lives as best they can.

This scientific approach comes across especially well in the style he adopts in discussing relationships. In some of the stories, short, alternating chapters tell the reader the thoughts of the two protagonists: we sit in the stark living room or the hotel restaurant, flitting from the mind of the man to that of the woman (and back again). Kundera has been criticised for the lack of development of his characters, with some saying that they are not characters at all, merely vehicles for Kundera to get his ideas across. This may be true; it does not, however, detract from the writing.

Two very, very different books. Trollope makes you laugh and allows you to while away many a pleasant hour - in your study pretending to work with a glass of port in hand. Kundera makes you think; you pause to reflect and stare out of the window as the long train journey you're on takes you through endless bleak, frosty plains. Very, very different ways to spend your time: but both enjoyable...

There's nothing wrong with being KinKi

Let me take you, dear reader, on a journey through my Japan. We'll begin seated on a Shinkaisoku (Limited Express) train standing ready at the main Japan Rail (JR) station of Himeji, a large city in Western Japan. If you stretch your head out of the window, you may just be able to catch a glimpse of the majestic Himeji castle towering above the city...

Alas, it's time to head off now. The train moves quickly through outskirts and small towns, making a brief stop at the city of Kakogawa, with its new raised station, before continuing on its way eastwards. We hurtle through some more suburbs (Tsuchiyama, Uozumi, Nishi-Akashi), and we come to a smooth halt at Akashi station (my Japanese hometown and birthplace of the famous Akashi-Yaki style of Tako-Yaki).

As we bid a fond farewell to Akashi, the express calmly rolls out of the station. To your right, you can see the impressive bridge linking Akashi to Awaji Island (where, if legend is to be believed, Momo-Taro defeated the ogre), a shimmering mirage of concrete and steel in the summer sky. But on we must go, and on we do go, through Hyogo, the small (and slightly dull) prefectural capital, stopping briefly at Kobe station, near the harbour, the Port Tower and the Oriental Hotel (and, formerly, the Sizzler restaurant with the best view ever), before stopping at Sannomiya station, Kobe's main transport hub. If you look to your left, you can see Mount Rokko rising beyond the city's high rises (Arima hot springs may be a little too far away to see from here...).

On we go. The train now hurtles on past Kobe's inner suburbs, streaking past Ashiya (home of the rich and the birthplace of a certain writer I may have mentioned once or twice...) bringing us gradually out of Hyogo Prefecture and into Osaka (we have crossed the river!). Having arrived at Umeda station in Osaka, it's time to leave the train, but our journey has not ended, oh no: there's many a mile to go before we sleep. Follow me now as I guide you through the labyrinthine shopping area concealed beneath the station (keep close; you wouldn't want to get lost down here...), for we must change train lines for our next destination.

And now we board another train, just in time; the Tokkyu express train is about to leave. Feel free to gaze in wonder at the view from your windows: in Osaka, Blade Runner was just a documentary. Eventually, the sea of high rises and randomly scattered wooden remnants recedes into the distance, and we are able to enjoy a little greenery before the train drags us back into the urban sprawl of Kyoto. Of course, I hear you cry. Kiyomizu-Dera, Kinkaku-Ji, Sanjusangen-Do, Heian-Jingu...

Sadly, we have no time for sightseeing - onward and upward. The train now rattles merrily along through small towns and countless rice fields. From the window, you may be able to spot several mounds in the distance (ancient royal burial mounds, no less). And here we are at our destination: Nara - the first (semi-)permanent capital of Japan. Feel free to wander through the temple grounds, feed the tame deer that roam the streets and marvel at Todai-Ji's Daibutsu. Our journey is done.

The point? This is my Japan, the region where I spent three years of my life a decade ago. It is also the setting for Jun'ichiro Tanizaki's The Makioka Sisters.

Consider this an introduction...

Review Post 6 - It's All David Mitchell's Fault...

It's all David Mitchell's fault. Well, him and Murakami. You see, as well as being a part-time blogger, full-time worker, occasional student and stressed out father, I harbour ambitions of one day actually getting a little book out there myself (first, wobbly baby steps towards that goal can be seen here). But then, whenever I start thinking that I might be able to knock off something half-decent, something other people may like to spend their time casting an eye over, I read one of David Mitchell's books and scream out, "Crap, that's exactly the kind of book I want to write!!!". Which probably explains why nobody wants to sit next to me on the train in the morning.

But I digress. What I actually want to do today is have a little chat about Mitchell's debut novel Ghostwritten, a frankly brilliant piece of work (his debut novel too! I hate him). There are definite tinges of Murakami in this book, quite apart from the parts set in Japan. The foregrounding of the issue of the pace of progress, the highlighting of the extraordinary in the ordinary, the jazz... All these things leave the reader thinking that Mr. Mitchell has a fair few of Haruki's novels tucked away somewhere. However, Ghostwritten takes some of these aspects and runs off into the distance with them, often in several directions at once.

The book is divided into nine parts which would, in most books, be wholly unrelated. Starting in Okinawa and gradually winding its way westward around the world, the book explores how technology and consumerism have changed our world both for better and for worse. While we are now able to travel and expand our cultural horizons, some are also free to use this privilege to attack those they disapprove of or take advantage of the riches available.

One of the most prominent ideas set out is that of inter-connectedness and the way we are all linked to what happens on Earth. Just as a butterfly's wings may cause a typhoon on the other side of the world, tiny, seemingly unimportant actions can have enormous implications on humanity. Can saving a woman from being run over by a taxi lead to the end of the world? Quite possibly... The writer lays out the disparate events unfolding with a unifying plot in mind, forcing both the characters and reader to consider carefully what they believe in: are we buffeted by the winds of chance or manipulated by the hand of destiny?

One of the things I admire about Mitchell is an ability to tightly plot his books, despite an apparent lack of connections. Throughout Ghostwritten, there are a wealth of both anaphoric and cataphoric references as people, places, events, books and songs pop up repeatedly, both after and before our first sight of them. Young Satoru from the Tokyo section is later mentioned on the radio show in the Night Train section as a successful jazz musician; Mo Muntevary appears at least three times in different sections (twice before we know who she is!). For the die-hard Mitchell fans, there are also some exophoric references as we are told of information which will occur in some of his other books. Ingenious (still hate him).

Mitchell also writes about the inexorable rise, or rather spread, of consumerism and progress, and our attempts to either run away from it or create our own way of dealing with it. Satoru hides from the bustling Tokyo outside by listening to the jazz records in his shop; Caspar and Sherri are wandering nomads, seekers of civilisations lost (with huge backpacks and water purification tablets); Quasar finds his sanctuary in simply abdicating individual responsibility for his actions and turning his mind, and possessions, over to a cult. This advancement has, you see, come at a cost - a loss of connection with family and cultural roots. It is no coincidence that the majority of the characters (like an increasing number of people today) have uncertain, heterogeneous backgrounds. This contributes to the feeling of unease which they live with and which forces them to seek new connections.

There are differences in the extent to which the world has changed within the nine scenes. In the Asian sections, the world has become so crowded that it is only inside your own head that you can map out a little piece of the universe for you alone. On Clear Island, off Ireland's Atlantic Coast, life is still relatively simple and unchanged, yet even here (in the shape of Mo's pursuers) progress is slowly catching up.

Of course, by the end of the book, with the emergence of the Zookeeper, Mitchell shows us where his world of infinite interconnections is heading. Artificial Intelligence, designed to protect us (or, at least, those of us with the right skin colour) turns out to be more intelligent than those who created it. As mankind spreads over the planet, destroying and devouring (reminiscent of Agent Smith's description of humanity as a 'virus' in The Matrix), it becomes more and more difficult to save us from ourselves. We are left with a warning of the consequences of mankind's technological achievements outstripping its capacity to ethically consider whether they really are achievements.

Ghostwritten is brilliant. David Mitchell has created a stunning, thought-provoking piece of work. And for that, as you already know, I hate his guts.