BOOKS 2011: April
I'm not sure if it is premature to post this now, as I have a book teetering on the edge of “being finished today” and “being finished tomorrow.” My competitive spirit wants to give it a go, thus making April my most successful book-reading month; on the other hand I'm drinking copious amounts of real ale this afternoon, for which I need to make myself presentable, and plan on watching United before I do that. Who stresses this much about books anyway?
1. Fire from Heaven - Mary Renault
(400 pages)
A few years ago I read the first book of another Alexander the Great trilogy. I finished it, but never bothered tracking down the subsequent two, because its portrayal of Alexander's relationship with Hephaistion irritated me. The book, while rolling in his hetero trysts like a dog in shit, baulked at the thought of approaching his relations with men in the same manner. It was hinted at, but in such a diffident fashion that its complete excision would have been less offensive. Why bother writing a fictional series about Alexander if you cannot bring yourself to face certain aspects of his - of the Greeks'! - culture? Given that Hephaistion was arguably the most important person in his life, drawing attention away from their relationship is damaging to the story's truth. I didn't have to worry about that with this book. There were problems with it: I found it slow in places, and some of the political and military parts flew right over my head. (I enjoy military history only in the sense of the individuals experiencing it; people interest me far more than tactics.) Alexander is such an individual worthy of being enjoyed. By turns brutal and affectionate, base and brilliant, he's a slippery character in history, and one I find compelling - an opinion unfashionable in some circles. Renault clearly feels the same. It is arguable that Alexander is a little too excellent at everything, but whereas I'd ordinarily be the first to criticise this, I find myself more reticent here. Perhaps it is because most people do not have "the Great" succeeding their name. In spite of these problems I still enjoyed this as a ripping yarn, and unlike the previous trilogy shall be galloping happily along into the next book.
2. Living Dolls: The Return of Sexism - Natasha Walter
(288 pages)
My latest foray into feminist non-fiction proves a combination of both the previous I have read, Delusions of Gender and Female Chauvinist Pigs, dealing with both the recent "dollification" of women and the insistence on biological determinism to explain away every little difference between men and women. I did not, however, enjoy this as much as the other two books. It is not a bad book and I liked and will probably read it again one day, but something held me back here. It is certainly not lacking intellectually. I think the reason I did not like it so much as the other two books is a combination of two factors. Firstly, the aforementioned combination of two subject matters dealt with separately in the other books may have led to a want of thoroughness previously experienced. Secondly, it was simply not as humorous as the other books. This I think led to my not enjoying it so much; without the tongue-in-cheek bitchiness of the others, it was easier to appreciate the seriousness and frank depressingness of the subject. In a way this is necessary, but it does make for significantly more sombre reading. That said, I did appreciate this book's focus on UK culture which had been (for obvious reasons) lacking in the other books. In a way this only heightened the sense of misery, because I could relate much more readily to its references. It is not so easy to dismiss when you know exactly the kind of people or media or culture she is referring to because you experience it every day. The final chapter was refreshing in that it focuses on women and groups who aren't just going along with the current and are doing something about it, giving a much-needed injection of positivity. That said, a sombre though very good little book.
3. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
(272 pages)
A lovely, understated, quiet sort of a novel. One of those stories that teaches you something important at the end of it, that makes you look carefully at your own life and perhaps reexamine things. The gentle tragedy and sadness could have quite easily become melodramatic and garment-rending, but never does, as such feeling much more real. I found myself, for all his foibles and stiff reticence, really caring for Stevens. A charming, thoughtful book.
4. The Persian Boy - Mary Renault
(432 pages)
These books are having such an odd effect on me. I don't think they're becoming favourites, but I'm so compelled by them. At the end of this one I felt something I've not felt in a long time. I actually felt fannish. And it was that frustrating, exciting sort of fannishness that exerts its effect through its sheer impossibility, its impotence. I ended up knocking it on the head by buying a load more Renault books and also a couple of non-fictions on Alexander the Great. But I'm not sure that will cut it. What I got from this book that I've not got from anything since the Star Trek movie was shippiness. And it's such a delightful feeling! I found myself yearning every time Alexander and Hephaistion were not together, or feeling ludicrously jealous when the former's attentions were on Bagoas (which is frankly a lot.) There's a bit in the book where Bagoas hears the story of Sisygambis mistaking Hephaistion for Alexander, and upon hearing what Alexander's answer to this was says his "heart sighed" and that describes exactly as those parts of book felt to me. I've not met a book that's made my toes curl with pleasure for a long while. It actually put me in mind of when I first read the fanfic Irresistible Poison and oh, I cringe now, but there's a little part of me that will always love it because I remember how I felt when I read it that first time. What made this book particularly poignant, also, was knowing how it was going to end (I know at least that much history), and the closer it got to the end the colder I became. The last hundred pages or so were torture, but I couldn't stop reading, not until it finally happened. I kind of don't want to read the final part because I shall miss them too much. It's been a long time (that phrase again) since I fell in love with characters so much - and longer since they were real people!
5. The Whales Companion: The Whale in Legend, Art and Literature - Ariana Klepec
(272 pages)
This book feels something of a cheat, seeing as it is mostly art fragmented by extracts from journals and myth and literature. Still, there was plenty to read so I shall include it on my list. A really beautiful book. Nothing special to read as such - as I said, it's only extracts so detail is never quite attained -, but utterly beautiful, sumptuous even. I wouldn't read it in a go like I did, but in bits here and there, and take time to look at the glorious art and appreciate the layout. A gorgeous volume for a bookshelf.
6. A Week in December - Sebastian Faulks
(352 pages)
I never got into this. I felt like Faulks had taken too many topics - religion, terrorism, bankers, reality TV, drugs, mental illness, multiculturalism, the internet, etc. -, and as such never did justice to any of them. I found the cast of characters too sprawling, too stereotypical and largely unengaging. There was a point towards the end that the tension began to rachet upwards, where I thought perhaps the read had been worth it, but it petered out into a disappointing (and embarrassingly unrealistic) whimper. The speeches made by various characters at different points in the book were ridiculous - people don't talk like that, certainly never off the cuff -, and I felt I was being lectured. On top of that, Faulks - and some of the reviews on the back of the book, for that matter -, clearly think that this is a contemporary novel, a novel for our times. If that is the case, why the coyness towards brands? Why make up a Starbucks equivalent when you can just say Starbucks? Why repeatedly mention - and this was so cutesy I ground my teeth to splinters - "Britain's favourite newsagents" (or words to that affect: I can't be bothered digging through to find the exact phrase) when you can just say "W H Smith"? Not a good book.
7. The Family That Couldn't Sleep: Unravelling a Venetian Medical Mystery - D.T. Max
(336 pages)
I was too young to appreciate the mad cow crisis when it happened, but I am old enough to recall it, old enough to remember my best friend turning down oxtail soup at my house because her dad had told her not to eat beef (her loss). Years later I'm only just beginning to learn how serious it was, and moreover how interesting the prion theory of disease is. (I pronounce it pry-on, like all good Britons.) Since then I have visited neurohistology labs with out-of-bounds rooms dedicated to CJD diagnosis and research, and occasionally have received suspected cases into my own workplace which have to be treated with the utmost care before referring to a specialised Edinburgh lab, so indestructible are these bizarre little misshapen proteins. So it was with relish I clicked the "Add to Basket" button on Amazon.co.uk. That said, this book did not enthral me as much as it could have. It could have been more scientifically thorough - but then again, perhaps that is the point. We know next to nothing about prions and prion disease, and our usual cures are hopelessly inefficient in the face of them. In spite of feeling a little let down I still enjoyed this book. It put into perspective the size of the bullet we dodged with BSE, the almost-luck we had in that it hit a country with a population with genotypes primed against this sort of disease first, and the sheer awfulness of the illnesses these degenerate proteins cause. The keystone story of the Venetian family suffering from fatal familial insomnia, an almost unique genetic, autosomal dominant prion disease, is in danger of becoming sentimental (perhaps my least favourite literary device in this genre) but manages to avoid it by the skin of its teeth. There is something both frustrating and intriguing about this book, in that it ends with what is essentially a big shrug of the shoulders because we know little about these diseases, and can do next to nothing to help their victims. Pharmaceutical companies are reluctant to put effort into helping those facing an early, awful, lingering death in FFI - and there is no satisfaction in sneering about "big pharma" in this case, because you can kind of sympathise: just one hundred people in the world have the fatal PRNP gene mutation, and it costs up to a billion dollars to make an entirely new drug from scratch. Their only hope is that research into other, more well-known prion diseases (BSE/CJD), and protein-related illness such as Alzheimer's, will throw up something that could help them. A sad ending for a sad book.
8. A Single Swallow: Following an Epic Journey from South Africa to South Wales - Horatio Clare
(336 pages)
I picked up this book from the natural history section in the library, but it was misfiled. This is travel writing. The sections about swallows are mere paragraphs, as fleeting as the birds and Clare's glimpses of them themselves. That said, misfiled or not, I still really enjoyed this book. Elegant and sensuous, this is the sort of book that makes you want to drop whatever you are doing and go somewhere. I read very little travel writing but I suppose that is what it is supposed to do. There are few hard facts in this book, but you are nevertheless left with an impression of the countries that the author travels through, and his enthusiasm for them. A saw my first swallows this last weekend - a mere handful, creamy-chested and blood-throated, their streaming tails making broken crosses of them -, and turned to my boyfriend to tell him how swifts never land. He didn't believe me. It's a bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one: these sleek little arrows sleep and mate and die on the wing. After this book I think I shall look at them, the swallows and swifts and martins, as something more than an omen of spring. Lovely book.
9. The Forest of Hands and Teeth - Carrie Ryan
(336 pages)
I fancied something quick, light and hopefully gripping if not actually well-written, and felt like this would be a hit. I was wrong. It was... kind of crappy, actually. I didn't expect characters of John Irving-like depth, but this cast was so bland and uninspired I might have struggled to tell them apart were it not for, you know, their having names. All I know is that one smelled of sunshine. How the main character knows what the thermonuclear fusion of hydrogen smells like I can't tell you, but she informs you of the fact about twenty times, so it must be right. I'm not the biggest fan of zombies anyway but the walking dead of this novel were particularly terrible, the main character ending up on her back on at least three separate occasions while surrounded by a slavering hoard of the damn things, and they still failed to bite her - which I was hoping for, in the end. Even worse, a terrible, tacked-on romance, which is actually the crux of the whole damn novel and yet remains so unconvincing the major question in your head is not "what caused the zombie apocalypse" or "gosh, how will they ever get out of this one??" but "what the damn does she see in him???" because at no point does she both telling us why she has been in love with this person since forever, and at no point does he give any sign that he is the sort of person/human-shaped personality vortex that is worth falling in love with. (Or why she, a fellow vortex, is worth falling in love with by not one but two boys. Oh forced love triangles, how I hate you.) The relationship does go off in a direction that is unusual and pretty interesting for a book like this, but by that point I was utterly failing to care. Other than that every plot twist is a boring derivative with nothing new to say, every character a bland stereotype (if lucky), and every line of dialogue uttered a million times before in cliché. Oh, and there's a fucking sombre, lisping orphan and a plucky little dog that saves the day. Someone shoot me. I'm terminally uninspired and I could have shit out a better novel. It's still not as bad as Twilight, though.
10. Funeral Games - Mary Renault
(228 pages)
I wasn't expecting to enjoy this book much, given Alexander's death at the end of the second book. (Oh, it's history, people. While we're at it the Titanic sank.) So it came as a pleasant surprise when I did manage to really like it. I did miss Alexander (and Hephaistion, while we're at it) painfully, as I had come to love them, but that did not detract from the fact that the story was exciting and well written. What I did enjoy especially was the strong presence of powerful female characters. The previous book in the trilogy had (understandably) lacked this element, so it was with great joy I welcomed back the ambitious and arrogant Olympias. I also really enjoyed a new character, Eurydike. In many ways this is a book about the women of Alexander's time; stifled in their chauvinistic cultures, they have to bend their ambitious energies where they can, be it through their sons and grandsons, like Roxane and Olympias do, or by using their husbands as mouthpieces, as Eurydike does. The plots involving Ptolemy, Kassandros and Perdikkas seem mere side stories next to the machinations of the women, the showdown between Eurydike and Olympias an almost Lord of the Rings-esque climax. (It comes of no surprise to learn that Renault had Tolkien as a professor at Oxford. Apparently she was one of his favourites.) At first glance a bit of a strange way to end a trilogy by having its main man dead before even the beginning of the book, it proves itself necessary, and more importantly a great story in its own right.
11. Cosmos - Carl Sagan
(365 pages)
I've recently procured a handful of astronomy books, two of which are Wonders of the Solar System and Wonders of the Universe based on Brian Cox's series of the same name. However, before reading those I knew I had to go back to the beginning and start at this book, a classic of science non-fiction in the eyes of many including Brian Cox. (At one pointing during Universe he holds up his own copy of the book, that is so identical to the second hand copy I bought that for a moment I wondered for a moment if he uses Amazon Marketplace, too.) I've got to say, I wish I'd liked this more than I did. Sagan has a wonderful way with words and a remarkable aptitude for explaining very difficult concepts so that, for a minute, you too can feel like you understand physics, but ultimately I felt a little let down. I think part of the reason for that is that this book is rather dated. Whereas most of the concepts are still relevent to this day, the pictures (and there are thousands of these) do cast a certain age on the book. Another frustration involving these same pictures were their lack of order: at points, a diagram or photograph or painting would crop up that had absolutely no relevence to the text it was linked with, and it was only several pages further on that you came across what it referred to. I stopped looking at them eventually, unless they were particularly beautiful. Moreover, I'm not sure I appreciated the forays into human (and, for some reason, whale) intelligence, or musings on how we are killing ourselves with climate change and nuclear weapons, or history. I kind of just wanted straightforward (ha) astrophysics, and insofar as I understood the need to discuss these things, wished it had been done elsewhere. I wanted to be caught up in wonder, which is much harder to do when someone is telling you aliens won't have anything to do with us because we're too busy behaving like animals and commiting genocide. Perhaps I'm lacking in appreciation because I have not seen the television series. Whatever it is, I actually feel really bad about not enjoying this book as much as I feel I ought to have, which is a silly feeling but there you go. Sorry :(
12. Alias Grace - Margaret Atwood
(480 pages)
Margaret Atwood is one of those authors I've vowed to read more of. I've read just two of her other novels (Oryx and Crake/ last year, and The Handmade's Tale when I was seventeen or so), and I don't really understand why it is so few because on the occasions I have I have found her writing luscious, but never inclining to purple, and the sheer breadth of subjects she pursues appeals to me. It took me a while to become immersed in Alias Grace, but when I did I found it irresistible. It's not my favourite book I've read this year - I didn't love it -, but it has that addictive, engaging quality that a really good author can provoke even if you yourself are not terribly interested in the subject. I did appreciate the ambiguity of the story: Atwood never tries to accomplish anything forensic, she leaves the question of Grace Marks' guilt to the reader, should the reader wish to answer. What she - and I - is more interested in is the reactions of Grace's contemporaries, who base their own assessment of her guilt on their own predispositions on how a woman should behave - is she a witless girl, a terrified maiden, or a brutal and immoral temptress? As I said before, I did not fall in love with it, for personal taste reasons, but I am pleased I read it, if only because it has reminded me I need to Read More Atwood.
13. The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us From Violence - Gavin de Becker
(352 pages)
This is one of the most useful books I have ever read. I've heard about it several times before - on message boards, from friends -, but only just picked it up now, which is a shame because I wish I'd read it sooner. Not because I've experienced any particular violence in the intervening years (I'm lucky), but because there is a positive, empowering message in this book that violence never “just happens”, and can be predicted, and there are things you can do that can lessen the chances of it happening to you. What particularly impressed me was de Becker's compassion and empathy with women, too often victims. Unlike so many men - and we've all met them - he fully appreciates why women live in a state of much higher alertness, and does not take this personally like so many men do. The stories in this book are compelling - it reads like a particularly good but unfortunately true thriller -, and the advice is good and something anyone can adopt into their everyday lives because it basically boils down to "listen to your instinct." This is the sort of book you want to press into the hands of everyone you know, especially the women, as there is a lesson for everyone. I found the advice for dealing with a "persistent" admirer especially interesting, but other people might find the workplace stuff more useful, if they are managers, and there are many out there who should read the chapter on domestic abuse. The perspective of the book is sunk deep into its American setting, and those of us living outside that sphere need to realise the fact (I worry far less about guns, for instance). Nevertheless its broader themes can be appreciated by anyone living in the sort of culture that has become detached from its base, self-preserving instincts. I said before that I wish I had read this sooner, but I can't deny that in my current situation - female, living alone -, I'm in a good place to read this book. But then I think anyone is, and highly recommend that you do so.
For the first time this year I also failed to read a book - not one, but two! Both library of course: I never fail to read something I have bought. The first was Setting Free the Bears by John Irving. I enjoy Irving's writing but I read thirty pages into this book and had to stop. There was nothing particularly that was stopping me, it wasn't bad or anything but I could not get myself engaged. Every page my brain protested, and eventually I just put it down and found another. Another occasion I might be able to read it, but I have returned it now knowing that time is not going to be soon. I have enough of my own books to read anyway (seventeen as I type!)
The second one is The Naked Man: A Study of the Male Body by Desmond Morris. I don't really know why I picked this one up, given it was always primed to irritate me, but I enjoy zoological perspectives of humans and hoped this one would stick to that. But no, immediately we have to go off into the “different spheres” of male and female skills. You know, where men are great at logic and technology and being confident, but that's all right because women can multitask and like babies! It puts me in mind of Captain Planet where I, as a child - and every child I knew - would watch and think “what the hell kind of superpower is 'love' anyway?” That's what empathy feels like: a really crappy superpower. No matter how many times you tell us it's the most powerful one, we still wish we'd been given the Fire or Water ring instead. Morris seems to have no problem telling us that if women were the dominant “species”, humans would have far fewer wars, but we'd also be far less advanced. Nevermind that this experiment has never been conducted in any society let alone humankind in general, we're assured of this. We're told that yes, women have made valuable contributions to science and technology, but for every one of them there are a hundred - a thousand! - men who have done the same. Hey, here's something to consider. You know who else that is true for, at least in the past millenia or so? Black people. Do black people inhabit a “different sphere” too, with their own special (but actually kind of lame) superpowers? Why suddenly so shy? Oh, is it because maybe, just maybe, it's not cool to say that sort of thing? That it is, perhaps, deeply and sickeningly racist? You think? But it's okay to say it about women? Because when we're talking about race, people - decently minded people - have no problem in agreeing that social, political and economic advantages or disadvantages have had a huge impact on that race's contribution to major advances, but when it's women we talk about, who throughout history have suffered these exact disadvantages, all of a sudden it's all in the brain. Well of course it is, because we've all seen toddlers in playgroups behaving in gender-stereotyped ways, and everyone knows toddlers have never been treated by their parents and other adults as a “girl” or “boy” ever. Never ever.
So I stopped reading the book.
Total books so far: 48
Total pages so far: 15,001
1. Fire from Heaven - Mary Renault
(400 pages)
A few years ago I read the first book of another Alexander the Great trilogy. I finished it, but never bothered tracking down the subsequent two, because its portrayal of Alexander's relationship with Hephaistion irritated me. The book, while rolling in his hetero trysts like a dog in shit, baulked at the thought of approaching his relations with men in the same manner. It was hinted at, but in such a diffident fashion that its complete excision would have been less offensive. Why bother writing a fictional series about Alexander if you cannot bring yourself to face certain aspects of his - of the Greeks'! - culture? Given that Hephaistion was arguably the most important person in his life, drawing attention away from their relationship is damaging to the story's truth. I didn't have to worry about that with this book. There were problems with it: I found it slow in places, and some of the political and military parts flew right over my head. (I enjoy military history only in the sense of the individuals experiencing it; people interest me far more than tactics.) Alexander is such an individual worthy of being enjoyed. By turns brutal and affectionate, base and brilliant, he's a slippery character in history, and one I find compelling - an opinion unfashionable in some circles. Renault clearly feels the same. It is arguable that Alexander is a little too excellent at everything, but whereas I'd ordinarily be the first to criticise this, I find myself more reticent here. Perhaps it is because most people do not have "the Great" succeeding their name. In spite of these problems I still enjoyed this as a ripping yarn, and unlike the previous trilogy shall be galloping happily along into the next book.
2. Living Dolls: The Return of Sexism - Natasha Walter
(288 pages)
My latest foray into feminist non-fiction proves a combination of both the previous I have read, Delusions of Gender and Female Chauvinist Pigs, dealing with both the recent "dollification" of women and the insistence on biological determinism to explain away every little difference between men and women. I did not, however, enjoy this as much as the other two books. It is not a bad book and I liked and will probably read it again one day, but something held me back here. It is certainly not lacking intellectually. I think the reason I did not like it so much as the other two books is a combination of two factors. Firstly, the aforementioned combination of two subject matters dealt with separately in the other books may have led to a want of thoroughness previously experienced. Secondly, it was simply not as humorous as the other books. This I think led to my not enjoying it so much; without the tongue-in-cheek bitchiness of the others, it was easier to appreciate the seriousness and frank depressingness of the subject. In a way this is necessary, but it does make for significantly more sombre reading. That said, I did appreciate this book's focus on UK culture which had been (for obvious reasons) lacking in the other books. In a way this only heightened the sense of misery, because I could relate much more readily to its references. It is not so easy to dismiss when you know exactly the kind of people or media or culture she is referring to because you experience it every day. The final chapter was refreshing in that it focuses on women and groups who aren't just going along with the current and are doing something about it, giving a much-needed injection of positivity. That said, a sombre though very good little book.
3. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
(272 pages)
A lovely, understated, quiet sort of a novel. One of those stories that teaches you something important at the end of it, that makes you look carefully at your own life and perhaps reexamine things. The gentle tragedy and sadness could have quite easily become melodramatic and garment-rending, but never does, as such feeling much more real. I found myself, for all his foibles and stiff reticence, really caring for Stevens. A charming, thoughtful book.
4. The Persian Boy - Mary Renault
(432 pages)
These books are having such an odd effect on me. I don't think they're becoming favourites, but I'm so compelled by them. At the end of this one I felt something I've not felt in a long time. I actually felt fannish. And it was that frustrating, exciting sort of fannishness that exerts its effect through its sheer impossibility, its impotence. I ended up knocking it on the head by buying a load more Renault books and also a couple of non-fictions on Alexander the Great. But I'm not sure that will cut it. What I got from this book that I've not got from anything since the Star Trek movie was shippiness. And it's such a delightful feeling! I found myself yearning every time Alexander and Hephaistion were not together, or feeling ludicrously jealous when the former's attentions were on Bagoas (which is frankly a lot.) There's a bit in the book where Bagoas hears the story of Sisygambis mistaking Hephaistion for Alexander, and upon hearing what Alexander's answer to this was says his "heart sighed" and that describes exactly as those parts of book felt to me. I've not met a book that's made my toes curl with pleasure for a long while. It actually put me in mind of when I first read the fanfic Irresistible Poison and oh, I cringe now, but there's a little part of me that will always love it because I remember how I felt when I read it that first time. What made this book particularly poignant, also, was knowing how it was going to end (I know at least that much history), and the closer it got to the end the colder I became. The last hundred pages or so were torture, but I couldn't stop reading, not until it finally happened. I kind of don't want to read the final part because I shall miss them too much. It's been a long time (that phrase again) since I fell in love with characters so much - and longer since they were real people!
5. The Whales Companion: The Whale in Legend, Art and Literature - Ariana Klepec
(272 pages)
This book feels something of a cheat, seeing as it is mostly art fragmented by extracts from journals and myth and literature. Still, there was plenty to read so I shall include it on my list. A really beautiful book. Nothing special to read as such - as I said, it's only extracts so detail is never quite attained -, but utterly beautiful, sumptuous even. I wouldn't read it in a go like I did, but in bits here and there, and take time to look at the glorious art and appreciate the layout. A gorgeous volume for a bookshelf.
6. A Week in December - Sebastian Faulks
(352 pages)
I never got into this. I felt like Faulks had taken too many topics - religion, terrorism, bankers, reality TV, drugs, mental illness, multiculturalism, the internet, etc. -, and as such never did justice to any of them. I found the cast of characters too sprawling, too stereotypical and largely unengaging. There was a point towards the end that the tension began to rachet upwards, where I thought perhaps the read had been worth it, but it petered out into a disappointing (and embarrassingly unrealistic) whimper. The speeches made by various characters at different points in the book were ridiculous - people don't talk like that, certainly never off the cuff -, and I felt I was being lectured. On top of that, Faulks - and some of the reviews on the back of the book, for that matter -, clearly think that this is a contemporary novel, a novel for our times. If that is the case, why the coyness towards brands? Why make up a Starbucks equivalent when you can just say Starbucks? Why repeatedly mention - and this was so cutesy I ground my teeth to splinters - "Britain's favourite newsagents" (or words to that affect: I can't be bothered digging through to find the exact phrase) when you can just say "W H Smith"? Not a good book.
7. The Family That Couldn't Sleep: Unravelling a Venetian Medical Mystery - D.T. Max
(336 pages)
I was too young to appreciate the mad cow crisis when it happened, but I am old enough to recall it, old enough to remember my best friend turning down oxtail soup at my house because her dad had told her not to eat beef (her loss). Years later I'm only just beginning to learn how serious it was, and moreover how interesting the prion theory of disease is. (I pronounce it pry-on, like all good Britons.) Since then I have visited neurohistology labs with out-of-bounds rooms dedicated to CJD diagnosis and research, and occasionally have received suspected cases into my own workplace which have to be treated with the utmost care before referring to a specialised Edinburgh lab, so indestructible are these bizarre little misshapen proteins. So it was with relish I clicked the "Add to Basket" button on Amazon.co.uk. That said, this book did not enthral me as much as it could have. It could have been more scientifically thorough - but then again, perhaps that is the point. We know next to nothing about prions and prion disease, and our usual cures are hopelessly inefficient in the face of them. In spite of feeling a little let down I still enjoyed this book. It put into perspective the size of the bullet we dodged with BSE, the almost-luck we had in that it hit a country with a population with genotypes primed against this sort of disease first, and the sheer awfulness of the illnesses these degenerate proteins cause. The keystone story of the Venetian family suffering from fatal familial insomnia, an almost unique genetic, autosomal dominant prion disease, is in danger of becoming sentimental (perhaps my least favourite literary device in this genre) but manages to avoid it by the skin of its teeth. There is something both frustrating and intriguing about this book, in that it ends with what is essentially a big shrug of the shoulders because we know little about these diseases, and can do next to nothing to help their victims. Pharmaceutical companies are reluctant to put effort into helping those facing an early, awful, lingering death in FFI - and there is no satisfaction in sneering about "big pharma" in this case, because you can kind of sympathise: just one hundred people in the world have the fatal PRNP gene mutation, and it costs up to a billion dollars to make an entirely new drug from scratch. Their only hope is that research into other, more well-known prion diseases (BSE/CJD), and protein-related illness such as Alzheimer's, will throw up something that could help them. A sad ending for a sad book.
8. A Single Swallow: Following an Epic Journey from South Africa to South Wales - Horatio Clare
(336 pages)
I picked up this book from the natural history section in the library, but it was misfiled. This is travel writing. The sections about swallows are mere paragraphs, as fleeting as the birds and Clare's glimpses of them themselves. That said, misfiled or not, I still really enjoyed this book. Elegant and sensuous, this is the sort of book that makes you want to drop whatever you are doing and go somewhere. I read very little travel writing but I suppose that is what it is supposed to do. There are few hard facts in this book, but you are nevertheless left with an impression of the countries that the author travels through, and his enthusiasm for them. A saw my first swallows this last weekend - a mere handful, creamy-chested and blood-throated, their streaming tails making broken crosses of them -, and turned to my boyfriend to tell him how swifts never land. He didn't believe me. It's a bit of an exaggeration, but not much of one: these sleek little arrows sleep and mate and die on the wing. After this book I think I shall look at them, the swallows and swifts and martins, as something more than an omen of spring. Lovely book.
9. The Forest of Hands and Teeth - Carrie Ryan
(336 pages)
I fancied something quick, light and hopefully gripping if not actually well-written, and felt like this would be a hit. I was wrong. It was... kind of crappy, actually. I didn't expect characters of John Irving-like depth, but this cast was so bland and uninspired I might have struggled to tell them apart were it not for, you know, their having names. All I know is that one smelled of sunshine. How the main character knows what the thermonuclear fusion of hydrogen smells like I can't tell you, but she informs you of the fact about twenty times, so it must be right. I'm not the biggest fan of zombies anyway but the walking dead of this novel were particularly terrible, the main character ending up on her back on at least three separate occasions while surrounded by a slavering hoard of the damn things, and they still failed to bite her - which I was hoping for, in the end. Even worse, a terrible, tacked-on romance, which is actually the crux of the whole damn novel and yet remains so unconvincing the major question in your head is not "what caused the zombie apocalypse" or "gosh, how will they ever get out of this one??" but "what the damn does she see in him???" because at no point does she both telling us why she has been in love with this person since forever, and at no point does he give any sign that he is the sort of person/human-shaped personality vortex that is worth falling in love with. (Or why she, a fellow vortex, is worth falling in love with by not one but two boys. Oh forced love triangles, how I hate you.) The relationship does go off in a direction that is unusual and pretty interesting for a book like this, but by that point I was utterly failing to care. Other than that every plot twist is a boring derivative with nothing new to say, every character a bland stereotype (if lucky), and every line of dialogue uttered a million times before in cliché. Oh, and there's a fucking sombre, lisping orphan and a plucky little dog that saves the day. Someone shoot me. I'm terminally uninspired and I could have shit out a better novel. It's still not as bad as Twilight, though.
10. Funeral Games - Mary Renault
(228 pages)
I wasn't expecting to enjoy this book much, given Alexander's death at the end of the second book. (Oh, it's history, people. While we're at it the Titanic sank.) So it came as a pleasant surprise when I did manage to really like it. I did miss Alexander (and Hephaistion, while we're at it) painfully, as I had come to love them, but that did not detract from the fact that the story was exciting and well written. What I did enjoy especially was the strong presence of powerful female characters. The previous book in the trilogy had (understandably) lacked this element, so it was with great joy I welcomed back the ambitious and arrogant Olympias. I also really enjoyed a new character, Eurydike. In many ways this is a book about the women of Alexander's time; stifled in their chauvinistic cultures, they have to bend their ambitious energies where they can, be it through their sons and grandsons, like Roxane and Olympias do, or by using their husbands as mouthpieces, as Eurydike does. The plots involving Ptolemy, Kassandros and Perdikkas seem mere side stories next to the machinations of the women, the showdown between Eurydike and Olympias an almost Lord of the Rings-esque climax. (It comes of no surprise to learn that Renault had Tolkien as a professor at Oxford. Apparently she was one of his favourites.) At first glance a bit of a strange way to end a trilogy by having its main man dead before even the beginning of the book, it proves itself necessary, and more importantly a great story in its own right.
11. Cosmos - Carl Sagan
(365 pages)
I've recently procured a handful of astronomy books, two of which are Wonders of the Solar System and Wonders of the Universe based on Brian Cox's series of the same name. However, before reading those I knew I had to go back to the beginning and start at this book, a classic of science non-fiction in the eyes of many including Brian Cox. (At one pointing during Universe he holds up his own copy of the book, that is so identical to the second hand copy I bought that for a moment I wondered for a moment if he uses Amazon Marketplace, too.) I've got to say, I wish I'd liked this more than I did. Sagan has a wonderful way with words and a remarkable aptitude for explaining very difficult concepts so that, for a minute, you too can feel like you understand physics, but ultimately I felt a little let down. I think part of the reason for that is that this book is rather dated. Whereas most of the concepts are still relevent to this day, the pictures (and there are thousands of these) do cast a certain age on the book. Another frustration involving these same pictures were their lack of order: at points, a diagram or photograph or painting would crop up that had absolutely no relevence to the text it was linked with, and it was only several pages further on that you came across what it referred to. I stopped looking at them eventually, unless they were particularly beautiful. Moreover, I'm not sure I appreciated the forays into human (and, for some reason, whale) intelligence, or musings on how we are killing ourselves with climate change and nuclear weapons, or history. I kind of just wanted straightforward (ha) astrophysics, and insofar as I understood the need to discuss these things, wished it had been done elsewhere. I wanted to be caught up in wonder, which is much harder to do when someone is telling you aliens won't have anything to do with us because we're too busy behaving like animals and commiting genocide. Perhaps I'm lacking in appreciation because I have not seen the television series. Whatever it is, I actually feel really bad about not enjoying this book as much as I feel I ought to have, which is a silly feeling but there you go. Sorry :(
12. Alias Grace - Margaret Atwood
(480 pages)
Margaret Atwood is one of those authors I've vowed to read more of. I've read just two of her other novels (Oryx and Crake/ last year, and The Handmade's Tale when I was seventeen or so), and I don't really understand why it is so few because on the occasions I have I have found her writing luscious, but never inclining to purple, and the sheer breadth of subjects she pursues appeals to me. It took me a while to become immersed in Alias Grace, but when I did I found it irresistible. It's not my favourite book I've read this year - I didn't love it -, but it has that addictive, engaging quality that a really good author can provoke even if you yourself are not terribly interested in the subject. I did appreciate the ambiguity of the story: Atwood never tries to accomplish anything forensic, she leaves the question of Grace Marks' guilt to the reader, should the reader wish to answer. What she - and I - is more interested in is the reactions of Grace's contemporaries, who base their own assessment of her guilt on their own predispositions on how a woman should behave - is she a witless girl, a terrified maiden, or a brutal and immoral temptress? As I said before, I did not fall in love with it, for personal taste reasons, but I am pleased I read it, if only because it has reminded me I need to Read More Atwood.
13. The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us From Violence - Gavin de Becker
(352 pages)
This is one of the most useful books I have ever read. I've heard about it several times before - on message boards, from friends -, but only just picked it up now, which is a shame because I wish I'd read it sooner. Not because I've experienced any particular violence in the intervening years (I'm lucky), but because there is a positive, empowering message in this book that violence never “just happens”, and can be predicted, and there are things you can do that can lessen the chances of it happening to you. What particularly impressed me was de Becker's compassion and empathy with women, too often victims. Unlike so many men - and we've all met them - he fully appreciates why women live in a state of much higher alertness, and does not take this personally like so many men do. The stories in this book are compelling - it reads like a particularly good but unfortunately true thriller -, and the advice is good and something anyone can adopt into their everyday lives because it basically boils down to "listen to your instinct." This is the sort of book you want to press into the hands of everyone you know, especially the women, as there is a lesson for everyone. I found the advice for dealing with a "persistent" admirer especially interesting, but other people might find the workplace stuff more useful, if they are managers, and there are many out there who should read the chapter on domestic abuse. The perspective of the book is sunk deep into its American setting, and those of us living outside that sphere need to realise the fact (I worry far less about guns, for instance). Nevertheless its broader themes can be appreciated by anyone living in the sort of culture that has become detached from its base, self-preserving instincts. I said before that I wish I had read this sooner, but I can't deny that in my current situation - female, living alone -, I'm in a good place to read this book. But then I think anyone is, and highly recommend that you do so.
For the first time this year I also failed to read a book - not one, but two! Both library of course: I never fail to read something I have bought. The first was Setting Free the Bears by John Irving. I enjoy Irving's writing but I read thirty pages into this book and had to stop. There was nothing particularly that was stopping me, it wasn't bad or anything but I could not get myself engaged. Every page my brain protested, and eventually I just put it down and found another. Another occasion I might be able to read it, but I have returned it now knowing that time is not going to be soon. I have enough of my own books to read anyway (seventeen as I type!)
The second one is The Naked Man: A Study of the Male Body by Desmond Morris. I don't really know why I picked this one up, given it was always primed to irritate me, but I enjoy zoological perspectives of humans and hoped this one would stick to that. But no, immediately we have to go off into the “different spheres” of male and female skills. You know, where men are great at logic and technology and being confident, but that's all right because women can multitask and like babies! It puts me in mind of Captain Planet where I, as a child - and every child I knew - would watch and think “what the hell kind of superpower is 'love' anyway?” That's what empathy feels like: a really crappy superpower. No matter how many times you tell us it's the most powerful one, we still wish we'd been given the Fire or Water ring instead. Morris seems to have no problem telling us that if women were the dominant “species”, humans would have far fewer wars, but we'd also be far less advanced. Nevermind that this experiment has never been conducted in any society let alone humankind in general, we're assured of this. We're told that yes, women have made valuable contributions to science and technology, but for every one of them there are a hundred - a thousand! - men who have done the same. Hey, here's something to consider. You know who else that is true for, at least in the past millenia or so? Black people. Do black people inhabit a “different sphere” too, with their own special (but actually kind of lame) superpowers? Why suddenly so shy? Oh, is it because maybe, just maybe, it's not cool to say that sort of thing? That it is, perhaps, deeply and sickeningly racist? You think? But it's okay to say it about women? Because when we're talking about race, people - decently minded people - have no problem in agreeing that social, political and economic advantages or disadvantages have had a huge impact on that race's contribution to major advances, but when it's women we talk about, who throughout history have suffered these exact disadvantages, all of a sudden it's all in the brain. Well of course it is, because we've all seen toddlers in playgroups behaving in gender-stereotyped ways, and everyone knows toddlers have never been treated by their parents and other adults as a “girl” or “boy” ever. Never ever.
So I stopped reading the book.
Total books so far: 48
Total pages so far: 15,001