Parents are so annoying sometimes. I’m not talking about the parents in this book, although I’m sure they’d annoy me too if I happened to live with them. But my parents loved this book and now I feel like I ought to have loved it too. And I suppose I did in a way. I stayed up all night to finish it, and I was satisfied when the book turned out exactly how I wanted it to turn out. But how can my dad tell me this is the best book I’ve read recently? Why do parents always know better than me? I’m the one who was offered a place to study English at UCL. (I turned it down, but that’s hardly the point.) So I should know a little bit about reading. But that’s the thing about parents. They always know best.
The parents in this book also know best. Catherine, the best friend of the heroine, Stevie, is clearly some kind of Superwoman who juggles what seems like a huge number of children, not to mention Stevie’s son Danny and Stevie herself. Only Catherine’s considerable warmth and generosity save her from being annoyingly perfect. I love Catherine. I just wish she wouldn’t go on about how sweet Stevie is all the time. There are many adjectives that spring to mind when I think of Stevie, but ‘sweet’ is not one of them.
Oh, I quite like Stevie now, but it was an uphill struggle to begin with. Any author who keeps going on about how nice her main character is - and also makes the other characters point it out at every opportunity - really gets on my nerves. I’m not interested in what Milly Johnson thinks of Stevie. It’s up to me to decide what she’s like. When I finally did start to like her, about halfway through the book (the point when the story really got going), I still didn’t think she was sweet. She’s far too tough and feisty with too much of a no-nonsense approach to be described as sweet. Yes, she is very generous, and she certainly seems altruistic. But she’s too strong and redoubtable to be my idea of sweet. (But, to be honest, if Johnson had described about her in ways that I agreed with, that would probably have annoyed me too. Just get on with telling the story, woman!)
And Stevie’s name! Apparently she’s named after some female poet I’ve never heard of, which is fine in theory, but it was just a bit distracting. I didn’t mind that the other girl was called Jo: that’s an established and common female name. But giving your heroine an unusual female name for no particular reason is just annoying.
If there had been just one joke about Stevie’s name, like if Adam had insisted on calling her Stephanie - which would have really annoyed her, as well as fitting in with the idea of Adam’s stubborn nature - there would have been a point to it. Or if she’d signed up to join Adam’s gym online, it might have been quite funny if he came to meet the new male member of the gym and instead found the fiancée of the man who ran off with his wife. Or if Stevie’s parents (who make the briefest appearances) were very obviously the type to bestow an unusual name upon their daughter - instead of seeming more the type not to bother naming her at all - I’d have understood.
Once the story does start, Johnson’s writing becomes fast-paced and witty, but her characters still have sufficient depth (well, apart from shallow bitch Jo) to make you interested in what happens. Even the smallest characters seem very real. Like Stevie’s nice but excruciating friend Pam – probably everyone in the world either knows someone like Pam or has heard of someone like her.
The story was a bit slow to start off with. The early chapters mostly show Stevie having her hair done, refusing to talk to Adam, and thinking about how miserable she is. I got a bit bored with that part. It would have been much more interesting if Adam had told Stevie his plan for both of them to win their partners back near the beginning; Stevie could then have dismissed it, before gradually coming around to it. At least then you’d feel the characters were progressing in some way.
Adam the Scotsman makes a rather bad first impression too, but that works well. He is actually really lovely in a big, loud sort of way. Johnson’s transcription of his sexy Scottish accent sounds very authentic, even if his generosity doesn’t.
Matthew, Stevie’s ex, is a totally useless prat who has his brain between his legs. Nevertheless, he, if anyone, is the ‘sweet’ one – incredibly stupid, but well-meaning when he remembers other people have feelings too. He’s not unlike Matthew in Getting Rid of Matthew. I must write a book one day about useless Lucy; Isobel, who seems to have the perfect life but is actually pretty fucked up; James the wanker, and Matthew the immature prat.
And, yes, Stevie is a writer, but I’ll forgive Johnson for writing about a writer. It does give the plot a very interesting twist. And, yes, Stevie is intelligent enough to be literate. Easily. Forget the basic psychology Adam keeps going on about. Stevie knows way more about people than that annoying psychologist in The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy. So I quite liked her in the end.
Sunday 30 November 2008
Friday 28 November 2008
Ten Days in the Hills (Jane Smiley)**
Ten Days in the Hills could have been great, but there just wasn’t enough to keep me interested. It starts very promisingly with Elena and Max’s discovery that, instead of spending the next few days in bed, possibly making a porno (one good thing about the book is that this never happens), they must entertain the large number of guests (including Max’s ex-wife) that have simultaneously turned up on their doorstep, having all decided to interpret an invitation to ‘come and stay sometime’ as ‘come and stay right now’.
Rather than telling at least some of them to piss off like any sensible person would, Max and Elena decide to let them all stay, even though some of them hate each other. It sounded promising, as I thought they’d spend the whole time at each other’s throats, but, as Max’s house is so huge, they mostly manage to ignore the people they hate.
There are a few token moments of snappiness, but nothing to get too excited about. Most of the book is taken up with the characters, in various combinations, talking about films and having sex. And I don’t know about you, but I find that really, really boring. I can certainly imagine living for ten days or even ten weeks without even thinking about either activity. (Well.. films anyway.)
Maybe if I’d actually seen a few more of the films mentioned, those scenes might have been more interesting, but if I felt the urge to read some literary criticism of films, I’d go and find myself a non-fiction book. As for sex, EWWWWW. I don’t mind a few details that I can giggle over - I love the bit where Simon tells everyone he’d shaved his whole body in order to play a giant penis in a film, and the Russian girls’ tit-sucking isn’t completely uninteresting either from a bi-sexual point of view. But I don’t really want to know details about the state of a fifty-eight year old man’s cock. Or any man’s cock. As my grandma used to say, there’s nothing beautiful in that sight.
What I usually do in this situation is skip the cock and move onto the interesting bits, which is the characters interacting with one another. But if you skip the cock, you’re stuck with the films. I can stand a little bit of film talk, but it was like they were at it all day (and then they were at it in the figurative sense all night). For a long time, the little I knew about the characters came from what Jane Smiley and her characters told us. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to see it for myself.
I can pretty much list all the conversations that weren’t about about films or sex – but these usually weren’t so much conversations as monologues. Elena is the one who talks about the war; Isabel is the one who talks about anthropology; Paul is the one who talks about psychological healing; Elena, Isabel, Paul and everyone else are the ones who talked about films and sex. Charlie is the one no-one likes, but even for him there was relatively little conflict. I didn’t even realise no-one liked Charlie until he suddenly shouted out that he didn’t feel welcome. The truth is, there were so many people in the house, I’d forgotten he was there.
The problem with the first half was that the situation promised tension, but it didn’t deliver. The characters weren’t trapped in the house together. There is no snowdrift; they aren’t housemates in Big Brother. They can - and do - leave the house in order to do other things and get away from each other. Isabel and Charlie - and possibly others - live so close, they can go home any time they want to. There was no real sense that the characters were crowding each other. There was no sense that the characters were treading carefully, or that an argument could happen at any moment. When the arguments did happen, they were either so quickly resolved, I never really had time to get interested in them, or they consisted of such ridiculously long speeches, I forgot what the argument was about in the first place.
Most of the ‘ten days in the hills’ take place in Max and Elena’s house, but the last few days are spent in a different large house while agent Stoney tries to persuade Max to make a film of Taras Bulba, which sounds exactly like the sort of film I wouldn’t want to see. This section was more enjoyable because at least then there was a sense of moving forward. The fact that all of Max and Elena’s guests decided to decamp together to the house of one of Stoney’s clients is a further sign that they are really all very comfortable with one another, despite the violent hatred Smiley writes about - but there is finally a sense of progress, and personalities slowly start to come more to the fore.
There are even moments of comedy, such as when Isabel casually announces that she and Stoney will share a room - apparently the others were too busy shagging each other to notice Isabel and Stoney were at it too. And it’s quite funny when Charlie suddenly finds himself being seduced by a young and beautiful girl. And there’s even one pretty good argument between Isabel and her mother, Zoe. Finally, there are bits of tension here and there.
For the first time, you really feel there’s a real plot rather than a series of scenes. Yes, there is still way too much film-talk and sex, but I felt that if the book had started here – and this section alone was almost long enough to be a book already - with a few more conversations on other subjects here and there, and a few more of those promised arguments, I think I’d have really enjoyed it.
But by then, it was really too late.
Rather than telling at least some of them to piss off like any sensible person would, Max and Elena decide to let them all stay, even though some of them hate each other. It sounded promising, as I thought they’d spend the whole time at each other’s throats, but, as Max’s house is so huge, they mostly manage to ignore the people they hate.
There are a few token moments of snappiness, but nothing to get too excited about. Most of the book is taken up with the characters, in various combinations, talking about films and having sex. And I don’t know about you, but I find that really, really boring. I can certainly imagine living for ten days or even ten weeks without even thinking about either activity. (Well.. films anyway.)
Maybe if I’d actually seen a few more of the films mentioned, those scenes might have been more interesting, but if I felt the urge to read some literary criticism of films, I’d go and find myself a non-fiction book. As for sex, EWWWWW. I don’t mind a few details that I can giggle over - I love the bit where Simon tells everyone he’d shaved his whole body in order to play a giant penis in a film, and the Russian girls’ tit-sucking isn’t completely uninteresting either from a bi-sexual point of view. But I don’t really want to know details about the state of a fifty-eight year old man’s cock. Or any man’s cock. As my grandma used to say, there’s nothing beautiful in that sight.
What I usually do in this situation is skip the cock and move onto the interesting bits, which is the characters interacting with one another. But if you skip the cock, you’re stuck with the films. I can stand a little bit of film talk, but it was like they were at it all day (and then they were at it in the figurative sense all night). For a long time, the little I knew about the characters came from what Jane Smiley and her characters told us. There wasn’t a lot of opportunity to see it for myself.
I can pretty much list all the conversations that weren’t about about films or sex – but these usually weren’t so much conversations as monologues. Elena is the one who talks about the war; Isabel is the one who talks about anthropology; Paul is the one who talks about psychological healing; Elena, Isabel, Paul and everyone else are the ones who talked about films and sex. Charlie is the one no-one likes, but even for him there was relatively little conflict. I didn’t even realise no-one liked Charlie until he suddenly shouted out that he didn’t feel welcome. The truth is, there were so many people in the house, I’d forgotten he was there.
The problem with the first half was that the situation promised tension, but it didn’t deliver. The characters weren’t trapped in the house together. There is no snowdrift; they aren’t housemates in Big Brother. They can - and do - leave the house in order to do other things and get away from each other. Isabel and Charlie - and possibly others - live so close, they can go home any time they want to. There was no real sense that the characters were crowding each other. There was no sense that the characters were treading carefully, or that an argument could happen at any moment. When the arguments did happen, they were either so quickly resolved, I never really had time to get interested in them, or they consisted of such ridiculously long speeches, I forgot what the argument was about in the first place.
Most of the ‘ten days in the hills’ take place in Max and Elena’s house, but the last few days are spent in a different large house while agent Stoney tries to persuade Max to make a film of Taras Bulba, which sounds exactly like the sort of film I wouldn’t want to see. This section was more enjoyable because at least then there was a sense of moving forward. The fact that all of Max and Elena’s guests decided to decamp together to the house of one of Stoney’s clients is a further sign that they are really all very comfortable with one another, despite the violent hatred Smiley writes about - but there is finally a sense of progress, and personalities slowly start to come more to the fore.
There are even moments of comedy, such as when Isabel casually announces that she and Stoney will share a room - apparently the others were too busy shagging each other to notice Isabel and Stoney were at it too. And it’s quite funny when Charlie suddenly finds himself being seduced by a young and beautiful girl. And there’s even one pretty good argument between Isabel and her mother, Zoe. Finally, there are bits of tension here and there.
For the first time, you really feel there’s a real plot rather than a series of scenes. Yes, there is still way too much film-talk and sex, but I felt that if the book had started here – and this section alone was almost long enough to be a book already - with a few more conversations on other subjects here and there, and a few more of those promised arguments, I think I’d have really enjoyed it.
But by then, it was really too late.
Thursday 27 November 2008
Shopaholic Abroad (Sophie Kinsella)****
I don’t know how Becky gets away with it, I really don’t. She’s a financial advisor with her own slot on a TV show, and she has less idea of money management than a goldfish. No, it’s worse than that. She has less idea of money management than me. Becky as a financial advisor is the equivalent of me getting a job with Trinny and Susannah.
But Sophie Kinsella can make anything work. She’s such a wonderful writer. She has created some great characters in the Shopaholic books, which looks like a series that could go on for years. She’s also great at character. Becky is the most adorable person in the world, and it’s probably very difficult not to love her – whether you’re a book lover, or Becky’s bank manager.
Becky’s delightful originality of mind can lead to the most horrific of situations – and Kinsella never fails to make them seem completely natural. I have been told I’m more than a little bit odd, but you wouldn’t catch me going to a convent in nothing but a T-shirt and a hairband. Becky could easily make you want to cringe for her, but she doesn’t. She makes you want to adopt her.
However, underneath Sophie Kinsella’s wonderful humour, Becky does have a problem or two. Compulsive shopper; compulsive liar. And Becky’s problems land not only her but also her gorgeous boyfriend Luke (I want him) into serious difficulties. Kinsella can turn a situation from comic to tragic in an instant – very much as it can happen in real life.
Kinsella isn’t saying it’s okay to spend too much money and then lie about it. But she is saying that it doesn’t make you a totally despicable person who should be reviled for all eternity. She’s saying that even nice, funny, endearing people can get into terrible situations. She’s also saying it’s possible to get out of them.
Shopaholic Abroad isn’t the kind of book that goes around winning awards. If Kinsella had wanted to win awards, she’d probably have thrown Becky out on the streets and made her into a prostitute. And she’d probably have to lose the wonderful humour too. That’s the sort of thing judges seem to like nowadays: a bit of ‘realism’.
But Shopaholic Abroad is deceptively clever – and quite possibly a lot more so than all those award-winners. Underneath Kinsella’s brilliant comedy is the feeling that, if it happened to Becky, it really could happen to everyone. Becky is luckier than most: she has support from all over the place, and she didn’t fall far enough to hit any kind of clichéd rock bottom. But, with a character as easy to identify with as Becky, that just means it’s harder to say ‘that would never happen to me.’ Because it could.
But Sophie Kinsella can make anything work. She’s such a wonderful writer. She has created some great characters in the Shopaholic books, which looks like a series that could go on for years. She’s also great at character. Becky is the most adorable person in the world, and it’s probably very difficult not to love her – whether you’re a book lover, or Becky’s bank manager.
Becky’s delightful originality of mind can lead to the most horrific of situations – and Kinsella never fails to make them seem completely natural. I have been told I’m more than a little bit odd, but you wouldn’t catch me going to a convent in nothing but a T-shirt and a hairband. Becky could easily make you want to cringe for her, but she doesn’t. She makes you want to adopt her.
However, underneath Sophie Kinsella’s wonderful humour, Becky does have a problem or two. Compulsive shopper; compulsive liar. And Becky’s problems land not only her but also her gorgeous boyfriend Luke (I want him) into serious difficulties. Kinsella can turn a situation from comic to tragic in an instant – very much as it can happen in real life.
Kinsella isn’t saying it’s okay to spend too much money and then lie about it. But she is saying that it doesn’t make you a totally despicable person who should be reviled for all eternity. She’s saying that even nice, funny, endearing people can get into terrible situations. She’s also saying it’s possible to get out of them.
Shopaholic Abroad isn’t the kind of book that goes around winning awards. If Kinsella had wanted to win awards, she’d probably have thrown Becky out on the streets and made her into a prostitute. And she’d probably have to lose the wonderful humour too. That’s the sort of thing judges seem to like nowadays: a bit of ‘realism’.
But Shopaholic Abroad is deceptively clever – and quite possibly a lot more so than all those award-winners. Underneath Kinsella’s brilliant comedy is the feeling that, if it happened to Becky, it really could happen to everyone. Becky is luckier than most: she has support from all over the place, and she didn’t fall far enough to hit any kind of clichéd rock bottom. But, with a character as easy to identify with as Becky, that just means it’s harder to say ‘that would never happen to me.’ Because it could.
Wednesday 26 November 2008
Secrets and Shadows (Mary Nickson)****
Why do characters who are writers make such unappealing protagonists? You’d think I’d love them. Apart from the fact that it’s writers that produce all those books I like to read, I like writing myself, so you’d think I’d find it easy to identify with writer characters.
Usually, it doesn’t work that way. There’s something about books within a book that I struggle with. In a way, it’s a compliment to the writer of the real book. If I’m enjoying their story, I want to keep on reading it. The last thing I want to do is sit down with someone else’s book. An exception would be something like Adele Geras’ A Hidden Life, where the featured book tells you the story of a dead major character. In a way, this is not so much extracts from a book as a flashback.
So you’d think I’d hate Secrets and Shadows. It’s all about a group of people who meet on a creative writing course. At the first session, examples of work are read out, (which I suppose is one way of getting to know such very different people’s inner thoughts and experiences). After that, the writing isn’t really important. It was just a means of getting the relevant characters together.
But I will have a couple of moans while I’m here. Why did everyone have to make it so obvious that they think Louisa (although, to be fair, she does have too many talents already) isn’t a good writer? Admiration of particular writing styles is such a personal thing. I actually found Louisa’s writing much more more readable than that of Marnie, for example, who is generally seen to be good.
Also, why is there such a strong feeling that only a few of the creative writers ought to carry on writing after they leave the course? Okay, not many of them have a chance of getting published. But what does that matter?
In the first place, there are lots of bad writers who get published – being talented won’t always give you an advantage. And secondly, and most importantly, writing is first and foremost an activity to be enjoyed. It doesn’t matter if you’re Jane Austen or… well, someone who had better remain nameless because I don’t want all their fans jumping all over me, but, just to clarify, I don’t mean Mary Nickson. If you enjoy writing stories, they are worth writing. It doesn’t matter if no-one ever reads the stories. If you enjoy writing, you should write.
While I’m on the subject of writing styles, I’ll say I do like Mary Nickson’s. Her style is quite poetic, with many clauses, but is relatively easy to read. I have read some books like that where I’ve had to read sentences three times before they begin to make sense. Secrets and Shadows is not an amusing book, but it’s thrilling and exciting, and some of the relationships between the characters are wonderfully done – you can tell a lot about them from very little conversation.
Nickson is also great at characters – I love the accidentally-abrasive Marnie; Christopher with his dark secret, (which is really sympathetically presented); married couple Isobel and Giles, whose relationship is based on a genuine friendship, as well as sexual attraction. (Nickson also writes the sex bits really well: usually I either get the giggles, or feel so embarrassed I skip these bits, but Nickson’s really sensitive about it, only using it to make a point and never going into unnecessary detail.) All the characters are wonderfully distinct. It’s a shame they all dislike Stanley so much, though – I’m sure part of the reason he’s so horrible is because he’s really insecure.
Louisa seems to be, in many ways, the heroine of the book, but I couldn’t help wondering whether the book would be better without her. Her instinctive ability to socialise with anyone is definitely not something everyone can identify with, and her jealousy of some of the other characters is not presented in a particularly attractive way. Louisa has had a horribly difficult life, but that alone isn’t enough to make me like her as a character. And then, in the end, it’s difficult to know what to think. I’m not at all sure whether I believe her.
I also have problems with the presentation of Isobel’s autistic son Edward. The autism itself is beautifully done – I guessed he was autistic as soon as he was mentioned, although the term wasn’t used until some time later. It was really heartening to read that he is happy (none of that glass box crap) and that he has an imagination – a lot of people think autistics don’t have an imagination, but I can assure you we do.
However, the way Isobel kept talking sadly about Edward and how he ‘might have been’ is really quite offensive. I love Isobel, but seriously babe, forget what he might have been. Look at what he is. He is a lovely boy; very loving towards his family; very gentle with his six year old cousin; astonishingly well-adjusted. He comes home from school to find the house full of strangers, and doesn’t seem in the least worried by it. You should be proud of him.
I certainly prefer him to musical genius twin sister Amy, who seems more than a little bit conceited. But Amy is treated in a similar way: Isobel spends the whole time talking about what she ‘will be’. So what will it be like for the poor girl if she fails to make a career as a successful musician? The chances are, she won’t. There are more gifted young people in the world than there are career opportunities, especially considering Amy is a violinist. Forget what Edward might have been; forget what Amy might be going to be. It’s who they are that matters. (And Amy’s up herself, so do something about it.)
But the problems weren’t bothering me throughout the book. Edward is barely in it; even Louisa’s importance diminishes as the book continues. There is so much else to enjoy, I mostly forgot what I didn’t like, and just got on with the story.
Usually, it doesn’t work that way. There’s something about books within a book that I struggle with. In a way, it’s a compliment to the writer of the real book. If I’m enjoying their story, I want to keep on reading it. The last thing I want to do is sit down with someone else’s book. An exception would be something like Adele Geras’ A Hidden Life, where the featured book tells you the story of a dead major character. In a way, this is not so much extracts from a book as a flashback.
So you’d think I’d hate Secrets and Shadows. It’s all about a group of people who meet on a creative writing course. At the first session, examples of work are read out, (which I suppose is one way of getting to know such very different people’s inner thoughts and experiences). After that, the writing isn’t really important. It was just a means of getting the relevant characters together.
But I will have a couple of moans while I’m here. Why did everyone have to make it so obvious that they think Louisa (although, to be fair, she does have too many talents already) isn’t a good writer? Admiration of particular writing styles is such a personal thing. I actually found Louisa’s writing much more more readable than that of Marnie, for example, who is generally seen to be good.
Also, why is there such a strong feeling that only a few of the creative writers ought to carry on writing after they leave the course? Okay, not many of them have a chance of getting published. But what does that matter?
In the first place, there are lots of bad writers who get published – being talented won’t always give you an advantage. And secondly, and most importantly, writing is first and foremost an activity to be enjoyed. It doesn’t matter if you’re Jane Austen or… well, someone who had better remain nameless because I don’t want all their fans jumping all over me, but, just to clarify, I don’t mean Mary Nickson. If you enjoy writing stories, they are worth writing. It doesn’t matter if no-one ever reads the stories. If you enjoy writing, you should write.
While I’m on the subject of writing styles, I’ll say I do like Mary Nickson’s. Her style is quite poetic, with many clauses, but is relatively easy to read. I have read some books like that where I’ve had to read sentences three times before they begin to make sense. Secrets and Shadows is not an amusing book, but it’s thrilling and exciting, and some of the relationships between the characters are wonderfully done – you can tell a lot about them from very little conversation.
Nickson is also great at characters – I love the accidentally-abrasive Marnie; Christopher with his dark secret, (which is really sympathetically presented); married couple Isobel and Giles, whose relationship is based on a genuine friendship, as well as sexual attraction. (Nickson also writes the sex bits really well: usually I either get the giggles, or feel so embarrassed I skip these bits, but Nickson’s really sensitive about it, only using it to make a point and never going into unnecessary detail.) All the characters are wonderfully distinct. It’s a shame they all dislike Stanley so much, though – I’m sure part of the reason he’s so horrible is because he’s really insecure.
Louisa seems to be, in many ways, the heroine of the book, but I couldn’t help wondering whether the book would be better without her. Her instinctive ability to socialise with anyone is definitely not something everyone can identify with, and her jealousy of some of the other characters is not presented in a particularly attractive way. Louisa has had a horribly difficult life, but that alone isn’t enough to make me like her as a character. And then, in the end, it’s difficult to know what to think. I’m not at all sure whether I believe her.
I also have problems with the presentation of Isobel’s autistic son Edward. The autism itself is beautifully done – I guessed he was autistic as soon as he was mentioned, although the term wasn’t used until some time later. It was really heartening to read that he is happy (none of that glass box crap) and that he has an imagination – a lot of people think autistics don’t have an imagination, but I can assure you we do.
However, the way Isobel kept talking sadly about Edward and how he ‘might have been’ is really quite offensive. I love Isobel, but seriously babe, forget what he might have been. Look at what he is. He is a lovely boy; very loving towards his family; very gentle with his six year old cousin; astonishingly well-adjusted. He comes home from school to find the house full of strangers, and doesn’t seem in the least worried by it. You should be proud of him.
I certainly prefer him to musical genius twin sister Amy, who seems more than a little bit conceited. But Amy is treated in a similar way: Isobel spends the whole time talking about what she ‘will be’. So what will it be like for the poor girl if she fails to make a career as a successful musician? The chances are, she won’t. There are more gifted young people in the world than there are career opportunities, especially considering Amy is a violinist. Forget what Edward might have been; forget what Amy might be going to be. It’s who they are that matters. (And Amy’s up herself, so do something about it.)
But the problems weren’t bothering me throughout the book. Edward is barely in it; even Louisa’s importance diminishes as the book continues. There is so much else to enjoy, I mostly forgot what I didn’t like, and just got on with the story.
Monday 24 November 2008
The Infidelity Chain (Tess Stimson)****
I enjoyed this book a lot, but, if I were Tess Stimson’s spouse, I would be very very worried. Not only is this book all about infidelity, her last book was called The Adultery Club. Maybe she’s just a little bit obsessed?
The book is not totally pro-infidelity, but it is far from being against it. Not that I’m in a position to object to anyone else’s infidelity, and it could be argued that if a relationship has gone so far wrong that one or both of those involved has found themselves an outside interest, it’s probably too late as far as the marriage is concerned so they might as well get on with being happy. But, at the same time, the book does seem to be saying that infidelity is worth it if it’s in the name of true love, and I’m not really sure that’s true.
But, leaving all those issues aside, it’s a great book. It’s not exactly a comedy, but Stimson can be very witty when she wants to be, and has a wonderful way of leading into tragedy or horror with a light-hearted scene that catches me out every time.
The structure of the book is unusual. Four of the six members of the ‘Infidelity Chain’ take it in turns to ‘write’ a chapter from their point of view. Not so unusual, but each round of chapters usually (although, confusingly, not always) takes place at more or less the same time, so a number of the conversations come two or more times, as we see the scene from the point of view of every protagonist who is present.
It’s a great idea, but I read quite quickly, and I tend to remember people’s conversations while I’m reading the book (if only my memory was as good in the rest of my life). So it did seem very repetitive, and not always illuminating. There were occasions where something that seemed offhand or hurtful suddenly seemed completely understandable once the story was re-told from a different point of view, but mostly I could see the conversation from everyone’s point of view the first time, so reading it all again didn’t really add anything. But it works really well a lot of the time, especially when Stimson hasn’t written out all the same conversations word for word.
The characters are great. Ella is probably the one you’d call the main character. Ella is a doctor, and she’s actually intelligent. She really is. Okay, so cheating on her husband probably isn’t her best demonstration of it, but you can tell she’s good at her job. Even when Ella starts to doubt her abilities and becomes a much more vulnerable character, I can still believe she’s been to and passed medical school.
But more than that, Ella is a married woman with an adorable husband called Jackson and is sleeping with a married man called William – and I like her. I like her a lot. I know there are plenty of lovely homewreckers in real life, but it’s more difficult to separate the crime from the person in fiction because you can’t stand in a room with the character and get to know them in your own way.
I really like the other characters too. Beth (William’s wife) is a very convincing depressive. The multiple-viewpoint style is most successful with Beth because life does look totally different when you’re depressed, so she always has something new to bring to the story.
At the same time, you do have some sympathy with William (if you can forget about the infidelity issue for the minute) as he’s a really lovely man, and even though it’s definitely possible to enjoy the company of a depressive, you can tell it does take a great deal of energy, and sometimes you feel so helpless, and in need of some time away from them. William’s daughter Cate is amazingly nice for an adolescent – I even got used to the bizarre spelling of her name once I realised it was short for Caitlin rather than an emulation of Cate Blanchett. (I always want to call her Sate Blanchett. Has anyone else done that?)
Not that I’m saying you should go out and try it, but infidelity has never been so romantic.
The book is not totally pro-infidelity, but it is far from being against it. Not that I’m in a position to object to anyone else’s infidelity, and it could be argued that if a relationship has gone so far wrong that one or both of those involved has found themselves an outside interest, it’s probably too late as far as the marriage is concerned so they might as well get on with being happy. But, at the same time, the book does seem to be saying that infidelity is worth it if it’s in the name of true love, and I’m not really sure that’s true.
But, leaving all those issues aside, it’s a great book. It’s not exactly a comedy, but Stimson can be very witty when she wants to be, and has a wonderful way of leading into tragedy or horror with a light-hearted scene that catches me out every time.
The structure of the book is unusual. Four of the six members of the ‘Infidelity Chain’ take it in turns to ‘write’ a chapter from their point of view. Not so unusual, but each round of chapters usually (although, confusingly, not always) takes place at more or less the same time, so a number of the conversations come two or more times, as we see the scene from the point of view of every protagonist who is present.
It’s a great idea, but I read quite quickly, and I tend to remember people’s conversations while I’m reading the book (if only my memory was as good in the rest of my life). So it did seem very repetitive, and not always illuminating. There were occasions where something that seemed offhand or hurtful suddenly seemed completely understandable once the story was re-told from a different point of view, but mostly I could see the conversation from everyone’s point of view the first time, so reading it all again didn’t really add anything. But it works really well a lot of the time, especially when Stimson hasn’t written out all the same conversations word for word.
The characters are great. Ella is probably the one you’d call the main character. Ella is a doctor, and she’s actually intelligent. She really is. Okay, so cheating on her husband probably isn’t her best demonstration of it, but you can tell she’s good at her job. Even when Ella starts to doubt her abilities and becomes a much more vulnerable character, I can still believe she’s been to and passed medical school.
But more than that, Ella is a married woman with an adorable husband called Jackson and is sleeping with a married man called William – and I like her. I like her a lot. I know there are plenty of lovely homewreckers in real life, but it’s more difficult to separate the crime from the person in fiction because you can’t stand in a room with the character and get to know them in your own way.
I really like the other characters too. Beth (William’s wife) is a very convincing depressive. The multiple-viewpoint style is most successful with Beth because life does look totally different when you’re depressed, so she always has something new to bring to the story.
At the same time, you do have some sympathy with William (if you can forget about the infidelity issue for the minute) as he’s a really lovely man, and even though it’s definitely possible to enjoy the company of a depressive, you can tell it does take a great deal of energy, and sometimes you feel so helpless, and in need of some time away from them. William’s daughter Cate is amazingly nice for an adolescent – I even got used to the bizarre spelling of her name once I realised it was short for Caitlin rather than an emulation of Cate Blanchett. (I always want to call her Sate Blanchett. Has anyone else done that?)
Not that I’m saying you should go out and try it, but infidelity has never been so romantic.
Saturday 22 November 2008
Visit this blog: Fairy Kisses
Read this blog by the very talented Amy. Fairy Kisses is a beautifully-written blog which includes personal updates, articles on a number of subjects, and some great book reviews.
Amy's recent reviews include the 1006 film of Jane Eyre, Lucy Dawson's His Other Lover (which I'm hoping someone will buy me for Christmas) and Katie Price/Jordan's Crystal (Amy's review of this book is much more polite than mine!).
Amy's recent reviews include the 1006 film of Jane Eyre, Lucy Dawson's His Other Lover (which I'm hoping someone will buy me for Christmas) and Katie Price/Jordan's Crystal (Amy's review of this book is much more polite than mine!).
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy (Fiona Neill)***
Lucy is the world’s most useless mother. She has rotten apples all over her car (ewwwww I’m not getting in there!) and she gives the guy she fancies (not the guy she’s married to) a drink of wee. She also has a habit of thinking of people by nicknames, which include Yummy Mummy No. 1 and Sexy Domesticated Dad, which does get quite annoying, although it’s probably true that Lucy isn’t really seeing them as individuals.
Interestingly (and annoyingly) the characters with labels come over much more strongly than some of the characters with names. Her friends, Emma and Cathy have very little character other than an overwhelming desire for illicit sex. On the positive side, this makes Lucy’s extra-marital dalliances seem a bit more forgiveable – after all, everyone’s doing it! But it is rather disappointing as some of Fiona Neill’s other characters are brilliant.
Lucy is absolutely terrifyingly incompetent, but her talents for getting out of messes almost equal her talents for getting into them, and she’s absolutely lovely. Even her attempts to have an affair have a kind of innocence about them. I don’t quite believe that she has a history degree – maybe if it was something more creative like Art, I’d believe it – but a history degree somehow doesn’t quite fit with the character, even as an amusing contrast between Lucy Then and Lucy Now.
Becky in Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series is totally dippy, but (not that I know her actual qualifications), I can believe she probably has A Levels, if not a degree – although probably not an academic one. I’m sure there are loads of people with history degrees who are incompetent, but it’s a surprising combination, and even in a comedy it’s not always effective to bring in too many surprising combinations, especially one that is really only a small part of the book and doesn’t really advance the plot.
Robert (Sexy Domesticated Dad) is incredibly sexy, which makes Lucy’s behaviour even more reasonable, and Isobel (Yummy Mummy No. 1) manages to seem really really nice, even though the book is told from the point of view of Lucy, who finds her apparent perfection threatening.
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy is really funny, and the jokes keep going all the way through the book. You can see the twists coming a mile off, and some of the incidents in the book just wouldn't happen. But the twists actually worked well, and some of the unrealistic bits were so funny, I didn't much care how silly they were. In lots of ways, the book is more a series of episodes than a story, but that’s okay. Some of Lucy’s mistakes are too embarrassing to be funny – you do cringe for her quite a lot - but most of them are great. Is there are phrase in the English language more horrific than Yesterday’s Knickers? I don’t think there is.
Interestingly (and annoyingly) the characters with labels come over much more strongly than some of the characters with names. Her friends, Emma and Cathy have very little character other than an overwhelming desire for illicit sex. On the positive side, this makes Lucy’s extra-marital dalliances seem a bit more forgiveable – after all, everyone’s doing it! But it is rather disappointing as some of Fiona Neill’s other characters are brilliant.
Lucy is absolutely terrifyingly incompetent, but her talents for getting out of messes almost equal her talents for getting into them, and she’s absolutely lovely. Even her attempts to have an affair have a kind of innocence about them. I don’t quite believe that she has a history degree – maybe if it was something more creative like Art, I’d believe it – but a history degree somehow doesn’t quite fit with the character, even as an amusing contrast between Lucy Then and Lucy Now.
Becky in Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series is totally dippy, but (not that I know her actual qualifications), I can believe she probably has A Levels, if not a degree – although probably not an academic one. I’m sure there are loads of people with history degrees who are incompetent, but it’s a surprising combination, and even in a comedy it’s not always effective to bring in too many surprising combinations, especially one that is really only a small part of the book and doesn’t really advance the plot.
Robert (Sexy Domesticated Dad) is incredibly sexy, which makes Lucy’s behaviour even more reasonable, and Isobel (Yummy Mummy No. 1) manages to seem really really nice, even though the book is told from the point of view of Lucy, who finds her apparent perfection threatening.
The Secret Life of a Slummy Mummy is really funny, and the jokes keep going all the way through the book. You can see the twists coming a mile off, and some of the incidents in the book just wouldn't happen. But the twists actually worked well, and some of the unrealistic bits were so funny, I didn't much care how silly they were. In lots of ways, the book is more a series of episodes than a story, but that’s okay. Some of Lucy’s mistakes are too embarrassing to be funny – you do cringe for her quite a lot - but most of them are great. Is there are phrase in the English language more horrific than Yesterday’s Knickers? I don’t think there is.
Thursday 20 November 2008
Atonement (Ian McEwan)**
I feel really bad about writing this because I’ve just met a really nice girl online and she loves Atonement. But I just can’t think of anything nice to say about it.
But I’ll try. Ian McEwan’s writing is very flowery, almost poetic, and he handles some challenging subjects. The middle section, about Robbie’s life as a soldier, is very interesting and shocking. His characters are all real individuals and I’ve never read another book like it.
But I hate this book. I really do. McEwan almost seems to be sneering at his characters from a distance. I can’t blame him for that, as I got quite sneery about them too, but there’s not much point in writing about characters if you don’t have the slightest bit of affection for them. It’s probably worse than writers that insist on telling you their characters are wonderful. I suppose it is possible to write about villains you dislike, but the best books are those where you even like the villains in a way. Hating a character isn’t that much fun really, but loving to hate a character is great. I don’t love to hate the characters in Atonement. I’d rather not think about them at all.
Some of the incidents in the book just didn’t ring true. Like there’s a bit where Robbie writes a horny letter to weird Cecelia, then writes a more decent one. He asks freaky Briony to deliver the letter, even though he’s going to see Cecelia himself, but mixes the letters up. I have read a different story with an incident like this, and it worked brilliantly, but that story had a strong element of comedy, and I really wanted the two characters to get it together. Atonement seems deathly serious, and I couldn’t stand Robbie or Cecelia. Robbie’s okay, I suppose, but Cecelia’s scary.
As for that stripping off by the fountain incident – as if! I accept that Cecelia doesn’t want to bother the kitchen staff by using the kitchen taps, but are there really no other taps in the house? I’m sure the house has bathrooms. Even if they don’t have running water, is there no garden tap Cecelia could use? And even if the fountain really is the only source of water, you don’t take all your clothes off and jump in. You’d have to be seriously deranged to do that. Any normal person would just lean over the fountain and hold the vase she wants to fill underneath the water. Actually, forget normal people, even I wouldn’t throw myself in. Not even if I wanted to impress some guy. If I want to impress someone, I don’t usually try to pretend to be even madder than I am. Even if I was in the mood for doing something silly, I’d go in with my clothes on. Much more fun that way.
Briony is the little bitch who causes all the trouble, and one positive thing I can say is that McEwan almost manages to make her crime reasonable. It’s still incredibly stupid, but the little brat obviously suffers from severe immaturity, and anyone a bit stupid with a mental age of 5 might make the mistake she did. She’s actually 13, so she really should have known not to be so evil. Or maybe the character could have been written in a more sympathetic manner. Briony is supposed to be very upset and hurt when she commits her crime, and a lot of readers will have been in a similar position, so it should be possible to understand her feelings. But she’s such a horrible little brat, and McEwan’s habit of distancing himself from his characters doesn’t help.
It’s not all Briony’s fault though. Anyone with parents like Leon and Emily probably didn’t have much chance of becoming reasonable human beings. Neither of them is very sane or very likeable. Some of the characters who feature in the Robbie section are interesting, but they’re hardly in it really,
Another really annoying thing about this book (which is apparently also true of at least one of his others) is that the story isn’t original. He stole it from an autobiography from the time where the book is set (he has denied this, but it looks a bit suspicious to me). Moral issues aside, I just find this a bit of a cheat. It’s okay to find outside inspiration. All writers do it. But you need to bring something to the book to make it your own, and writing a bizarre story that is half-copied, half-nonsensical, isn’t really enough for me.
But Atonement does seem to have made a lot of people really happy. And that is good.
But I’ll try. Ian McEwan’s writing is very flowery, almost poetic, and he handles some challenging subjects. The middle section, about Robbie’s life as a soldier, is very interesting and shocking. His characters are all real individuals and I’ve never read another book like it.
But I hate this book. I really do. McEwan almost seems to be sneering at his characters from a distance. I can’t blame him for that, as I got quite sneery about them too, but there’s not much point in writing about characters if you don’t have the slightest bit of affection for them. It’s probably worse than writers that insist on telling you their characters are wonderful. I suppose it is possible to write about villains you dislike, but the best books are those where you even like the villains in a way. Hating a character isn’t that much fun really, but loving to hate a character is great. I don’t love to hate the characters in Atonement. I’d rather not think about them at all.
Some of the incidents in the book just didn’t ring true. Like there’s a bit where Robbie writes a horny letter to weird Cecelia, then writes a more decent one. He asks freaky Briony to deliver the letter, even though he’s going to see Cecelia himself, but mixes the letters up. I have read a different story with an incident like this, and it worked brilliantly, but that story had a strong element of comedy, and I really wanted the two characters to get it together. Atonement seems deathly serious, and I couldn’t stand Robbie or Cecelia. Robbie’s okay, I suppose, but Cecelia’s scary.
As for that stripping off by the fountain incident – as if! I accept that Cecelia doesn’t want to bother the kitchen staff by using the kitchen taps, but are there really no other taps in the house? I’m sure the house has bathrooms. Even if they don’t have running water, is there no garden tap Cecelia could use? And even if the fountain really is the only source of water, you don’t take all your clothes off and jump in. You’d have to be seriously deranged to do that. Any normal person would just lean over the fountain and hold the vase she wants to fill underneath the water. Actually, forget normal people, even I wouldn’t throw myself in. Not even if I wanted to impress some guy. If I want to impress someone, I don’t usually try to pretend to be even madder than I am. Even if I was in the mood for doing something silly, I’d go in with my clothes on. Much more fun that way.
Briony is the little bitch who causes all the trouble, and one positive thing I can say is that McEwan almost manages to make her crime reasonable. It’s still incredibly stupid, but the little brat obviously suffers from severe immaturity, and anyone a bit stupid with a mental age of 5 might make the mistake she did. She’s actually 13, so she really should have known not to be so evil. Or maybe the character could have been written in a more sympathetic manner. Briony is supposed to be very upset and hurt when she commits her crime, and a lot of readers will have been in a similar position, so it should be possible to understand her feelings. But she’s such a horrible little brat, and McEwan’s habit of distancing himself from his characters doesn’t help.
It’s not all Briony’s fault though. Anyone with parents like Leon and Emily probably didn’t have much chance of becoming reasonable human beings. Neither of them is very sane or very likeable. Some of the characters who feature in the Robbie section are interesting, but they’re hardly in it really,
Another really annoying thing about this book (which is apparently also true of at least one of his others) is that the story isn’t original. He stole it from an autobiography from the time where the book is set (he has denied this, but it looks a bit suspicious to me). Moral issues aside, I just find this a bit of a cheat. It’s okay to find outside inspiration. All writers do it. But you need to bring something to the book to make it your own, and writing a bizarre story that is half-copied, half-nonsensical, isn’t really enough for me.
But Atonement does seem to have made a lot of people really happy. And that is good.
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