Not another therapy story! This time it’s Sandy – a tall, brunette named Sandy Shortt: is it just me who didn’t find that funny? – who sees the school counsellor about her obsessive habit of looking for everything she’s lost. Of course, Sandy is so wonderful, the counsellor ends up falling in love with her, and, once she’s left school, she ends up ‘seeing’ him in a completely different sense. I prefer Sandy and Gregory to Tasia and Louise in Straight Talking, but it still doesn’t quite work because there doesn’t seem to be any point to it.
As usual, Cecelia Ahern has had a wonderful idea for a story: that all missing things and people go to another world, and that’s why some things will just never be found, like my copy of Rubber Rabbit. Sandy became interested in missing people as a child when the school bully Jenny-May went missing. As an adult, Sandy runs a missing persons agency. But there are some people who can’t be found – until Sandy suddenly ends up in the missing persons world herself.
We’ve all heard a lot about children going missing lately. One thing I really did like about this book was that Jenny-May wasn’t made out to be perfect. She wasn’t a nice person at all, and I respect Sandy for being able to admit that. I also respect Ahern for not making Jenny-May into the cutest little girl who ever existed. When kids go missing, it annoys me so much when people go on about how they must be found because they’re so beautiful, friendly, intelligent etc. So, if they are ugly, anti-social and stupid we shouldn’t look for then? Of course we should. Don’t look for them because they’re cute. Look for them because they’re someone’s baby.
Jenny-May was a bitch. She was horrible to Sandy. But she was still someone’s baby and Sandy still wanted to find her.
Unfortunately, this is Sandy’s only redeeming characteristic. I do sympathise with Sandy’s need to get away from people, and to spend most of her time on her own, but I’m sure it would have been possible for Ahern to make her seem a bit nicer. She doesn’t seem to care about anyone except herself and the missing people.
The book has some great moments. Some of it’s funny. But some parts just don’t work. Like when Sandy, on arriving in the missing persons world, pretends she runs an acting agency instead of a missing persons agency. This was to give her the chance to meet people she’s searched for, and tell them about their families during their ‘audition’, without them knowing her real job. When she suddenly finds herself putting on a play, it’s the perfect opportunity for her to learn something about the value of human companionship. But Sandy mostly pretends the play doesn’t exist. She’s not interested, so she lets everyone else do the work. Total unfairness. It’s very easy to lose interest in her after that.
Wednesday 30 September 2009
Monday 28 September 2009
Straight Talking (Jane Green)*
I love reading. I really do. But every so often, I come across a book that makes me wonder why the f*** it was published. So I keep on reading, hoping I can find the answer. Sometimes the problem is that I just don’t appreciate the book myself, but I can understand why other people would. Other times, I just don’t get it.
I don’t get Straight Talking.
It’s all about a girl called Tasha who sleeps around a lot. Well, her name is really Anastasia, but she’s Tasha for short. Except, the first time she tells us her nickname, she says it’s ‘Tasia, pronounced Tasha’. But from that point on it’s never Tasia, always Tasha. Okay, I would never have guessed that Tasia could be pronounced Tasha if she hadn’t told us. But she did tell us once, and as my IQ is not in single figures, I’m more than happy to read Tasia as Tasha for the rest of the book. What I am not willing is for Jane Green (or Tasha: maybe this is a character thing) to assume I’m so stupid, she needs to spell it Tasha all the way through. That’s just insulting.
I also hates the way Tasia (yes, that’s how I’m going to spell it) talks to me all the way through. Quite apart from the fact that I would rather turn bulimic than listen to her for any length of time (and I say that as a raging emetophobic), she keeps telling me what I’m thinking. NO-ONE tells me what I’m thinking. Or rather, most people learn not to do it because they don’t get it right. But as Tasia is a character in a book, I can’t say, ‘no, you’re wrong, I’m not thinking you can’t possibly fall in love after ‘only’ nine months. Of course you can! Is there a legal limit or something? Thou shalt not declare thineself in love until ten months have passed? No, there isn’t. Not that I’m saying I believe you were in love with Simon – you weren’t. I’m just saying you can’t read my mind, Tasia, so stop trying!
And don’t even get me started on the sex. At the start of the book, she seems to be averaging about one bloke per chapter – it seems to add up to several a week. I’m sure there are some perfectly nice people in the world who genuinely enjoy sex as a regular activity, and like a bit of variation where the partner is concerned. But Tasia isn’t a nice girl. She just isn’t. She treats her friends like dog poo. There’s one bit where she’s absolutely devastated and she wants her friends to come round and look after her a bit. Not unreasonable. But then she says she wants Mel and Andy (two of the members of her gang of four), but she doesn’t want the other one, Emma. Of course, I do think Emma’s much better off not hanging around with this cow who sneers at her for being rich, but I just felt, poor Emma. Isn’t she going to feel just a little bit hurt about being left out like that?
Then there’s another time when she’s called the girls together so they can make a fuss of her, and Andy says something about herself. Shock, horror, crime of the century! How DARE Andy make herself the centre of attention when they’re supposed to be talking about Tasia? Okay, yes, I do agree that Andy likes to talk about herself, and, yes, maybe it is a bit annoying sometimes. But that part was actually hilarious because Tasia is by far the worst offender in that regard.
Tasia is supposed to be insecure. At least, I’m pretty sure she is. But she keeps banging on about how beautiful and successful she is, and how she’s superior to everyone in the world. Um, not the best way to get sympathy, Tasia. Although actually, I have to say, I did start feeling some sympathy for her about halfway through. Not because poor Tasia is so insecure. Not because poor Tasia was dumped by the man she thought she loved. Certainly not because poor Tasia’s best mate has the audacity to be in love with her. My sympathy for Tasia was because she was a deluded, horrible cow, and she just had no idea. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and it was such a relief to remember she isn’t real.
Maybe this was all a clever ploy on Green’s part. Maybe we were supposed to see Tasia for what she was, but end up liking her for it. But I didn’t. Part of the problem is probably that I did not find Green’s writing style very readable – and this might well be a personal thing. Green would probably hate my writing (and if she is reading this, she’s probably thinking I’m the deluded, horrible cow, and unfortunately not even a fictional one). But some of her storytelling methods are just bizarre.
Large chunks of it take place in therapy. I really don’t see the point. Especially when Tasia blurts out everything to her readers anyway. Louise, the therapist, has one of the loveliest names in the world, but she doesn’t seem to be very good at her job. The idea of making therapy sessions into an important part of the story is an interesting one, but, if the therapist is doing his or her job right, it’s almost always going to be an impersonal relationship: not someone the character or the reader can make any real connection to. If there is going to be something deeper than usual between them, we need to see it in their interactions. It has to be clear that the therapist, as a real character, is affected by their relationship in some way. An impersonal sounding board might be very helpful for people in real life, but it falls a bit flat in a story. If a character is going to come to some pretty huge revelations, it’s best if there’s an element of drama about it. A person who sits there calmly and asks questions isn’t really dramatic. And once you’ve sat through a certain amount of therapy sessions where nothing has really happened, it just gets boring.
I don’t get Straight Talking.
It’s all about a girl called Tasha who sleeps around a lot. Well, her name is really Anastasia, but she’s Tasha for short. Except, the first time she tells us her nickname, she says it’s ‘Tasia, pronounced Tasha’. But from that point on it’s never Tasia, always Tasha. Okay, I would never have guessed that Tasia could be pronounced Tasha if she hadn’t told us. But she did tell us once, and as my IQ is not in single figures, I’m more than happy to read Tasia as Tasha for the rest of the book. What I am not willing is for Jane Green (or Tasha: maybe this is a character thing) to assume I’m so stupid, she needs to spell it Tasha all the way through. That’s just insulting.
I also hates the way Tasia (yes, that’s how I’m going to spell it) talks to me all the way through. Quite apart from the fact that I would rather turn bulimic than listen to her for any length of time (and I say that as a raging emetophobic), she keeps telling me what I’m thinking. NO-ONE tells me what I’m thinking. Or rather, most people learn not to do it because they don’t get it right. But as Tasia is a character in a book, I can’t say, ‘no, you’re wrong, I’m not thinking you can’t possibly fall in love after ‘only’ nine months. Of course you can! Is there a legal limit or something? Thou shalt not declare thineself in love until ten months have passed? No, there isn’t. Not that I’m saying I believe you were in love with Simon – you weren’t. I’m just saying you can’t read my mind, Tasia, so stop trying!
And don’t even get me started on the sex. At the start of the book, she seems to be averaging about one bloke per chapter – it seems to add up to several a week. I’m sure there are some perfectly nice people in the world who genuinely enjoy sex as a regular activity, and like a bit of variation where the partner is concerned. But Tasia isn’t a nice girl. She just isn’t. She treats her friends like dog poo. There’s one bit where she’s absolutely devastated and she wants her friends to come round and look after her a bit. Not unreasonable. But then she says she wants Mel and Andy (two of the members of her gang of four), but she doesn’t want the other one, Emma. Of course, I do think Emma’s much better off not hanging around with this cow who sneers at her for being rich, but I just felt, poor Emma. Isn’t she going to feel just a little bit hurt about being left out like that?
Then there’s another time when she’s called the girls together so they can make a fuss of her, and Andy says something about herself. Shock, horror, crime of the century! How DARE Andy make herself the centre of attention when they’re supposed to be talking about Tasia? Okay, yes, I do agree that Andy likes to talk about herself, and, yes, maybe it is a bit annoying sometimes. But that part was actually hilarious because Tasia is by far the worst offender in that regard.
Tasia is supposed to be insecure. At least, I’m pretty sure she is. But she keeps banging on about how beautiful and successful she is, and how she’s superior to everyone in the world. Um, not the best way to get sympathy, Tasia. Although actually, I have to say, I did start feeling some sympathy for her about halfway through. Not because poor Tasia is so insecure. Not because poor Tasia was dumped by the man she thought she loved. Certainly not because poor Tasia’s best mate has the audacity to be in love with her. My sympathy for Tasia was because she was a deluded, horrible cow, and she just had no idea. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen, and it was such a relief to remember she isn’t real.
Maybe this was all a clever ploy on Green’s part. Maybe we were supposed to see Tasia for what she was, but end up liking her for it. But I didn’t. Part of the problem is probably that I did not find Green’s writing style very readable – and this might well be a personal thing. Green would probably hate my writing (and if she is reading this, she’s probably thinking I’m the deluded, horrible cow, and unfortunately not even a fictional one). But some of her storytelling methods are just bizarre.
Large chunks of it take place in therapy. I really don’t see the point. Especially when Tasia blurts out everything to her readers anyway. Louise, the therapist, has one of the loveliest names in the world, but she doesn’t seem to be very good at her job. The idea of making therapy sessions into an important part of the story is an interesting one, but, if the therapist is doing his or her job right, it’s almost always going to be an impersonal relationship: not someone the character or the reader can make any real connection to. If there is going to be something deeper than usual between them, we need to see it in their interactions. It has to be clear that the therapist, as a real character, is affected by their relationship in some way. An impersonal sounding board might be very helpful for people in real life, but it falls a bit flat in a story. If a character is going to come to some pretty huge revelations, it’s best if there’s an element of drama about it. A person who sits there calmly and asks questions isn’t really dramatic. And once you’ve sat through a certain amount of therapy sessions where nothing has really happened, it just gets boring.
Saturday 26 September 2009
Forbidden Places (Penny Vincenzi)*****
The first Penny Vincenzi book I read, An Absolute Scandal, was an absolute struggle. There were just too many characters for me to keep up with them all. At least fifteen with their own storylines, all of them having similar experiences with subtle differences. But the writing was excellent, and Blue was one of the most gorgeous men who ever existed in fiction. So I thought Forbidden Places, with its much shorter Dramatis Personnae, was worth a try.
I’m so glad I read it. Once again, the protagonists have similar experiences, but there are really only four of them to keep up with, and one of them is killed off halfway through. This is very sad, of course, but it makes things easie, and it paves the way for something really sweet so I forgive Vincenzi for that. There's so much to enjoy: the writing, the story, the characters, and especially Ben. Blue has officially been surpassed in my affections, something which I never thought would happen. Ben is sweet, emotional, a bit pathetic, very kind, and very thoughtful. I just wanted to tear him out of the book, and marry him immediately. But I don’t think he’d like it if I did that. He’s too committed to everything and everyone I’d be making him leave behind. Come to think of it, my boyfriend might be a bit pissed off too.
Now I’ve just got to read the rest of Vincenzi’s books. If each of them has a character as half as wonderful as Ben and Blue, I know it’s going to be worth reading every word of the 900 pages.
Vincenzi has also created some great female characters. I absolutely adore the tactless Florence. I think she might be slightly autistic, as she is always offending people, apparently by accident. I think she’s actually really nice and although I understood why people were offended, most of what she said wouldn’t offend me. Then there’s Clarissa, who is very sexy, raunchy and naughty and undeniably a bit of a slut, but she’s so brave and funny and affectionate and loving to everyone, it’s very difficult not to love her. Linda is feisty, sexy, and rather witty. She wouldn’t take any crap off anyone, but she has a gentle side. She’s someone who would very easily fit into the world now.
The main character, Grace, is slightly more of a problem. She can be the nicest person in the world. She’s very kind to Ben when he shows up at her house unexpectedly and very distraught. She probably did do rather well to put up with all Florence’s insults when Florence was giving birth to Imogen, but I think a lot of women in labour get a bit like that. Grace is very tolerant of her unreasonable husband Charles and the way his family and friends treat her, and she’s very brave and determined during the challenges of the Second World War.
But she does seem to spend a lot of time hating people. Most of the time, it’s clear why she might be a little bit annoyed, but sometimes she really seems to be going completely over the top. She quite rightly finds the class structure a bit unfair – she marries the upper-class Charles, but is probably only middle class herself and a lot of people look down on her. But Grace has a horrible habit of thinking she’s superior to other people, and most of the time, she’s not. She can be extremely nosy and interfering, and she’s very lucky most of the people in the book end up liking her. Grace’s sweetness makes up for a lot.
But she hits two people. Yes, one of them had behaved badly (if in very difficult circumstances), and the other was being a pompous twat (and I can understand why Grace might think about hitting him), but it just didn’t seem right. If she’d hit the wanker who attacked her, I would have applauded her (even though that’s a bit dodgy too), but she doesn’t. The violence is partly a shock because Grace’s behaviour is usually very gentle, so it seemed very out of character. But it also puts her quite severely into the wrong where she had been in the right, and that was disappointing. There is no need for Grace to be perfect, but I don’t think she needs to be violent.
In some ways, Forbidden Places is a violent book. Most of the men in the book go away to fight in the war, and come back injured. Some of it is quite horrible to read about, but it’s very compellingly written. It’s an inspiring book in some ways because all the characters have to be brave in all kinds of circumstances, yet there is a slight distancing effect because things such as the class structure don’t really belong to our world now. But all the emotions experienced by the characters are very real, and Vincenzi explains the realities of the situation in a thoroughly informative way without taking you away from the story.
The book tells the story of the war, but also the story of people making mistakes but making the best of horrible situations, and working towards being happy. I suppose all books are like that really. But this one hits you hard.
I’m so glad I read it. Once again, the protagonists have similar experiences, but there are really only four of them to keep up with, and one of them is killed off halfway through. This is very sad, of course, but it makes things easie, and it paves the way for something really sweet so I forgive Vincenzi for that. There's so much to enjoy: the writing, the story, the characters, and especially Ben. Blue has officially been surpassed in my affections, something which I never thought would happen. Ben is sweet, emotional, a bit pathetic, very kind, and very thoughtful. I just wanted to tear him out of the book, and marry him immediately. But I don’t think he’d like it if I did that. He’s too committed to everything and everyone I’d be making him leave behind. Come to think of it, my boyfriend might be a bit pissed off too.
Now I’ve just got to read the rest of Vincenzi’s books. If each of them has a character as half as wonderful as Ben and Blue, I know it’s going to be worth reading every word of the 900 pages.
Vincenzi has also created some great female characters. I absolutely adore the tactless Florence. I think she might be slightly autistic, as she is always offending people, apparently by accident. I think she’s actually really nice and although I understood why people were offended, most of what she said wouldn’t offend me. Then there’s Clarissa, who is very sexy, raunchy and naughty and undeniably a bit of a slut, but she’s so brave and funny and affectionate and loving to everyone, it’s very difficult not to love her. Linda is feisty, sexy, and rather witty. She wouldn’t take any crap off anyone, but she has a gentle side. She’s someone who would very easily fit into the world now.
The main character, Grace, is slightly more of a problem. She can be the nicest person in the world. She’s very kind to Ben when he shows up at her house unexpectedly and very distraught. She probably did do rather well to put up with all Florence’s insults when Florence was giving birth to Imogen, but I think a lot of women in labour get a bit like that. Grace is very tolerant of her unreasonable husband Charles and the way his family and friends treat her, and she’s very brave and determined during the challenges of the Second World War.
But she does seem to spend a lot of time hating people. Most of the time, it’s clear why she might be a little bit annoyed, but sometimes she really seems to be going completely over the top. She quite rightly finds the class structure a bit unfair – she marries the upper-class Charles, but is probably only middle class herself and a lot of people look down on her. But Grace has a horrible habit of thinking she’s superior to other people, and most of the time, she’s not. She can be extremely nosy and interfering, and she’s very lucky most of the people in the book end up liking her. Grace’s sweetness makes up for a lot.
But she hits two people. Yes, one of them had behaved badly (if in very difficult circumstances), and the other was being a pompous twat (and I can understand why Grace might think about hitting him), but it just didn’t seem right. If she’d hit the wanker who attacked her, I would have applauded her (even though that’s a bit dodgy too), but she doesn’t. The violence is partly a shock because Grace’s behaviour is usually very gentle, so it seemed very out of character. But it also puts her quite severely into the wrong where she had been in the right, and that was disappointing. There is no need for Grace to be perfect, but I don’t think she needs to be violent.
In some ways, Forbidden Places is a violent book. Most of the men in the book go away to fight in the war, and come back injured. Some of it is quite horrible to read about, but it’s very compellingly written. It’s an inspiring book in some ways because all the characters have to be brave in all kinds of circumstances, yet there is a slight distancing effect because things such as the class structure don’t really belong to our world now. But all the emotions experienced by the characters are very real, and Vincenzi explains the realities of the situation in a thoroughly informative way without taking you away from the story.
The book tells the story of the war, but also the story of people making mistakes but making the best of horrible situations, and working towards being happy. I suppose all books are like that really. But this one hits you hard.
Friday 25 September 2009
The Undonestic Goddess (Sophie Kinsella)*****
I’m not interested in the law and I’m not interested in cooking. So how come a book that has so much of both in it is one of the best books I’ve ever read? It’s probably because Sophie Kinsella can make anything interesting. After all, all the other books of hers I’ve read were all about shopping.
The Undomestic Goddess isn’t about the loveable Becky Bloomwood/Brandon in the Shopaholic series, but the equally alliterative Samantha Sweeting is no less adorable. Samantha is amazingly clever – she’s a hotshot lawyer who can do maths in her head (I can barely do it on paper, you should have seen what a mess I get in adding up the values of my fantasy football players) with an IQ of 158 (mine usually comes out a bit higher, but I probably added that up wrong too). Samantha could probably draw up legal contracts in her sleep (if she had time to sleep), and now she has the opportunity to become a senior partner, despite being only twenty-nine.
But Samantha can’t cook, or clean, or make beds – which turns out to be a bit of a problem when she suddenly finds herself working as a housekeeper in the middle of nowhere.
It sounds mad, but Kinsella can make anything seem perfectly reasonable. Whether she’s describing the legal world or housekeeping, everything seems realistic. Of course, as I don’t actually know anything about the legal world or housekeeping, I might not notice if there was something wrong with it. But a lot of books about specialist subjects can be completely unconvincing even when I don’t know anything about the subject.
The events that lead Samantha to abandon her highly-paid job and jump on the nearest train are surprisingly convincing. Her sudden jump from being cool and competent to horror-struck seems completely natural. Some people (like me) might have trouble identifying with a highly intelligent workaholic for the first chapter or so of the book, but stick with it. The shocked, appalled Samantha is much easier to relate to.
Her decision to become housekeeper to the delightfully bonkers couple Trish and Eddie requires some salt-pinching, and I personally was very uncomfortable at times with the fact that Samantha got the job under false pretences, and told some very elaborate lies. But it’s easy to forget about that because the book is so much fun. Samantha is convincingly intelligent - I have no trouble believing she has a first-class degree from Cambridge (contrast this with GP Katie in How to be Good who probably isn’t intelligent enough to write her name). I also have no trouble believing that a lawyer might not be able to cook. If you had a schedule like Samantha’s, you would never find the time either. (I don’t have a schedule like Samantha’s and I haven’t found the time to learn to cook, even though I have cooking GCSE. But I did cook my boyfriend a Welsh dinner for Valentine’s Day and he hasn’t died yet.)
Unfortunately, Samantha’s love interest isn’t nearly as gorgeous as Becky’s Luke – but perhaps I’d feel that way about anyone unfortunate enough to be called Nathaniel (if there are any nice Nathaniels out there, I’m sure I’d change my mind if I happened to meet you. Why couldn’t he have a nice name like Gareth? I don’t think I’ve ever read a book about a sexy guy called Gareth.) Nathaniel is an okay sort of guy. He’s just rather overshadowed by Samantha. They’re a good couple, but not a double act.
But the thing that really annoyed me was when Trish and Eddie found out Samantha could do sums in her head, and Trish thought she might be autistic. I didn’t find this very amusing, and I don’t understand why it would be so scandalous if Samantha did turn out to be autistic. It doesn’t make her a bad person. And I’m autistic and I definitely can’t do sums in my head. I wish I could. Then maybe I’d give people the right money when I buy things.
But it’s very rare for Kinsella to make a joke I don’t appreciate. And when she does, it’s probably says more about me than her. But I do appreciate some jokes that are aimed at people like me. I think viola jokes are hilarious. Not that I’m saying I am a viola, I’d never be that self-critical. I just play one.
The Undomestic Goddess isn’t about the loveable Becky Bloomwood/Brandon in the Shopaholic series, but the equally alliterative Samantha Sweeting is no less adorable. Samantha is amazingly clever – she’s a hotshot lawyer who can do maths in her head (I can barely do it on paper, you should have seen what a mess I get in adding up the values of my fantasy football players) with an IQ of 158 (mine usually comes out a bit higher, but I probably added that up wrong too). Samantha could probably draw up legal contracts in her sleep (if she had time to sleep), and now she has the opportunity to become a senior partner, despite being only twenty-nine.
But Samantha can’t cook, or clean, or make beds – which turns out to be a bit of a problem when she suddenly finds herself working as a housekeeper in the middle of nowhere.
It sounds mad, but Kinsella can make anything seem perfectly reasonable. Whether she’s describing the legal world or housekeeping, everything seems realistic. Of course, as I don’t actually know anything about the legal world or housekeeping, I might not notice if there was something wrong with it. But a lot of books about specialist subjects can be completely unconvincing even when I don’t know anything about the subject.
The events that lead Samantha to abandon her highly-paid job and jump on the nearest train are surprisingly convincing. Her sudden jump from being cool and competent to horror-struck seems completely natural. Some people (like me) might have trouble identifying with a highly intelligent workaholic for the first chapter or so of the book, but stick with it. The shocked, appalled Samantha is much easier to relate to.
Her decision to become housekeeper to the delightfully bonkers couple Trish and Eddie requires some salt-pinching, and I personally was very uncomfortable at times with the fact that Samantha got the job under false pretences, and told some very elaborate lies. But it’s easy to forget about that because the book is so much fun. Samantha is convincingly intelligent - I have no trouble believing she has a first-class degree from Cambridge (contrast this with GP Katie in How to be Good who probably isn’t intelligent enough to write her name). I also have no trouble believing that a lawyer might not be able to cook. If you had a schedule like Samantha’s, you would never find the time either. (I don’t have a schedule like Samantha’s and I haven’t found the time to learn to cook, even though I have cooking GCSE. But I did cook my boyfriend a Welsh dinner for Valentine’s Day and he hasn’t died yet.)
Unfortunately, Samantha’s love interest isn’t nearly as gorgeous as Becky’s Luke – but perhaps I’d feel that way about anyone unfortunate enough to be called Nathaniel (if there are any nice Nathaniels out there, I’m sure I’d change my mind if I happened to meet you. Why couldn’t he have a nice name like Gareth? I don’t think I’ve ever read a book about a sexy guy called Gareth.) Nathaniel is an okay sort of guy. He’s just rather overshadowed by Samantha. They’re a good couple, but not a double act.
But the thing that really annoyed me was when Trish and Eddie found out Samantha could do sums in her head, and Trish thought she might be autistic. I didn’t find this very amusing, and I don’t understand why it would be so scandalous if Samantha did turn out to be autistic. It doesn’t make her a bad person. And I’m autistic and I definitely can’t do sums in my head. I wish I could. Then maybe I’d give people the right money when I buy things.
But it’s very rare for Kinsella to make a joke I don’t appreciate. And when she does, it’s probably says more about me than her. But I do appreciate some jokes that are aimed at people like me. I think viola jokes are hilarious. Not that I’m saying I am a viola, I’d never be that self-critical. I just play one.
Monday 21 September 2009
Two's Company (Jill Mansell)****
Two’s Company follows a celebrity family (don’t worry, they’re nothing like the Osbournes, they’re all interesting and talented people) and their numerous partners. Parents Jack and Cass have a very strong marriage that suddenly falls apart as soon as Jack meets tarty journalist Imogen. Their son Sean manages to impregnate a girl he doesn’t actually care about (well, one of the many girls he doesn’t care about) while their elder daughter Cleo (a model but quite an intelligent one) insists she’s not going to fall in love, but isn’t going to let that stop her from having fun. Their youngest daughter Sophie, by contrast, goes through the whole book without having sex once - the only men she’s interested in are the ones dying from AIDS in Africa - although she does develop a slight affection for an escaped prisoner.
It actually sounds like unoriginal trash when I put it like that – and perhaps it is. But it’s a lot of fun. The clichés are amazingly funny, and Sophie is the only major character in the large cast who doesn’t come over strongly and amusingly (too many archaeological digs and not enough character development, but she’s an isolated incident). Cass is lovely, and it’s completely understandable why all the men want to drop their trousers at the sight of her. Jack is inadequate in a surprisingly likeable way, he usually means well and he copes with Imogen admirably in the end – although I have to say I’d have admired him even more if he hadn’t got involved with her in the first place. Sean is much more of a lad than his father but even he turns out to be quite a sympathetic character because he’s so totally useless you just have to pity the poor boy - although perhaps not as much as you pity his sweet girlfriend Pandora, who has enough to worry about with that Christian name.
The bits on the side are also rather nicely done. The fact that Sean’s girlfriends don’t have a lot of character only makes it funnier, as personality clearly isn’t that important to him. Cleo meets all manner of men in her quest not to fall in love and Imogen is a pathetic bitch who is unintentionally funny. One thing I love about this book is that the celebrity status of the characters is treated quite matter-of-factly, and Mansell certainly doesn’t try to suggest that they’re any more perfect than – and certainly not that different from - their non-celebrity friends.
The only thing that really disappointed me about this book – apart from Sophie, what a waste of a lovely name – was that so much of their lives was glossed over. The book probably covers around three years, but there are long gaps where the characters change and move on, and that was a shame as I’d really have liked to know what happened to the characters in that time. At one point, Pandora’s baby jumps from being not much more than newborn to being sixteen months old – and so much must have happened in this time, not only with Pandora and Sean, but also with Cass, who has just started sleeping with her old friend Rory – and then suddenly they’ve been together for more than a year.
The book is 438 pages long, so it’s not short, but I could imagine it being twice as long and even more riveting. It could probably be stretched to the length of Penny Vincenzi’s An Absolute Scandal, which spans around two years. Long books can sometimes be a bit of a slog, but Two’s Company goes too quickly, and Mansell’s wonderful gift for comedy probably couldn’t make any book seem slow. (There was no need for the very minor character Donna to throw up into someone’s makeup box but that was about the only joke I didn’t appreciate. Pandora, with her morning sickness and appendicitis, I will forgive.)
It actually sounds like unoriginal trash when I put it like that – and perhaps it is. But it’s a lot of fun. The clichés are amazingly funny, and Sophie is the only major character in the large cast who doesn’t come over strongly and amusingly (too many archaeological digs and not enough character development, but she’s an isolated incident). Cass is lovely, and it’s completely understandable why all the men want to drop their trousers at the sight of her. Jack is inadequate in a surprisingly likeable way, he usually means well and he copes with Imogen admirably in the end – although I have to say I’d have admired him even more if he hadn’t got involved with her in the first place. Sean is much more of a lad than his father but even he turns out to be quite a sympathetic character because he’s so totally useless you just have to pity the poor boy - although perhaps not as much as you pity his sweet girlfriend Pandora, who has enough to worry about with that Christian name.
The bits on the side are also rather nicely done. The fact that Sean’s girlfriends don’t have a lot of character only makes it funnier, as personality clearly isn’t that important to him. Cleo meets all manner of men in her quest not to fall in love and Imogen is a pathetic bitch who is unintentionally funny. One thing I love about this book is that the celebrity status of the characters is treated quite matter-of-factly, and Mansell certainly doesn’t try to suggest that they’re any more perfect than – and certainly not that different from - their non-celebrity friends.
The only thing that really disappointed me about this book – apart from Sophie, what a waste of a lovely name – was that so much of their lives was glossed over. The book probably covers around three years, but there are long gaps where the characters change and move on, and that was a shame as I’d really have liked to know what happened to the characters in that time. At one point, Pandora’s baby jumps from being not much more than newborn to being sixteen months old – and so much must have happened in this time, not only with Pandora and Sean, but also with Cass, who has just started sleeping with her old friend Rory – and then suddenly they’ve been together for more than a year.
The book is 438 pages long, so it’s not short, but I could imagine it being twice as long and even more riveting. It could probably be stretched to the length of Penny Vincenzi’s An Absolute Scandal, which spans around two years. Long books can sometimes be a bit of a slog, but Two’s Company goes too quickly, and Mansell’s wonderful gift for comedy probably couldn’t make any book seem slow. (There was no need for the very minor character Donna to throw up into someone’s makeup box but that was about the only joke I didn’t appreciate. Pandora, with her morning sickness and appendicitis, I will forgive.)
Sunday 20 September 2009
Tuesdays with Morrie (Mitch Albom)*****
I’m quite tempted to give this review just two words – ‘read’ and ‘it’. But that would be a bit of a rubbish review, and I’m not sure this book would appeal to most people - although in theory it wouldn’t appeal to me, and I loved it. It is extremely sentimental, and there’s lots of discussion of things I’d usually not want to read about like bottom-wiping. But it was easy to make an exception for Tuesdays with Morrie.
It’s a true story about Mitch Albom and his old college professor, Morrie Schwarz. They were good friends at college, but then they lost touch. Then Mitch hears on the news that Morrie is dying, and he goes to see him, and the two become friends all over again.
Morrie is a lovely, wonderful, amazing, inspiring man, and it’s easy to see why Mitch loves him so much. It’s almost a romantic book. There’s never any suggestion of sex, but there’s a very strong closeness between the characters. Morrie teaches Mitch about life and death, and they clearly see themselves as teacher and student, as it was when they were at college. Yet at the same time, as Morrie’s illness takes hold, he needs more and more help from the people around him, including Mitch. That would usually seem almost like a parent and child relationship, with Mitch as the parent. But it’s not.
I’m not going to say this is a life-changing book. That’s just a total cliché, and I imagine the books that have changed people’s lives are probably completely different books for each person. And, much as I’d like to say it has, Tuesdays with Morrie hasn’t really changed my life. Even though Morrie has some wonderful things to say about the world that made me feel as though I ought to appreciate it a lot more, it’s not a feeling that’s going to last. I’m too lazy and self-obsessed.
But in a way this book has changed my life because it is a book I think about a lot. I think about Morrie and Mitch, and about how lucky they were to know each other, both because they’re really lovely people and because they had such a special relationship. Mitch makes it very clear how much he loves Morrie, but he also makes it clear he’s pretty wonderful himself, although without giving the impression that he knows it. It’s really heartening – and amazing - to know that people like Morrie existed in the world. Maybe there are more people like that: Mitch Albom could certainly be one of them. Maybe there are also people who could learn to be like that.
This book might well have been published whether Albom could write or not – Morrie’s story was featured on national television, and it seems as though he became a bit of a celebrity. But Albom is a brilliant writer. I haven’t read any of his other books, so I’m not that sure what he’s like as a writer of fiction, but Tuesdays with Morrie is wonderfully written. Albom’s writing style is quite simple, but he puts a lot across in few words.
There was a small example of what I presume to be Albom’s fiction at the end of the book. I didn’t enjoy it, as I felt it was completely inappropriate that there should be a completely different story to read after Morrie’s story had come to an end. Maybe I should have stopped reading, but I wanted to know if there was some connection between this and the main story – I wanted to read more about Morrie! There didn’t seem to be any connection, but Tuesdays with Morrie is the sort of book that can leave you stunned. I probably wasn’t in the right state of mind for working out what a new story might mean.
I finished reading Tuesdays with Morrie on a Tuesday. I like coincidences like that.
It’s a true story about Mitch Albom and his old college professor, Morrie Schwarz. They were good friends at college, but then they lost touch. Then Mitch hears on the news that Morrie is dying, and he goes to see him, and the two become friends all over again.
Morrie is a lovely, wonderful, amazing, inspiring man, and it’s easy to see why Mitch loves him so much. It’s almost a romantic book. There’s never any suggestion of sex, but there’s a very strong closeness between the characters. Morrie teaches Mitch about life and death, and they clearly see themselves as teacher and student, as it was when they were at college. Yet at the same time, as Morrie’s illness takes hold, he needs more and more help from the people around him, including Mitch. That would usually seem almost like a parent and child relationship, with Mitch as the parent. But it’s not.
I’m not going to say this is a life-changing book. That’s just a total cliché, and I imagine the books that have changed people’s lives are probably completely different books for each person. And, much as I’d like to say it has, Tuesdays with Morrie hasn’t really changed my life. Even though Morrie has some wonderful things to say about the world that made me feel as though I ought to appreciate it a lot more, it’s not a feeling that’s going to last. I’m too lazy and self-obsessed.
But in a way this book has changed my life because it is a book I think about a lot. I think about Morrie and Mitch, and about how lucky they were to know each other, both because they’re really lovely people and because they had such a special relationship. Mitch makes it very clear how much he loves Morrie, but he also makes it clear he’s pretty wonderful himself, although without giving the impression that he knows it. It’s really heartening – and amazing - to know that people like Morrie existed in the world. Maybe there are more people like that: Mitch Albom could certainly be one of them. Maybe there are also people who could learn to be like that.
This book might well have been published whether Albom could write or not – Morrie’s story was featured on national television, and it seems as though he became a bit of a celebrity. But Albom is a brilliant writer. I haven’t read any of his other books, so I’m not that sure what he’s like as a writer of fiction, but Tuesdays with Morrie is wonderfully written. Albom’s writing style is quite simple, but he puts a lot across in few words.
There was a small example of what I presume to be Albom’s fiction at the end of the book. I didn’t enjoy it, as I felt it was completely inappropriate that there should be a completely different story to read after Morrie’s story had come to an end. Maybe I should have stopped reading, but I wanted to know if there was some connection between this and the main story – I wanted to read more about Morrie! There didn’t seem to be any connection, but Tuesdays with Morrie is the sort of book that can leave you stunned. I probably wasn’t in the right state of mind for working out what a new story might mean.
I finished reading Tuesdays with Morrie on a Tuesday. I like coincidences like that.
Saturday 19 September 2009
How to Be Good (Nick Hornby)**
Nick Hornby is a brilliant writer. I enjoyed High Fidelity and About a Boy, and Fever Pitch is probably one of the greatest books ever written and I’m not just saying that because I support Arsenal. Supporters of other teams love it too. Even people who hate football enjoy it. And, as Fever Pitch is pretty much all about football, I think that’s a pretty strong sign that Hornby is an excellent writer.
This only made How to be Good even more disappointing. The protagonist, Katie, is a stupid bitch (yet another of these characters who are supposed to be doctors, but don’t seem to be intelligent enough to graduate from primary school), and her husband David is just annoying. Not quite annoying enough to make Katie’s nastiness reasonable, but annoying enough to make me want to stop reading about him. I didn’t stop, I stuck with this to the end, and it was a total waste of time. The only reason why Hornby merits a second star is because some of the descriptive passages are extremely well done. It’s the plot, characters and dialogue that are the problem.
The plot idea is very interesting at first glance. Katie has just started an affair because her husband is so horrible to her (not nearly as horrible as she is to him, but never mind that for the moment). Her husband is on the point of throwing her out (if I were him I’d be delighted to have such a good excuse for getting rid of her) but then he goes to see a man called GoodNews who has the gift of healing. GoodNews at first heals David’s backache, then he heals his mind. From that moment on, David is nice. He blames himself for the affair, and does all he can to make Katie happy.
Some of his attempts are amusing, it has to be said. And I suppose it is not unrealistic that Katie, after years of wishing her husband would be nice to her, discovers it’s not what she wants after all. But I do wish she’d appreciated it to begin with, and tried a bit harder to go on appreciating it. He’s trying to be nice, for God’s sake. She goes on all the time about how miserable David is, but she’s actually a lot worse.
One problem with a plot like this is you have to wonder, where’s it all going to go from here? Theoretically, there’s no reason why GoodNews can’t cure everyone in the world and make it a happier place. But once you’ve changed the whole world, how is the book going to end? ‘And they all lived happily ever after’? Fortunately, Hornby doesn’t take this route, but then he doesn’t really take any route at all. The story just meanders on and on, Katie becomes more and more annoying, until suddenly – to my great relief – the book comes to an end.
I hate the way Katie keeps saying ‘I’m a good person, I’m a doctor’. Okay, she’s not strictly a bad person. She doesn’t kill anyone. But neither she nor the new, nice David consider for a moment that some of the problems between them might have been her fault. Even if she had been a nice person, she’s unlikely to be blameless. No-one ever really seems to realise this.
Hornby is still one of my favourite writers ever though. Without him, I might not have ended up supporting Arsenal. I might have stayed supporting Millwall like my dad – who is certainly not one of those Millwall thugs you read about, but his football team seldom makes him happy. Millwall got into the play-offs last season, but he was miserable because they only finished fifth instead of third. But I can talk, the prospect of Arsenal’s qualifying for the Europa League instead of the Champions’ League fills me with dread. And probably Hornby too.
This only made How to be Good even more disappointing. The protagonist, Katie, is a stupid bitch (yet another of these characters who are supposed to be doctors, but don’t seem to be intelligent enough to graduate from primary school), and her husband David is just annoying. Not quite annoying enough to make Katie’s nastiness reasonable, but annoying enough to make me want to stop reading about him. I didn’t stop, I stuck with this to the end, and it was a total waste of time. The only reason why Hornby merits a second star is because some of the descriptive passages are extremely well done. It’s the plot, characters and dialogue that are the problem.
The plot idea is very interesting at first glance. Katie has just started an affair because her husband is so horrible to her (not nearly as horrible as she is to him, but never mind that for the moment). Her husband is on the point of throwing her out (if I were him I’d be delighted to have such a good excuse for getting rid of her) but then he goes to see a man called GoodNews who has the gift of healing. GoodNews at first heals David’s backache, then he heals his mind. From that moment on, David is nice. He blames himself for the affair, and does all he can to make Katie happy.
Some of his attempts are amusing, it has to be said. And I suppose it is not unrealistic that Katie, after years of wishing her husband would be nice to her, discovers it’s not what she wants after all. But I do wish she’d appreciated it to begin with, and tried a bit harder to go on appreciating it. He’s trying to be nice, for God’s sake. She goes on all the time about how miserable David is, but she’s actually a lot worse.
One problem with a plot like this is you have to wonder, where’s it all going to go from here? Theoretically, there’s no reason why GoodNews can’t cure everyone in the world and make it a happier place. But once you’ve changed the whole world, how is the book going to end? ‘And they all lived happily ever after’? Fortunately, Hornby doesn’t take this route, but then he doesn’t really take any route at all. The story just meanders on and on, Katie becomes more and more annoying, until suddenly – to my great relief – the book comes to an end.
I hate the way Katie keeps saying ‘I’m a good person, I’m a doctor’. Okay, she’s not strictly a bad person. She doesn’t kill anyone. But neither she nor the new, nice David consider for a moment that some of the problems between them might have been her fault. Even if she had been a nice person, she’s unlikely to be blameless. No-one ever really seems to realise this.
Hornby is still one of my favourite writers ever though. Without him, I might not have ended up supporting Arsenal. I might have stayed supporting Millwall like my dad – who is certainly not one of those Millwall thugs you read about, but his football team seldom makes him happy. Millwall got into the play-offs last season, but he was miserable because they only finished fifth instead of third. But I can talk, the prospect of Arsenal’s qualifying for the Europa League instead of the Champions’ League fills me with dread. And probably Hornby too.
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