Tag Archives: four stars

The Year of the Flood – Margaret Atwood

flood

Yippee! It wasn’t long after I finished Oryx and Crake before I got my hands on The Year of the Flood – the second instalment in Atwood’s MaddAddam trilogy. Published six years after Oryx and Crake, it seemed Atwood felt there was a little more backstory to be explored in Jimmy and Crake’s surreal world, so, as I was expecting, the story jumped back to the beginning. Instead of focusing on Jimmy again, The Year of the Flood tells the life stories of two women: Toby, a woman raised in the ‘pleeblands’ (the bottom of the pile, so to speak) and trapped as a sex worker before joining a vegan and naturalistic cult, the God’s Gardeners, and Ren, a much younger woman who joins the same cult as a child and grows up happily within it, before leaving with her emotionally distant mother and eventually turning to sex work herself. Sounds pretty dark, and parts of it were. Oryx and Crake ends on a cliffhanger, and I knew that the story would eventually line up to that; not quite a continuation, but giving the pivotal scene at the end of Oryx and Crake a little more context.

Overall, it’s a closer look at the dystopian world Jimmy, Crake and Oryx were born and grew up in. As the two protagonists of the book are female, it provides an interesting insight into how women are treated in such a world, which isn’t given too much attention in Oryx and Crake, what with the plot mostly following Jimmy’s point of view. Plus, Jimmy had the privilege of growing up in a world where his parents were well-off and worked within the structure of the government; in TYotF we see what it’s like for those on the other side, how the poor living in the pleeblands cope and how they gain relief in a seedy and dystopian world. At times, the two women’s stories were quite horrifying – particularly Toby’s. I found myself getting quite upset by it, which is credit to Atwood, who paints a very real, very sympathetic picture.

Some of the characters who pop up in passing in Oryx and Crake are given their due backstory here. The best example is Amanda Payne, first introduced in Oryx and Crake as an artsy girlfriend Jimmy lived with briefly after graduating from university, here much more a significant character: Ren’s best friend who also joins the Gardeners as a young girl. We also learn much more about the ‘police force’ that popped up in Oryx and Crake: a sinister and corrupt entity. In O&C we remember them hounding Jimmy for information about his mother, resorting to rather perverse methods to gain information from him – he accepted this rather matter-of-factly, but admittedly he and Crake were integrated with them, living in the ‘Compounds’ with the government, scientisits, and general leaders of the dystopian society. As I had hoped for, The Year of the Flood goes into a little more detail about where Jimmy’s mother actually went (though, it turns out, it’s nowhere of any particular importance).

The problem with books like this is that once you spend so long identifying with particular characters it becomes difficult to connect with the situation through the eyes of different individuals. I found myself missing Jimmy and Crake almost painfully, particularly Jimmy. They do pop up in the story a fair bit as the book progresses, but we never see too much or see the world through Jimmy’s perspective again. The plot gave me a better sense of their age: the ‘Flood’ (what the Gardeners name the apocalypse) is described to take place in Year 25, coincidentally the age of Ren and Amanda, which would make Jimmy and Crake around 27 or 28 when society breaks down (I was on the right lines after all).

As the plot progressed, I lost interest in the two protagonists quite considerably. They seemed rather generic: I didn’t get a sense of much emotion out of them compared to how interesting Jimmy was in Oryx and Crake. Their portrayal also bothered me; Atwood is praised for successfully using the opportunity to flesh out female characters after their rather 2D representation in O&C, but the women here seem to have little character scope beyond their relationships with men – particularly Ren, who is shoehorned in as one of Jimmy’s old girlfriends. This felt VERY tacked on: Ren is supposedly a childhood friend of Jimmy’s and then a teenage girlfriend, but there is no mention of her in O&C (or if there is, it is very much in passing, with none of Jimmy’s teenage conquests having any particularly importance). This obvious inclusion is worsened by Jimmy supposedly suffering from his failed teenage romance throughout his life – we know this from what his other girlfriends tell Ren (including Amanda) – which makes little sense when we know what a cad Jimmy is with women in O&C (though, to be fair, Ren suspects he is simply lying to them all).

Despite being frustrated by how pathetically attached Ren was to Jimmy, it was somehow painfully accurate, too; I recognised the heartache Ren experienced a little too well, which might have been what turned me off it. As humans, do we have a willingness to avoid closure from a relationship, and is that one of the more pathetic aspects of our nature? Perhaps, and perhaps that’s why I hated it so much. We want to see literary our protagonists glossily strong and shameless, not suffering from the same damaged pride and pathetic pining we all do.

I got to the end very impatiently to reach the closing scene of Oryx and Crake, just so Jimmy could come back into the story properly (and, with any luck, we might go pack into his POV). We end on the same cliffhanger as O&C. So, Goodreads: four stars (not as good as Oryx and Crake, but very enjoyable nonetheless). How will it all conclude in MaddAddam? You’ll have to wait and see.

[Coming next: Beloved by Toni Morrison]

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The Narrow Road to the Deep North – Richard Flanagan

Richard Flanagan-The Narrow Road To The Deep North cover

I read this at around Christmastime last year; it’s an Australian novel that won the 2014 Booker, so it was on the gift list, of course. Got to admit, I’d never heard of Flanagan before I read this. I have since attempted one of his earlier books, which was so overwritten I couldn’t stomach it. So how come The Narrow Road to the Deep North caused such a stir? I confess: I had a bit of a love / hate relationship with this one, particularly with the cheesy writing – it was only when I got to the end did I realise what a powerful impact it had had on me, and I noticed how bloody miserable I was to finish it.

The plot follows Dorrigo Evans, a surgeon who becomes a Prisoner of War on one of the infamous Burma death railways in 1943. The story is not told chronologically but instead opens on Dorrigo as an old man, reflecting on his life. There is a lot of detail about his experience in the POW camp, with flashbacks to Evans’s earlier life and romance with his uncle’s young wife. Flanagan supposedly based the war plot points on his own father’s experience as a Japanese POW and wrote the novel as a tribute to him, which added an element of authenticity to the very jarring scenes (unfortunately, Flanagan’s dad died before the book was published). It was these sections, in particular, that were intensely moving, powerfully written and evocative, and also what drew me to Dorrigo as a protagonist – probably one of the best I’ve come across (for reasons I can’t put my finger on).

It’s a shame, then, that we had to endure the dodgy romance running alongside it. Dorrigo’s affair with his uncle’s wife Amy was occasionally so overdone it made me cringe, reading like bad erotica; it’s probably no accident that it made it into the shortlist for the Bad Sex Awards 2014 (though, to be honest, to be shortlisted for both the Booker and the Bad Sex Awards for the same book is an achievement any author with half a sense of humour would be proud of). At times the romance WAS written well – particularly in the early days, when both Dorrigo and Amy are torn between paralysing sexual tension and the implications of acting on it – but as the plot continued, it got worse and worse. Thankfully, these questionable areas were compensated by the quality of the POW camp sections, which were often so absorbing it was hard to put the novel down.

I’m unsure what it was about Dorrigo Evans that made him such a captivating protagonist. I certainly didn’t connect with him at the beginning, when we see him struggling under the weight of being a revered war hero (a title he doesn’t think he deserves), and being unfaithful to his wife. He is a flawed protagonist, but as the book progresses, it’s hard to dispute how much he did for his fellow prisoners in their terrible circumstances, using a combination of highly refined surgical skills, courage, and, well, common decency. After emerging from the camp, Dorrigo seems to find more fulfilment in suffering and trauma, which is perhaps an inevitable post-war attitude. His significant relationship with Amy happened prior to his time in the Burma death railway, and it made me wonder if the relationship would have had as much meaning had he found her afterwards. Indeed, they do cross paths years later, but neither choose to speak to the other – too much has passed since their affiar. Dorrigo is by no means the exclusive focus of the novel; Flanagan inhabits the minds of everyone involved, from fellow prisoners to Japanese officers, exploring the mind and mentality behind each individual.

It’s probably fairly morbid of me but I connected to Dorrigo the most during the times when he was suffering. There was one powerful instance in the camp when he is ordered to confirm a certain number of men are fit for work (read: fit for exhausting labour) when, in fact, the majority of men can barely stand up. As he haggles with the numbers, he is forced to hold up an ill man whilst being repeatedly slapped in the face for downright insisting (with his Hippocratic Oath in mind, no doubt) that the men’s health be protected. He’s concentrating so hard on standing upright, on keeping his weight balanced, on holding the man while feeling the painful blows again and again – it’s a shocking scene, and it’s easy for the reader to very intensely connect with Dorrigo.

The plot contained the occasional twist or surprise, but generally the structure meant you were expecting most of what was to come, and in that way it became a little more painful, perhaps. By the end I was a little bit obsessed with it. I strongly recall that moment of finishing it – at my sister’s house, which must have been close to a year ago – and feeling a great sense of despair, which, despite my horrendously long reading list, is a feeling I don’t have very often.

So, on Goodreads, it got four stars. Not the full five, owing to the dodgy romance, but you can be sure this is one story that will stay with me for a while.

[Coming next: The Year of the Flood by Margaret Atwood]

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The Miniaturist – Jessie Burton

the miniaturist

Jessie Burton had a good year in 2014. I mean, she’s probably still having a good time, sure, but to publish your debut and have it shoot to Waterstones’ Book of the Year in the same twelve-month period must be pretty exciting. I got hold of the book after seeing it in pride of place in Waterstones, and what a treat it was; be warned, spoilers ahead.

The novel is set in Amsterdam in the 1600s and follows 18-year-old protagonist Nella Brandt (née Oortman) as she prepares for a new life as the wife of illustrious merchant trader Johannes Brandt. At the start of the book she moves into his home, but, much to her displeasure, joins his cutting sister Marin and two uninterested servants, Corneila and Otto. Poor Nella’s having a bad time. She doesn’t know her husband ahead of their marriage – it was arranged for his wealth, and he’s much older – and, understandably, she is fairly miserable at first, in a house she feels unwelcome in. Johannes pays her little to no attention, with the exception giving her a grand wedding gift: an enormous miniature (or dollhouse) of their house. Nella comforts herself by ordering figurines and furniture from a miniaturist, who, as you may have worked out already, turns out to be pretty important.

As Nella makes her first order she soon discovers that the creations that arrive are not only spookily accurate – supernaturally so – but also, in some cases, prophetic. From time to time she sees a blonde woman watching her before disappearing into crowds, or often thin air, and Nella comes to the conclusion that this must be the miniaturist, with an insight on Nella’s life that is entirely unprecedented.

What holds the novel together is the writing. It’s beautiful and original, with Burton creating imagery in an effortless way. The novel is full of surprises and keeps you on your toes, though the biggest twist is rather obvious from the get-go: Johannes, despite being a fairly kind and affectionate man, won’t touch his arranged wife or consummate their marriage, which is pretty mystifying for Nella – until she walks in on him with another man. With sodomy being illegal and punishable by death at the time, she has to conceal his secret along with the others in the household, three people she warms to in spite of the setbacks they endure (something the miniaturist is constantly hinting at, if not directly causing).

A lot of the book circulates around the miniaturist; she herself is spooky, gothic and downright compelling – at least at first. Unfortunately, the pay off is poor. I had expected her to be paranormal or perhaps non-existent, but her backstory is simple and, in a word, underwhelming. I would also have liked to have seen more of her as a prophetess. There’s an eerie section of the book where a figurine of Johannes’ spurned male lover is cast out of the window and Nella retrieves it, preceding a dramatic showdown where the man himself breaks into their home and torments them. I wanted this to be a taste of what was to come; I wanted to see more of the figurines as voodoo dolls, not just bits of wood to spook Nella.

The small, well-developed cast of characters and swift plot meant I was guaranteed a pleasurable read whenever I picked it up. Still, I was disappointed it didn’t develop into something more. There was a lot of untapped potential there, but perhaps it could have easily turned into something cheesy and altogether predictable had Burton gone down that route. I’ve noticed there are a few criticisms of the novel that say Nella grew in maturity a little too easily and become much more clever (and business-savvy) than her situation would rightly allow. I can’t speak for the business side, but I didn’t find her rapid maturity unrealistic. Nella is chucked in at the deep as soon as the book opens, and that kind of thing can make or break a person. I relate to that, so while Nella’s quick ascension from miserable young bride to head of the household (protecting the family’s political and financial interests) is not as believable as it might have been, it’s not the worst flaw I’ve spotted in a novel.

A small treat for me: my sister invited me to a talk in London where two authors, two publishers and an agent were speaking about the fiction industry on the whole – with Burton on the panel. It was similar to a Hay talk, in that the authors spoke about the creations of their books respectively and how they found the overall experience. It was pretty special to greet Burton during the drinks and nibbles after the talk and to tell her how much I liked the book – plus, her advice was inspiring. Give it a few years and I hope to be on a panel like that – hopefully not there to discuss the worst ever plummet in book sales.

Goodreads review: four stars. One knocked off the full five for the way it rapidly fizzled out, but otherwise, a pretty perfect book.

[Coming next: The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan]

 

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The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher – Hilary Mantel

the-assassination-of-margaret-thatcher

Ah, the continuing success of Hilary Mantel. No doubt desperate to capitalise on the anticipation for her third Cromwell novel, Macmillan released a book of her short stories in 2014, with a similar book cover to Wolf Hall et al. Judging by the list of the stories’ origins at the back of the book, it appears that the only original story written specifically for this collection was the eponymous piece, the controversially-titled ‘The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher’. I’m not normally the biggest fan of short story collections – Nadine Gordimer being the exception – but I had very good things about this one, and the friendly Waterstones worker (damn it! They always get me!) talked me into it at the till. I mean, I hardly expected to be disappointed.

That said … I’m not sure it lived up to the hype. In fact, in realising what I disliked about these stories, I realised what I loved the most about her Cromwell novels: that they’re not autobiographical at all. Sure, like any writer she would have poured her wisdom and emotional experience into her fictional Cromwell, but there was no possible way I could have read it and thought, ‘well, this all sounds a bit too familiar.’ I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it in this blog before (probably), but I have a particular dislike for writers whose writing is obviously autobiographical, in that it just seems unimaginative. I’m well used to studying authors at great length and making note of every tiny habit and tic in their writing so I can waffle on in essays (or, well, blog posts). I like forgetting that they’re there.

I don’t know for sure, but I felt there were many autobiographical elements in TAoMT, which weakened it slightly. Of course, Mantel is such a good writer it’s almost obscene – no argument there. Yet what puts me off short stories is that they often follow a pattern of good writing and weak plots, without sufficient time (or pages) to really lead a story to its natural end. They always seem to end too soon. Was the potentially autobiographical element obstructive, here? Perhaps. The first story – ‘Sorry to Disturb’ – follows a woman living in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, in the 1980s – like Mantel – married but childless, and on medication for a condition – like Mantel – and obviously a talented author – like Mantel. Given that the name of the author isn’t mentioned and she is reading from and and commenting on a diary she wrote at the time, this story could be entirely based on fact. Mantel did publish memoirs about this particular time of life, so for all I know, this might have been an excerpt. Whilst the sexual and cultural politics makes for an engaging plot, the story fizzles out before it goes anywhere, exactly like it might do in real life – and perhaps exactly how it DID go down in real life. But it’s important for stories to be realistic, right? I’m not so sure, and it’s a struggle for me to justify why that is.

The second story, ‘Comma’, is the same, following two children in Derbyshire (judging by the dialect) – again, potentially autobiographical. In ‘Comma’ the children experience something so bizarre they cannot make sense of it, in the general way that children see something odd and can’t rationalise it in their heads, which was pretty frustrating for me. Mantel (or her narrator? Or Mantel?) never did make sense of the unique phenomenon but I, as a reader, needed that closure.

Some stories felt a lot more poignant than others. ‘The Heart Fails Without Warning’ was a lot stronger than ‘Offences Against the Person’. My favourite was the very small story ‘The Long QT’, where a man laments on the sudden death of his wife as a result of her stumbling in on him with another woman – it’s a lot more humorous than it sounds. I also felt close to ‘Terminus’, given my familiarity with Waterloo train station, and I can easily relate to that sickening panic of thinking you’ve seen your dead parent. The standout story is ‘The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher’, which is exactly what it says on the tin – set in the 1980s, a bystander is taken hostage in their own flat while a sniper plans an execution of Margaret Thatcher as she leaves a nearby private hospital. Perhaps not exactly what it says on the tin; this is a fictional attempt, after all, and the ending is left suitably vague. The overall book? Worth a read, but perhaps not one of the most memorable collections I’ll ever come across.

Goodreads, then: four stars. I would have given the stories themselves only three but the brilliant writing and astonishing visual detail bumped it up. Come on, Mantel, we need more Cromwell!

[Coming next: Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood]

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We Need New Names – NoViolet Bulawayo

68.Noviolet-Bulawayo-We-Need-New-Names

I first heard of this book at Hay Festival in 2013. As you might remember from my other Hay blog posts, the festival puts on regular talks called ‘Fictions’, where one or two authors are probed about the latest novels they are promoting. NoViolet Bulawayo was in front of a tiny audience (with Meike Ziervogel promoting Magda) talking about We Need New Names; the book sounded vaguely interesting at the time, but I didn’t really consider picking it up. Then, a few months later, the book – her debut novel – was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. Up against the mammoth contender The Luminaries it’s not overly surprising she didn’t scrape the top spot, but to be shortlisted is a pretty respectable start to a literary career, it’s got to be said. It wasn’t until last year that I had a chance to read it – no spoilers below.

The book follows 10-year-old Darling, a young girl growing up in Zimbabwe before being taken to the USA and spending her teenage years stateside. There’s no doubt an autobiographical element to that; Bulawayo also grew up in Zimbabwe, though she didn’t move to Michigan until she was a litte bit older. The novel is told in the voice of Darling, written in a simplistic style that’s easy to read – I raced through it in a matter of days – which is something particularly characteristic of African fiction written in English. In fact, certain sections reminded me of Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart (and the phrase ‘things fall apart’ was often used to describe the deteriorating state of Zimbabwe in WNNN).

At their Hay talk, Bulawayo and Ziervogel talked about writing about history from a fictional standpoint. In literature, you have to forget about facts and statistics, and instead submerge yourself into the story. Bulawayo said that writing about a crumbling society through the eyes of a child is powerful, as often children are the most vulnerable due to their ignorance and lack of control over what is happening around them. A child’s eye depoliticises a situation, meaning that the writer (and reader) must suspend their disbelief and look at the scenario through innocent eyes (even if they themselves have a lot of knowledge about it). It’s an effective technique but, personally, I’m not totally in love with it. It’s all right when you’re already familiar with a situation, but as an outsider with little or no knowledge it’s tricky to follow current affairs through the perspective of a child, considering children often have a warped understanding of what is happening or are simply uninterested in it. If I had done more research, maybe I wouldn’t feel that way about We Need New Names.

But then does that take away the point? There’s a poignant part in WNNN when the children take a local tragedy and turn it into a game, re-enacting it like a play. Darling’s voice becomes very adult at that point and we are subject to an astute description of the attackers, the victim, and the stoic faces watching the violence unfold with the knowledge that they are powerless to prevent it. When a BBC crew asks the children what game they are playing, one of her friends replies with (paraphrasing): ‘a game? No, this is real life.’ Seeing innocent children accept horrific violence as part of their normality is disturbing, to say the least.

My only criticism of the book is that it feels slightly rushed. It’s not very long, and if each character, very vivid in their own right, was given their due attention, it might feel a little more fleshed out. By the time the book ends we have only seen a brief glimpse into Darling’s life in America – I would have liked to have seen more of it, more of the trials and tribulations she faced there, as well as the generally confusing experience of growing up and going through puberty. Another thing that misled me was the timescale. When Darling was 10 and living a poverty-stricken life in Zimbabwe, her friends were talking about singing Lady Gaga, indicating that at that point in time, Gaga must have been fairly famous (to reach impoverished children in Zimbabwe, at least). However, a fair few years later (maybe 4 years?) when Darling is in America, she mentions a very recent scandal – when Rihanna was beaten up by her boyfriend Chris Brown. Lady Gaga released Just Dance (and began her climb to fame) in 2008, yet Rihanna was attacked by Chris Brown in 2009. Sure, it’s pedantic of me to point out, but given that there were very limited hints as to when the book was set, I relied on these cultural references to give it a framework. It felt a little jumbled.

Bulawayo mentioned at Hay that she was working on a collection of AIDS stories, again addressing a silence and taboo with a creative voice, on another subject that is personal to her. AIDS is touched on in WNNN, with it being described as ‘the sickness’ and presented as a real epidemic. I’m looking forward to seeing her approach to building stories around it, whenever it may appear.

Goodreads, then: four stars. It was written so well but the abruptness of the ending took it down a notch. I should be on the Booker committee at this rate.

[Coming next: The Assassination of Margaret Thatcher by Hilary Mantel]

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Anna Karenina – Leo Tolstoy

anna karenina

Anna Karenina only really caught my attention after the recent (2012) film, starring Keira Knightley. It’s famous for its costumes, mainly, considered ‘fashion porn’ – as were Keira’s gorgeous dresses on the promo circuit (Valentino? Erdem? Chanel? Elie Saab – my particular favourite? Check). I need to read more Russian literature in general, and Lord knows Tolstoy’s not exactly unheard of. Still, for my first go at a Russian novel (translated into English, I might add), a book close to 1000 pages seemed like a bold place to start. Spoiler-free review!

Anna Karenina focuses on a multitude of characters. At the heart is Anna, a charismatic, beautiful woman married to the amiable but stiff Karenin. Fairly early on in the novel she meets the youthful Count Vronsky, and soon begins an affair that compromises her entire life. Another character who receives a fair amount of the plot’s attention is Levin, a semi-autobiographical landowner who lives and works in the country, struggling with his largely disregarded views on agriculture and romantic progression with Kitty, a family friend who is reeling herself from Vronsky’s rejection of her and her own struggles to find an identity.

I read it in a month, and I’ve got to say, it didn’t feel like 900+ pages when I was reading it. All right, so the plot moves slowly, but it seems natural, with every setting and event having time to breathe. Each character is given his or her due attention, and alongside the events that heavily influence the plot you see the mundane day-to-day action and the smaller elements of their lives. This detail gives you a very clear idea of who the characters are and what their natures are like; it makes you wonder what will happen later and if you can predict their reactions to future events, almost as if you knew them in real life. Anna Karenina is not the only focus – rather each character is given their own arc, whether that’s finding romance, spiritual revelation, or progression in a political career.

The novel opens with an extramarital affair, with particular attention paid to the characters’ emotions. Straight away we see what is to come – and, perhaps more crucially, we see what the appropriate reaction was to adultery at the time. We see Anna convince her sister-in-law that forgiving and staying with her husband is the more practical course to take, and that their relationship can heal. Anna’s sympathy for the wronged party defies her later actions, or at least divides her conscience when she later engages in her own adulterous relationship. Yet at the same time she is fairly forgiving to the guilty party (her own brother, admittedly). Clearly her – and society’s – attitude towards adultery is not quite what it is today (in 21st Century England, at least).

Speaking of reading it in modern times… before reading Anna Karenina, I had no idea what Russian society was like in the 1870s. The novel is a fascinating study of the classes and social distinctions in Tolstoy’s Russian society (although he admittedly only focuses on the aristocracy), and also the way social attitudes are split into two camps. On the one hand, you have the rigid structure of Anna’s world that emphasizes a social importance and dignity in everyday life, but on the other hand you have Vronsky’s world of passion and hedonism, with little regard for consequence. Even with that small description, you can sense how dangerous it is for these two worlds to collide.

Vronsky is fairly dislikeable as a character. He puts his own feelings first and seems downright naïve to the eventualities of his actions; we see that fairly early on from the way he woos and then rejects Kitty. There is a telling scene where Vronsky acts like a bit of an idiot and doesn’t prepare adequately for a horse race. He bluffs his way through on pure good luck but mucks up a bit during the crucial moment and ends up ruining his horse, as well as losing the race. As a reader, you can sense that it’s pretty metaphorical. Is Anna the horse in their later relationship? A mare he tames but ultimately ruins with his own lack of foresight?

Anna is pretty dislikeable too, to be fair. The only character I sympathised with in that storyline was Karenin, Anna’s husband, fully aware of his wife’s affair and fairly reasonable about it from the beginning. He refuses to pander to high society gossip and trusts his wife: a healthy attitude, yet sadly one that doesn’t really work out for him. It’s unfortunate that in any kind of novel about a wife’s affair, the husband always suffers. It’s an old-fashioned perspective, of course, but there is always something emasculating about a straying wife (although Karenin’s romantic shortcomings are perhaps not presented on the same level as someone like Lady Chatterley’s Lover‘s Clifford Chatterley). Karenin experiences his own share of social disgrace as a result of the adultery, although Anna (naturally) suffers more.

Much of the novel concerns the breaking of social boundaries and norms; the characters constantly move away from what they are traditionally expected to do and instead do what they feel passionate about. A good example is Levin – during one of the nicest scenes in the novel, he abandons his post of simply watching and supervising the peasants’ work on his farm and instead gets stuck into the work himself, feeling a great sense of gratification and community as a result. Of course, Anna’s affair is the better example of breaking the mould – she moves away from the requirement to maintain a solid, steady marriage, and instead turns to passion.

Yet Anna Karenina did not feel like much of a love story. The structure didn’t help; after the initial flirtations, cautious whispers and guilty feelings between Anna and Vronsky, the book lurches forward in time to when they are in the heart of their affair. It seemed to me that the novel is much more about consequence than romance – indeed, consequences are what occupies conversation between Anna and Vronsky, not to mention the details of the relationship described by the omniscient third-person narrator, which includes the characters’ internal reflections. We don’t learn that much about how they feel about each other, but rather, what will happen as a result of their doomed affair. At the point of writing this part of the blog post I haven’t seen the film yet, so I don’t know for sure, but I have a strong feeling the cinematic adaptation will create much more of a love story than what was present in the novel (not least because a friend promised it’s chock-full of sex).

In fact, I’ve got to say; I didn’t care very much about Anna and Vronsky’s romance at all. I was much more interested in the secondary characters, with a particular fondness for Levin – his own romance with Kitty was much more heart-warming and interesting to read than Anna and Vronsky’s repetitive, destructive cycle. The blurb on my copy of the book reads that ‘[the novel is] evoking a love strong enough to die for’, but I’m not sure which love they’re referring to there. Just my opinion, of course. Levin and Kitty’s romance is supposedly based on Tolstoy’s own romance with his wife Sophia Behrs, so that might explain why there was a much more genuine sense of affection and companionship there.

I also found the book a fascinating look at parenthood, particularly in regards to how Russian aristocracy treated their children (not unlike how the upper classes would treat their children today, I expect) – in that I mean children were there to be admired at small intervals, as long as they were behaving well and not actually acting like children. In the novel, each parent has a different attitude to their children; Anna’s sister-in-law Dolly sees her children as a projection of herself, which explains why she is so besotted with them when they are well-behaved and altogether present a family portrait of love and fun, but gets angry and upset if they behave badly, particularly in front of guests. Anna has an interesting relationship with her own children – as the book progresses she grows more and more fond of her son Sergei (with Karenin), a love fuelled by separation (Anna has no hope of custody over Sergei once she leaves Karenin), but becomes increasingly distant towards her daughter Annie (with Vronsky), who is lovely but, according to her, still at that age where she is uninteresting, being too young to engage with the world around her. If I was writing an essay I would probably study how the two children and Anna’s attitudes towards them represent her relationships between the two men… but it’s a bit boggling to think about for one blog post.

It’s been adapted numerous times, but I chose to watch the recent and well-publicised adaptation that drew me to the novel in the first place – Joe Wright’s 2012 production, adapted from the novel by Sir Tom Stoppard (of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead fame) and starring Keira Knightley, Jude Law and Aaron Taylor-Johnson (as Anna, Karenin and Vronsky respectively). The film got mixed reviews from critics and only has a 6.6 average rating on IMDb, but I thought it definitely worth a watch (er, maybe just for the outfits).

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I’ve got to admit, it wasn’t half as bad as I was expecting (and loads more romance and sex), but I recognised why the critics didn’t like it. Wright staged the majority of the plot in a theatre; it had a rather Moulin Rouge-y feel to it, but the symbolism behind it being in a performance space didn’t sit well with what the book is actually about and the set was very distracting. At times it felt very self-aware, and one reviewer on IMDb summed it up as the director and his cronies going ‘look at us? Aren’t we clever?’ instead of creatively supporting the plot.

That said, I thought it was well-cast. Knightley was perhaps a little more flighty and youthful than the charming, dignified Anna from the book, but she was generally very good, and Jude Law made an excellent Karenin (the only role I’ve seen that makes him look unsexy – what a feat). Taylor-Johnson as Vronsky did occasionally look like a teenager with a moustache stuck on his face but I didn’t think he did as badly as the critics suggested he did. That might have been because I disliked Vronsky in the book, whereas some readers seemed to be utterly seduced by him (judging from their reviews). To be honest, the best in the cast for me was Matthew Macfadyen as Oblonsky, Anna’s brother, who was cheeky and warm and just the kind of man you’d expect in the role. Levin and Kitty were also well-cast, though I thought it a shame Levin’s internal struggles on what kind of landowner he was to be and what kind of career he would have didn’t get more attention. Still, you can’t stick everything in in the space of two hours or so.

Goodreads: four stars. Bring on War and Peace.

[Coming next: We Need New Names by NoViolet Bulawayo]

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Money – Martin Amis

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Ah, Martin Amis, the marmite man of 20th Century British literature, beloved and loathed by many. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that his books are beloved and the man himself is loathed, but that seems too black and white for Amis. Regardless; he’s a very famous author not hindered by the international acclaim that surrounds his literary father, author Kingsley Amis, but boasting plenty of talent of his own. Money (full title: Money: A Suicide Note) is considered by many to be his best work, but I confess that I hadn’t heard of it or read it before. In fact, it was merely a book I found on my dad’s shelf and decided to nick from him. Not that he knows that. Woops, sorry Tez. Anywho…

If you saw 2014’s Oscar contender The Wolf of Wall Street, you’ll get the gist of Money. Parties, alcohol, drugs, luxury locations, the best food and the best prostitutes money can buy – the two have clear parallels. John Self is the focus of Money, a man who appears to have a LOT in his pocket by working as a small-time commercial director (your guess is as good as mine) who spends his days hopping between London and New York to work on his first feature-length project, a Hollywood production with some of the USA’s biggest stars. During his jaunts back and forth across the pond, he faces a problematic love life, makes tedious but frequent visits to movie stars so he can stroke their increasingly bloated egos, and – you guessed it – spends lots of money. Every now and then he receives anonymous phone calls from someone watching him closely, taunting him and apparently trying to better him, with the sinister promise that they will meet one day. Self is a fairly selfish man (funnily enough!) and a very dislikeable character, with bad health and horrible attitudes. Still, you can’t really blame him for the latter when you see who else is in his life. Spoilers below.

Like The Wolf of Wall Street, the overall message here is that money doesn’t lead to happiness. Quite the opposite, in fact, when you put hedonism and material possessions before your own emotional health. Self has few friends, no real friends it seems, and the woman he loves – loves is a strong word, perhaps I will say the woman he’s closest to – is only with him for his wealth, a fact which he embraces. He pities her, but overall he pities himself, and there’s a telling moment when he watches some degrading porn that results in a ‘facial’ and he wonders who the real loser is – the female porn star, the male, or himself (the viewer). Even when you’re in a position of power, it’s a shallow world with little dignity. Looking at it from a modern perspective is interesting; Money was published in 1984 long before the days of social media, but today the world’s richest have the power to photograph and brag about their exploits online, quite literally putting a filter over their lifestyles to show them in the best possible lights. Are their lives as glossy and beautiful as their Instagram pages, or are they emotionally drained, too? We know from the first page how little Self enjoys his life – the clue is in the full title.

Not a lot happens in the book, but it’s saved by its fantastic style. The writing is infectious; you never want to stop reading. It’s somehow both flippant and extremely detailed at the same time, with a furious pace. Amis’s observations are original, witty, and often painfully accurate – a review on the back of my copy praises his depiction of the movie star ego, which I have to agree with. When Self meets Lorne Guyland, an established Hollywood actor he’s hoping to tie into his film project, the interaction makes you squirm, as Lorne’s inflated sense of importance wrestles with his insecurity. Yet for me, one of the most astute observations about movie stars and their occasionally inflated attitudes is as follows:

‘I replaced the receiver and stared at my lap. On it lay a cellophaned wallet of Guyland press handouts – this was where I’d scribbled his number. Running my eye down the page I saw that Lorne had, in his time, on stage or screen, interpreted the roles of Genghis Khan, Al Capone, Marco Polo, Huckleberry Finn, Charlemagne, Paul Revere, Erasmus, Wyatt Earp, Voltaire, Sky Masterson, Einstein, Jack Kennedy, Rembrandt, Babe Ruth, Oliver Cromwell, Amerigo Vespucci, Zorro, Darwin, Sitting Bull, Freud, Napoleon, Spiderman, Macbeth, Melville, Machiavelli, Michelangelo, Methuselah, Mozart, Merlin, Marx, Mars, Moses and Jesus Christ. I didn’t have the lowdown on every last one of these guys but presumably they were all bigshots. Perhaps, then, it wasn’t so surprising that Lorne had one or two funny ideas about himself.’

Is John Self based on Amis at all? I doubt it, but I always wonder if writing characters like these makes for a cathartic experience. Self is sleazy and misogynistic. His views are not those of reasonable men – he feebly attempts to rape his girlfriend numerous times, and points out disgusting observations about women around him – and  whilst I suspect Amis would never be so violent or demeaning (despite the odd misogynistic sound bite), I wonder if having an artistic excuse to be as vulgar as possible (while emphasising the kind of miserable, pitiful character underneath the vulgarity) is satisfying. I suspect the same of actors, when they are required to portray someone so unlike themselves, so utterly despicable they could never comprehend behaving that way… there must be a small release in that.

Amis actually inserts himself into the book as a fictional character, and it all gets very meta from there. John Self initially hates Amis – hates writers in general – but gradually warms to him and eventually brings him in to adapt the screenplay that occupies the plot of the novel. At various points, the fictional Amis goes into monologues about authors, narrators, and story structures in general, such as the sense of moral duty authors have to protect their characters’ interests – it’s obvious here that he’s speaking through his fictional self about his own creation John Self – and also what the end of the novel feels like, conveniently placed near the end of Money. It felt very odd (and almost a little self aware?) to read – something dad Kingsley agreed with, supposedly lobbing the book across the room as a result. The fictional Martin Amis was the closest thing John Self had to a real friend throughout the entire novel. You might say he was the only sane one in it, observing the destruction from an external, impartial viewpoint – not unlike the way an author would.

Oddly, Amis seems to pop up in a fictional form in a few books – in Ian McEwan’s Sweet Tooth, McEwan’s writer character Tom Haley performs a reading at an event that Amis is also taking part in. Given the obvious parallel between McEwan and Haley, it’s likely that that entire section is based on a real encounter between Amis and McEwan (two very prominent writers, although Haley remarks how inferior he feels in the presence of the talented and charming Amis) – however, I also wonder if it’s a tongue-in-cheek nod from McEwan, as if he knew of Amis’s tendency to insert himself into fiction and wanted to pay a little tribute. Then again, I haven’t read any of Amis’s books apart from this one so I’m not sure if it’s something he does fairly often, or if this is just a one-off (that McEwan might not have even registered). Still, it struck me as an amusing coincidence. In fact, the whole novel had a McEwan-ish air about it – particularly with a twist at the end. I’m half expecting the two of them to buddy up and write a novel about themselves (that might have already happened…)

So, the aforementioned twist. Well, I guess the first twist is the fact that the full title doesn’t quite reflect the plot: Self does try to off himself at the end, but doesn’t succeed. The main twist, however, is that the movie Self has spent all his time working on wasn’t actually a real movie; rather he was being conned by his henchmen, who fed him his own money back under the pretence that this was fresh payment from a production company. Presumably this plunged him into debt, for I have no idea how a commercial director had that kind of credit to wave around in the first place. The scam and the ending itself aren’t well-explained and I closed the novel with many questions. There is a pinnacle scene where Self confronts the man who had been taunting him down the phone, but the scene is confusingly described and didn’t make a lot of sense in the grand scheme of things. I originally expected the voice at the end of the telephone to be metaphorical – Self’s own conscience berating him for his actions – but instead it was attributed to a character who wasn’t even that closely connected to him. Very odd, indeed.

It was adapted for the BBC in 2010, with Nick Frost in the lead role – partner-in-crime to Simon Pegg (my favourite ever actor) and a talented and charismatic guy in his own right. Frost said in a Reddit AMA interview that it was his favourite role to play, and indeed Amis praised his depiction of Self, which is exciting as Frost doesn’t flex his serious acting skills that often. I’m interested to see what the BBC would do with the famous text. I haven’t yet found a version I can stream or download, but I’ll be sure to check it out when the opportunity arises

So. Not an overly exciting plot but saved by its fantastic style – four stars on Goodreads from me. Good save, Amis.

[Coming next: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy]

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Throwback Thursday! Dracula – Bram Stoker

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Welcome to my first NON-dystopian Throwback Thursday post! Don’t worry, there will be plenty more of those to come, but for now we’re focusing on a very different kind of frightening and miserable tale – a horror story, to be exact. Arguably THE greatest horror story that’s ever been told (or one of them, at least): Bram Stoker’s chilling vampire tale, Dracula.

Dracula is possibly the only book I’ve ever read that genuinely terrified me (at least, since I outgrew Goosebumps). The creepy book cover didn’t help – I took the liberty of including it in this blog post, so you can look and shudder with me. The image is not really Count Dracula – it looks closer to the cinematic image of Nosferatu, an unauthorised adaptation of Dracula, renamed in the attempt to dodge copyright laws – but it portrays the chilling nature of the novel, so I’ll go with it.

To sum up… Dracula is told through various diary excerpts from three characters: Jonathan Harker, a young solicitor; John Seward, a doctor; and Mina Harker (née Murray), Jonathan’s wife. Each character has a different perspective on the strange, supernatural events unrolling around them: Jonathan is reeling from a visit to a castle in Transylvania to help a count purchase property in England, where he experienced some very horrible events; Dr Seward is perplexed by a patient of his acting very strangely; and Mina is watching her friend suffer from a mysterious illness that seems to drain her of blood and leaves her with tiny puncture marks on her neck. I wasn’t aware of it at the time but critics imply that this shifting of perspective is a powerful feature of horror fiction – if multiple characters experience the same terrifying phenomena, the reader immediately assumes that there’s no way one of them can be lying.

The novel opens with Jonathan’s description of his time in Transylvania, before the plot switches to England (Whitby, to be exact) where a ship has washed ashore. From there, all hell breaks loose. Soon Van Helsing, a man with knowledge of and experience with vampires, spots the signs and comes to help. With his guidance, a group band together to take down Count Dracula. Of course, Dracula isn’t too happy about this, and it soon becomes a game of riddles and psychological distress as they all go head to head.

This is a cracking novel by today’s standards, but it wasn’t a bestseller when it was published. It was no doubt appreciated at the time, but not until cheeky rip-off Nosferatu made an appearance did the novel’s popularity grow, 10 years after the author’s death. Stoker was a respected figure in society during his life, mainly owing to his work with the famous actor Henry Irving and his theatre work. He’s also tied to other famous novelists of the period, flitting around with Oscar Wilde and being distantly related to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (of Sherlock Holmes fame). I was unsure whether to class this as an Irish or British novel; I settled with British owing to the fact Stoker lived in London and wrote the novel during his time here – plus, nearly all of the plot takes place in Whitby and London. Dracula defined our traditional incarnation of the vampire (big cape, pointy teeth, turns into a bat, yadda yadda), although it’s safe to say the vampires of the 21st century are playing fast and loose with this stereotype. Forms of vampire had been around for hundreds of years before Stoker, but it was only in the 18th century that the V word was bandied around; John Polidori’s The Vampyre was the main predecessor to Dracula. In recent years, it seems that vampires are having a bit of a comeback – but, as I said, they’re not quite the same creatures we saw stalking a fictional Victorian England.

So how do they compare? You might remember me directing this kind of question at two authors during Hay Festival. It’s interesting that on my copy of Dracula the blurb mentions that the book probes into ‘the dark corners of Victorian sexuality and desire’. Do I agree? Actually, I’m not sure. The Count doesn’t seem to be particularly sexualised in the novel itself; he’s certainly not described as being attractive, although he does target young women, so there’s that. He also bites the neck, which could have a sexual undertone. In fact there is only one scene where I felt as if there was some kind of sexual tension building, during a close encounter with a particular young woman, but I won’t go into that for fear of spoiling. But I am reading it with a 21st century eye – to the prude Victorian audience, happy to stifle sexual desire until their wedding nights, this kind of escapism might have been the hottest thing they’d ever laid eyes on. Did this early, sexual association carry the legend of the sexy vampire all the way to 2014?

For if it was ambigious in 1897, it certainly isn’t ambiguous now. We’ve got the tedious yet popular Twilight novels, where the lead vampire’s desire to rip apart and eat the protagonist is presented as a metaphor for wanting to rip her clothes off and ravish her, and that’s probably as tame as it gets – there’s True Blood, there’s The Vampire Diaries, there are all kinds of shoddy Twilight rip-offs where mortals (normally girls) canoodle with vampiric men. Hell, even Fifty Shades of Grey, arguably THE sexiest book of the last decade, was initially written as Twilight fanfiction. The vampire is the sexiest supernatural creature of all, if pop culture is anything to go by. Admittedly, we tend to sexualise EVERYTHING these days (angels? Check. Werewolves?? Check. Zombies?!? Check…) but vampires have a certain je ne sais quoi that keeps them in the limelight, perhaps playing into the human subconscious desire for submission. Modern incarnations of the vampire evoke him (and it’s nearly always a him) being young and dashing – even the modern adaptations of Dracula are casting young, hunky male actors in the lead role, deviating far away from Stoker’s elderly Count, complete with handlebar moustache.

Dracula infamously washes up in Whitby, which I visited for the first time last year. We went at around Christmas time on what felt like the coldest, windiest, most blustery day ever, which made it absolutely perfect. Standing in the graveyard by Whitby Abbey at the top of a great hill where the wind whistles between the tombstones, all with faded, gothic letters scratched into every grave – now that’s where you set a horror novel. Stoker must have felt the same, for it was a visit to Whitby in 1890 that partly inspired his great novel. Perhaps he caught it on a similarly brilliant day – or maybe Whitby is always like that.

There are countless film and television adaptations (cough cough, Nosferatu), but the most famous is probably the 1992 version with Gary Oldman cast as the titular vampire. Oldman was only 34 at the time – a far cry from Stoker’s description of Dracula, and in fact 2 years younger than the latest revival of the Count, an NBC series starring 36-year-old Jonathan Rhys Meyers – but given Oldman’s versatility as an actor, I was sure the character wasn’t in unsafe hands. I haven’t had a chance to catch it yet (and I’ve heard they take great liberties with the plot), but I look forward to checking it out, at some point.

So, my Goodreads review: four stars. Another great classic for my shelves.

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The Road – Cormac McCarthy

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I’d heard of The Road before I started reading it, mainly because it snagged the Pulitzer prize and also had a famous adaptation a few years ago (with Viggo Mortensen in the lead role), but I have to say, when I began, something threw me off. That something was the memory of Ian McEwan’s Sweet Tooth – if you read my review, you’ll know that in McEwan’s book there was a character who was a writer. This writer actually wrote a book (er, in the book) called From the Somerset Levels, which was about a man and his daughter journeying across the horrible, post-apocalyptic wastelands of England and encountering all sorts of horror and cruelty on their way (it is also mentioned that we never find out their names). The Road is about a man and his son journeying across the horrible, post-apocalyptic wastelands of America and – funnily enough – we never find out their names. Coincidence? Well, probably, but a strange coincidence at that.

Because I didn’t enjoy Sweet Tooth that much (and the writer character in that book was pretty unbearable), I couldn’t help but feel as if my first impressions were tarnished somewhat. The Road is an extremely famous post-apocalyptic novel that’s considered to be a work of genius, so I did wonder why McEwan had chose to have a character write a book so similar – but who was copying who? I read that McEwan wrote a short story near the start of his career that had a similar storyline to From the Somerset Levels, and The Road wasn’t published until 2006. Hmm. I’m inclined to say that it’s a mighty coincidence – although perhaps the incredible reception The Road received inspired McEwan to revisit his own story.

But moving aside from Sweet ToothThe Road is – as I described – a dark, occasionally horrifying tale of courage and companionship in a broken world. Spoiler-free review, here. The man and the boy move across an America that’s coated in ash, with wild murderers and cannibals stalking the road they travel on. We don’t find out exactly what happened to make the world the terrifying place it’s become (I’m guessing some kind of nuclear war, or perhaps an effect of global warming), nor how long it’s been like that for, but it’s evidently a number of years – there are flashbacks that seem to indicate that the woman (the man’s wife, I assume, who is dead when the story starts) gave birth to a child during the early days who grew up to become the boy (and I’d hazard a guess that he’s around eight to ten years old, judging by his speech and mannerisms). There is some very jarring imagery that stays with you long after you close the book, and McCarthy creates a very real, very unnerving sense of horror – some of the imagery I still think back on and recoil, and I read it months ago. I’ve got to say, it doesn’t make me overly excited to watch the film…

Given that I’m working on my own post-apocalyptic novel right now, I read The Road with a slightly more critical eye than I would with many other books on this blog. At first, I’ll admit, I wasn’t overly impressed. The Road kicks off with despair, horror, and desperation, which characters only too aware of their own mortality and living in fear every minute they’re awake. My own PA book, in comparison, tries to juggle the sense of fear and horror of a dystopian world with the optimism and good humour associated with humans who spend a lot of time together. Now, I am in no way trying to pretend that my book is anywhere NEAR the same league as The Road (crikey! It really is not) but throughout writing I was so aware of what a challenge it was to balance the terrors of a broken world with the hedonism and general naivety of the youth. It’s a different angle, but I couldn’t help thinking that maybe writing about constant fear and despair would be… well, the easy route to take? But as I moved through the book and the tension built up, it’s impossible to fault the skilful way it’s crafted.

For The Road is masterfully tense. Every now and then we are shown exactly what the man and his son are up against, and it’s very grim indeed. At any moment you expect them to be attacked, and at times when the man and the boy are briefly separated (the narrative follows the man’s point of view for the most part), you’re left chewing your nails until they’re reunited. It’s remarkable how easy it is to feel attached to these characters, particularly the boy, who had the right mix of wise insight given to him by his situation and the innocence and naivety of a child. With Viggo Mortensen taking on the role as the man, I was looking forward to feeling that same sense of attachment during the 2009 film, directed by John Hillcoat.

The Road movie image

I put off watching the film for a while, mainly because I knew it would be unbearably bleak, and it takes a lot to willingly watch a film you know will depress you. But when I got round to it, overall, I was impressed. Some of the more horrifying scenes in the novel were just as horrible (if not more so) in the film, although I was glad they cut out one particular image – I won’t say what it is, as that’s for you to discover, dear reader (lucky you!). My only criticism is that the film was perhaps a little too long, particularly when you consider that it’s a very short book, but Viggo Mortensen was naturally brilliant as the man, and Kodi Smit-McPhee put in a very good performance as the boy, too, which is no easy feat for a 13-year-old, considering the harrowing material to work with. In general, it’s a good adaptation of a bleak and beautiful book.

On Goodreads, then: four stars from me. I’ve got a post-apocalyptic hangover.

[Coming next: Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel]

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One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel García Márquez

One Hundred Years of Solitude

One Hundred Years of Solitude has been on my reading list for a LONG time, but I’ve never got around to reading it before now. It’s arguably the greatest and most influential novel to come out of South America, a classic in every sense of the world. García Márquez became an international phenomenon as a result of writing it, gaining awards worldwide (and the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982). I actually went to a discussion at Hay Festival last year with travel writer Michael Jacobs, who met García Márquez during his travels around Colombia not long ago. Jacobs mentioned a story (I can’t remember if he witnessed it first hand or if he was just told about it) about García Márquez reading One Hundred Years of Solitude after he’d developed dementia and saying ‘whoever wrote this book… he must be a genius.’ Despite the sadness, there’s something maddeningly sweet about that, the author of one of the greatest novels of all time reading the book HE wrote and appreciating its beauty from an unknown perspective.

García Márquez is Colombian and the book was originally written in Spanish, but it has been translated in 37 languages since it was written in 1967. I read the English version which was translated by Gregory Rabassa. I am always a tiny bit wary of novel translations, particularly when a book is described as being poetic (as this is) – how much of the sentiment and wit is lost in translation? – but I still could appreciate the beauty and craftmanship of the writing, even if it no doubt differed slightly from its original. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when the novel is set. The characters have a very basic understanding of science and consider ordinary objects such as pianos and magnets some kind of magic, but as the town is isolated, it’s hard to work out if they are in sync with the rest of the world or very behind. Certainly it’s not set in modern times. This review does contain spoilers, so turn away now if you want to read it with a fresh perspective.

The book is set over a century (funnily enough!) and focuses on a town named Macondo, with our leading characters being the founding family who dwell within it (the Buendías). Followed over several generations, we witness the daily life of this family and the various tribulations that the separate characters go through throughout their lives. The novel pretty much defined the genre of magical realism, subtly blending fantasy and magic with realistic rural life in Macondo. Starting with the founders of the family, José Arcadio and his wife Úrsula, we learn about how the two of them founded the town and created a family line that was doomed by repetitive destruction and selfish whims.

On the first page of my copy of the book was a family tree, which was something I had to constantly refer back to throughout reading. Following the family line might not have been such a problem if the men didn’t all have the same names: every male character in the Buendía line was either called José Arcadio or Aureliano. This STILL might not have been a problem if only one or two were alive at a time, but naturally-speaking all of the characters were blessed with extremely long life – Úrsula in particular lived well over 120 years. I say naturally-speaking as some of the characters did die young if they were killed or murdered, but the ones who were left to stick it out did a proper job of it (which has become another feature of magic realism). Despite the confusion of a child living at the same time as his great-great-grandfater (and every man down the line having the same name), the characterisation didn’t really suffer. Whilst the characters were similar owing to the repetitive nature of the Buendía family (more on that later), each one seemed to have its own distinctive personality and desires. There’s a theme that all the José Arcadios are rather feisty and loud and all the Aurelianos are more calm and pensive, which is interesting as at one point identical twins are born, one named José Arcadio Segundo and the other Aureliano Segundo, and the theory circulates that they were perhaps switched at some point during childhood due to the way they grew up with the personalities attributed to the other namesake.

Why one hundred years of solitude? Loneliness and isolation are very prevalent themes in the novel, initially describing the town which is independent and out on the sticks, but eventually each of the characters seems to succumb to solitude as a result of their actions or state of mind. Indeed, despite the fact all of the characters have ordinary desires and more than enough opportunity for love, the only characters who maintain happy and stable relationships are the two founders and the two right at the very end of the line. Both of these couples are connected by incest (disturbingly, incest is a common recurrence for the Buendías) and whilst Úrsula fears her children will be born with curly pig tails as a result, it isn’t until the end of the line that a child is born with such a mutation.

Like many classics, the novel breaks the ‘show, don’t tell’ rule of writing. This rule is pretty solid – for example, if you’re reading a novel, it’s better to learn about a character’s personality by the way they speak or their body language, as opposed to reading an outward description of what the character is like. From a writer’s perspective, this a way of engaging the reader on a much more emotional level than just having them as a passive listener to a story. Whilst I agree with this rule and feel constantly aware of it in my own writing, I’m always uncertain about its place in the classics. When you’re studying writing, breaking this rule is ingrained in you as being one of the worst things you can do – but, as I said, SO many classics are written this way, some being considered the greatest novels of all time (this one is a good example, but there are plenty). I do believe it made One Hundred Years of Solitude that little bit more difficult to read, but I also think that due to the magic realism and the rural, South American setting, the narrative began to resemble a spoken fairytale, which made it into something even more poetic. It’s not an easy book to read by any stretch, but it’s incredibly rewarding. I read it very slowly (it was a great companion for the commute) but my friend Misha’s mum said she found it very difficult indeed, despite her son’s positive reaction. Indeed, my dad spoke of it very highly, so it’s interesting to hear such a variety of perspectives of it.

It doesn’t have a film adaptation as far as I’m aware, which doesn’t particularly surprise me. The beauty of magic realism is the way fantasy is very subtly interwoven into a book’s plot, but I think the subtlety might be lost on a screen, although there are a lot of themes that a film adaptation would be able to explore and turn into powerful and moving on-screen entertainment. There are also some sections that painted such a vivid picture in the mind that would look visually stunning (particularly the moments of war and rebellion), but at this point, however, García Márquez hasn’t sold the rights, and it’s looking like he never will.

So, Goodreads review. One Hundred Years of Solitude was an incredibly powerful book and one I won’t forget, but the pace and difficulty of reading it bumps a star off. I also felt as if the end was dragging (it could have ended around 100 pages before it did). With that in mind, four stars. Still, I’m ready to tackle some more of García Márquez soon – I’ve got a lifetime’s work to catch up on.

[Coming next: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carré]

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