After many years of writing, I secured a publishing deal with Text Publishing in Melbourne, Australia, in 2011 for the Rephaim, a four-book YA paranormal/thriller series.
The first book, Shadows, is out now in Australia and New Zealand and will be published in the UK (with Indigo/Orion) and the US/Canada (with Tundra Books) in 2013.
Haze (Rephaim #2) is due in mid 2013.
So now, between my writing commitments and my day job, I’m finding it tricky to keep regular posts going on my two book review blogs (this one and Other Worlds).
I’m still reading as much as ever (I can’t help it – I love it!), so, if anyone’s interested in what books I’m enjoying, the best place to find my (mostly shorter) reviews is over at Goodreads.
I’ve also set up a new blog, where I’ll periodically post on things I discover/experience along the way, on this new journey of mine.
You can check it out here: www.paula-weston.com.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Caleb's Crossing - Geraldine Brooks
There’s a lot to like about Geraldine Brooks’ new novel Caleb’s Crossing.
Like The People of the Book, it explores the issues associated with culture clash– on this occasion between the Native Americans and the Puritan settlers on the island now known as Martha’s Vineyard.
It’s a fictionalised account of the life of Caleb Cheeshahteaumauk, the first Native American to graduate from Harvard College, told through the eyes of Bethia, the daughter of the island’s Calvinist Minister.
Bethia first meets Caleb as a 12-year-old, when they become friends in secret – influencing each other in ways that inadvertently shape their futures. It’s only when Caleb comes into her home to study alongside Bethia’s priggish brother Makepeace that their lives become more entwined and complex.
Bethia’s father is committed to converting the Caleb’s Wampanoeg tribe to his strict faith, and while he has some success, he continually faces the wrath of the Wampanoeg’s own spiritual leaders.
Meanwhile, Bethia’s own encounters with the island’s original inhabitants leave her longing for a spirituality as visceral and raw as theirs, so far removed from her own austere experience of religion.
The theme of westerners learning to connect to nature through contact with less “civilised” peoples is not original, but Bethia’s awakening is still effective.
I found the early ideological conflict between the two cultures particularly interesting, with the nature of the story prompting the age-old questions about free will versus predetermination.
While the characterisation of Caleb is fictional, Brooks has still been able to use her meticulous research skills to paint a picture of what life was like for those early Puritan settlers – particularly women.
She also keeps Bethia’s narrative voice true to the time, with archaic speech patterns and terms that add authenticity to the story.
I’d probably say I appreciated this story more than I enjoyed it. Because while I have no doubt the tragedies and suffering Bethia and Caleb experience in the novel reflect the harsh realities of the times (physical, spiritual and emotional), I found it all a little too bleak in parts.
Still, readers who love well-researched, fact-based, historical fiction won’t be disappointed.
Like The People of the Book, it explores the issues associated with culture clash– on this occasion between the Native Americans and the Puritan settlers on the island now known as Martha’s Vineyard.
It’s a fictionalised account of the life of Caleb Cheeshahteaumauk, the first Native American to graduate from Harvard College, told through the eyes of Bethia, the daughter of the island’s Calvinist Minister.
Bethia first meets Caleb as a 12-year-old, when they become friends in secret – influencing each other in ways that inadvertently shape their futures. It’s only when Caleb comes into her home to study alongside Bethia’s priggish brother Makepeace that their lives become more entwined and complex.Bethia’s father is committed to converting the Caleb’s Wampanoeg tribe to his strict faith, and while he has some success, he continually faces the wrath of the Wampanoeg’s own spiritual leaders.
Meanwhile, Bethia’s own encounters with the island’s original inhabitants leave her longing for a spirituality as visceral and raw as theirs, so far removed from her own austere experience of religion.
The theme of westerners learning to connect to nature through contact with less “civilised” peoples is not original, but Bethia’s awakening is still effective.
I found the early ideological conflict between the two cultures particularly interesting, with the nature of the story prompting the age-old questions about free will versus predetermination.
While the characterisation of Caleb is fictional, Brooks has still been able to use her meticulous research skills to paint a picture of what life was like for those early Puritan settlers – particularly women.
She also keeps Bethia’s narrative voice true to the time, with archaic speech patterns and terms that add authenticity to the story.
I’d probably say I appreciated this story more than I enjoyed it. Because while I have no doubt the tragedies and suffering Bethia and Caleb experience in the novel reflect the harsh realities of the times (physical, spiritual and emotional), I found it all a little too bleak in parts.
Still, readers who love well-researched, fact-based, historical fiction won’t be disappointed.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
The Handmaid’s Tale is unsettling, disturbing and riveting – and even though it’s 25 years old, it remains a powerful morality tale that’s as relevant now as when it was written.
It’s set in an alternative future where fertility rates are down due to the effects radiation, and a Puritanical new society known as the Republic of Gilead has found a repellent way to deal with the situation.
In Gilead, if you are a woman, you are either a Wife or a Martha (domestic help), or banished to the colonies (destined to die from radiation) – or, if you’re unmarried and proven to be fertile, you become a Handmaid.
It’s a role that strips a woman of everything that makes her who she is – her name, her history, her personality and her appearance, hiding her face and body from the world via an oppressive dress code.
The Handmaid’s Tale is told through the eyes of Offred, a young woman who knows that if she rebels from this role of “breeder”, she will die brutally and be hung on the Wall. She’s part of the first generation of Handmaids, who remember life before the war and the oppressive Gilead society.
As a narrative character, Offred is complex and mesmerising. Her observations and daydreams show how conflicted and confused she is – torn between the institutionalised life of fear she’s come to know, and the memories of a past life, before the war, when she took her freedom for granted.
She is haunted in turn by paranoia, yearning and grief, all the while knowing she has no power, and her life – such as it is – could be crushed in an instant if she makes a wrong step.
And yet, she still feels desire, still longs to be recognised as an individual, to be touched and loved again. Which is why, when two of the men in her life start to covertly treat her differently, she’s willing to risk her life just to feel “real” again.
Atwood explores the extreme outcome of what might happen if a form of religious fundamentalism (deeply rooted in Old Testament teaching) had opportunity to create its own society, unfettered.
Part of the experience of the story is learning, morsel by morsel, how Offred became a Handmaid. As in any great story, the answers are not simple, and Offred is pragmatic about the hand life has dealt her.
She doesn’t share her story in chronological order, which helps build the tension, and it’s not until page 183 that we really begin to understand how the Republic of Gilead came to be – and get a hint of why.
The true horror of Gilead is effectively understated, even in its most brutal and disturbing moments. In fact, when I finally understood the reality of Offred’s role – and how she performs it – it was the civility of the institutional abuse that was most abhorrent.
There are also no winners in the Gilead society. Men may have the power, but the very nature of their community means there is no place for peace and security – only duty and fear. And it’s worse for those who understand what it is they have given up in creating their brave new world.
When this novel appeared 25 years ago, the fight for the rights of women was still fresh in the collective memory of the Western world, which no doubt gave it added impact. Particularly as the Gilead society created by Atwood is founded on many of the key principles espoused by those who opposed feminism: anti-abortion, anti-assisted fertility, anti-homosexuality, and the fervent belief that women belong only in the home.
I imagine it captured the fears of the feminists of the day about where anti-feminism could lead. It also seems to capture the fears of US society in general about the nuclear threat, and it’s impact on civilisation.
Today, it is no less a warning about religious fundamentalism of any kind, particularly doctrines that strip women of their identity.
The novel finishes with a clever postscript about the Republic of Gilead, presented as a conference session several centuries later, which puts the rest of the novel into a fresh context. (Interestingly, just as we do today when looking back at past eras in history, these academics are able to excuse the behaviour because of the “necessities” of the time.)
The Handmaid’s Tale is certainly disturbing at times, but it’s also an incredibly powerful novel that reminds women of our value. There’s enough grist in this novel to keep book clubs and literary students discussing, debating and analysing it for weeks.
Oh, and while the journey is often distressing, the novel ends on a note of hope.
It’s set in an alternative future where fertility rates are down due to the effects radiation, and a Puritanical new society known as the Republic of Gilead has found a repellent way to deal with the situation.
In Gilead, if you are a woman, you are either a Wife or a Martha (domestic help), or banished to the colonies (destined to die from radiation) – or, if you’re unmarried and proven to be fertile, you become a Handmaid.
It’s a role that strips a woman of everything that makes her who she is – her name, her history, her personality and her appearance, hiding her face and body from the world via an oppressive dress code.The Handmaid’s Tale is told through the eyes of Offred, a young woman who knows that if she rebels from this role of “breeder”, she will die brutally and be hung on the Wall. She’s part of the first generation of Handmaids, who remember life before the war and the oppressive Gilead society.
As a narrative character, Offred is complex and mesmerising. Her observations and daydreams show how conflicted and confused she is – torn between the institutionalised life of fear she’s come to know, and the memories of a past life, before the war, when she took her freedom for granted.
She is haunted in turn by paranoia, yearning and grief, all the while knowing she has no power, and her life – such as it is – could be crushed in an instant if she makes a wrong step.
And yet, she still feels desire, still longs to be recognised as an individual, to be touched and loved again. Which is why, when two of the men in her life start to covertly treat her differently, she’s willing to risk her life just to feel “real” again.
Atwood explores the extreme outcome of what might happen if a form of religious fundamentalism (deeply rooted in Old Testament teaching) had opportunity to create its own society, unfettered.
Part of the experience of the story is learning, morsel by morsel, how Offred became a Handmaid. As in any great story, the answers are not simple, and Offred is pragmatic about the hand life has dealt her.
She doesn’t share her story in chronological order, which helps build the tension, and it’s not until page 183 that we really begin to understand how the Republic of Gilead came to be – and get a hint of why.
The true horror of Gilead is effectively understated, even in its most brutal and disturbing moments. In fact, when I finally understood the reality of Offred’s role – and how she performs it – it was the civility of the institutional abuse that was most abhorrent.
There are also no winners in the Gilead society. Men may have the power, but the very nature of their community means there is no place for peace and security – only duty and fear. And it’s worse for those who understand what it is they have given up in creating their brave new world.
When this novel appeared 25 years ago, the fight for the rights of women was still fresh in the collective memory of the Western world, which no doubt gave it added impact. Particularly as the Gilead society created by Atwood is founded on many of the key principles espoused by those who opposed feminism: anti-abortion, anti-assisted fertility, anti-homosexuality, and the fervent belief that women belong only in the home.
I imagine it captured the fears of the feminists of the day about where anti-feminism could lead. It also seems to capture the fears of US society in general about the nuclear threat, and it’s impact on civilisation.
Today, it is no less a warning about religious fundamentalism of any kind, particularly doctrines that strip women of their identity.
The novel finishes with a clever postscript about the Republic of Gilead, presented as a conference session several centuries later, which puts the rest of the novel into a fresh context. (Interestingly, just as we do today when looking back at past eras in history, these academics are able to excuse the behaviour because of the “necessities” of the time.)
The Handmaid’s Tale is certainly disturbing at times, but it’s also an incredibly powerful novel that reminds women of our value. There’s enough grist in this novel to keep book clubs and literary students discussing, debating and analysing it for weeks.
Oh, and while the journey is often distressing, the novel ends on a note of hope.
Friday, April 15, 2011
The Passage - Justin Cronin
Note to self: not a good idea to read an apocalyptic novel while watching horrifying real-life footage of earthquakes, tsunamis and potential nuclear disaster.
Anxiety over the future of humanity aside, The Passage by Justin Cronin is an engaging and compelling read. It’s kind of Stephen King’s The Stand meets Cormac McCarthy’s The Road – a horror/literary hybrid, delivering the best of both labels.
At 784 pages, it’s definitely an epic, starting slowly and then steadily escalating the tension through the story’s two main time periods (before and after the destruction of civilisation).
The story is set in an alternate (though not entirely unrealistic) not-too-distant future. In early chapters, we get snippets of what the world has become: war is still raging (and America is up to it’s neck in it), the continental US is in lock down, with checkpoints throughout the country, and another hurricane has completely destroyed New Orleans.
The US Army, desperate to find an edge in a seemingly endless war, is playing around with a virus found deep in a South American jungle that promises to create the perfect soldier (when will they learn?).
It’s no surprise that it all goes bad (the virus turns its victims into virtually indestructible blood suckers, and we’re not talking the sexy vampire variety here – think more I Am Legend).
What is a surprise is how Cronin lets this story unfold, with multiple points of view – all of value and all providing rich layers to a meticulously constructed story, and fully fleshed characters.
The first part of The Passage brings together some of the test subjects, mostly death row inmates. But then the mad scientists inexplicably decide to bring in a 10-year-old girl, Amy.
The first line of the novel, gives away that Amy is going to be with us through the journey: "Before she became The Girl From Nowhere – The One Who Walked In, The First and Last and Only, who lived a thousand years – she was just a little girl in Iowa, named Amy."
We know early on that Amy is special, and that she’s reacted differently to the virus to the other test subjects, but it takes another chunk of the book before we start find out what it all means.
Fast-forward a century after the test subjects escape and destroy civilisation as we know it, and the setting is the Colony, an outpost of humans who have learned to live in a world overrun with “virals”.
This group thinks it’s the only society left in the US – possibly the world. Harnessing what electricity they can from existing infrastructure, they manage to keep the lights on every night, the only thing keeping them safe from the soulless killers that infest the landscape outside.
With the Colony, Cronin creates a realistic society, complete with its own customs and its own version of human history of the “Time Before”. They don’t fully understand how the virals came to be, and don’t even really care. All that matters is keeping the lights on.
Initially, the jump forward in time left me missing Amy –such a prominent character earlier on – and her relationship to key characters.
But Cronin provides new characters to care about – whose paths will soon cross with Amy (and some other familiar characters) – setting them on a journey that will not only change their lives, but possibly the world.
Cronin makes very effective use of non-linear story-telling, using different narrators and different narration styles (including journal entries being read a millennia later).
He also knows how to build tension. As a myriad of plot threads start to come together in the last third of the book, the action heats up and the tension really kicks in.
There are a few diversions and frustrating plot turns, but they all play a role in building this world and, assumedly, set the scene for future books.
Because, after nearly 800 pages – and a story arc that seemed to be coming to a natural conclusion – The Passage ends without resolving some key plot points.
After staring at the last page, swearing and feeling robbed, I did a quick Google search and was relieved to discover this is only the first of a planned trilogy. A handy thing to know up front, because – in the context of it being a first instalment – The Passage provides enough closure to warrant tackling this book before the next novel is available.
The Passage is a well-written, character-driven novel that works as a post-apocalyptic horror story (there are some pretty gruesome moments, so don’t think Cronin has gone soft on the horror element) and as a study of humanity.
Anxiety over the future of humanity aside, The Passage by Justin Cronin is an engaging and compelling read. It’s kind of Stephen King’s The Stand meets Cormac McCarthy’s The Road – a horror/literary hybrid, delivering the best of both labels.
At 784 pages, it’s definitely an epic, starting slowly and then steadily escalating the tension through the story’s two main time periods (before and after the destruction of civilisation).The story is set in an alternate (though not entirely unrealistic) not-too-distant future. In early chapters, we get snippets of what the world has become: war is still raging (and America is up to it’s neck in it), the continental US is in lock down, with checkpoints throughout the country, and another hurricane has completely destroyed New Orleans.
The US Army, desperate to find an edge in a seemingly endless war, is playing around with a virus found deep in a South American jungle that promises to create the perfect soldier (when will they learn?).
It’s no surprise that it all goes bad (the virus turns its victims into virtually indestructible blood suckers, and we’re not talking the sexy vampire variety here – think more I Am Legend).
What is a surprise is how Cronin lets this story unfold, with multiple points of view – all of value and all providing rich layers to a meticulously constructed story, and fully fleshed characters.
The first part of The Passage brings together some of the test subjects, mostly death row inmates. But then the mad scientists inexplicably decide to bring in a 10-year-old girl, Amy.
The first line of the novel, gives away that Amy is going to be with us through the journey: "Before she became The Girl From Nowhere – The One Who Walked In, The First and Last and Only, who lived a thousand years – she was just a little girl in Iowa, named Amy."
We know early on that Amy is special, and that she’s reacted differently to the virus to the other test subjects, but it takes another chunk of the book before we start find out what it all means.
Fast-forward a century after the test subjects escape and destroy civilisation as we know it, and the setting is the Colony, an outpost of humans who have learned to live in a world overrun with “virals”.
This group thinks it’s the only society left in the US – possibly the world. Harnessing what electricity they can from existing infrastructure, they manage to keep the lights on every night, the only thing keeping them safe from the soulless killers that infest the landscape outside.
With the Colony, Cronin creates a realistic society, complete with its own customs and its own version of human history of the “Time Before”. They don’t fully understand how the virals came to be, and don’t even really care. All that matters is keeping the lights on.
Initially, the jump forward in time left me missing Amy –such a prominent character earlier on – and her relationship to key characters.
But Cronin provides new characters to care about – whose paths will soon cross with Amy (and some other familiar characters) – setting them on a journey that will not only change their lives, but possibly the world.
Cronin makes very effective use of non-linear story-telling, using different narrators and different narration styles (including journal entries being read a millennia later).
He also knows how to build tension. As a myriad of plot threads start to come together in the last third of the book, the action heats up and the tension really kicks in.
There are a few diversions and frustrating plot turns, but they all play a role in building this world and, assumedly, set the scene for future books.
Because, after nearly 800 pages – and a story arc that seemed to be coming to a natural conclusion – The Passage ends without resolving some key plot points.
After staring at the last page, swearing and feeling robbed, I did a quick Google search and was relieved to discover this is only the first of a planned trilogy. A handy thing to know up front, because – in the context of it being a first instalment – The Passage provides enough closure to warrant tackling this book before the next novel is available.
The Passage is a well-written, character-driven novel that works as a post-apocalyptic horror story (there are some pretty gruesome moments, so don’t think Cronin has gone soft on the horror element) and as a study of humanity.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Room - Emma Donoghue
Great stories tend to involve either nail biting tension, beautiful language or a plot so profound it moves the reader to tears.Rarely do you find a novel that delivers all three, but Emma Donoghue’s Room manages to do so – and with surprising originality.
The story is told through the eyes of five-year-old Jack, who lives with Ma in a place with a locked door and a skylight, which he knows only as Room. For Jack, Room (and everything in it) is his entire universe. He has no understanding there is a reality outside of what he has experienced – or of a world outside Room.
Room is similar to John Boyne’s The Boy In The Striped Pajamas in that readers understand far more about what’s going on than the narrative character.
We know very early on that Ma has been held prisoner by a man we know only as Old Nick, and Jack is the product of her imprisonment. And she has protected her son by reinventing their existence so it seems perfectly safe and normal to Jack.
But when circumstances force Ma to reveal the truth, she can’t help but turn that world upside down if they are to have any chance of a different future.
It’s not giving too much away to say that Ma and Jack must come up with a plan to escape. And the planning and execution of their plot make for the most intense and stressful 100 pages of a novel I’ve ever read.
Seriously. I was reading this section of the book during my lunch break on a particularly stressful day at work and went back to the office more wound up than before I left! It’s unbearably tense, mostly because of Jack’s innocence and courage, and what’s at stake for both he and Ma.
It’s the deep love between Jack and Ma that drives this story (much the same way Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is driven by the relationship between the Man and the Boy).
The idea of a woman and child being kept prisoner in a suburban fortress is not original – an alarming number of these sorts of unspeakable stories seem to feature in the news each year. Yet Donoghue has found an original perspective from which to tell it: that of a five-year-old.
Through Jack’s eyes, Room is not a place of horror. It’s his world and he’s comfortable in it. He is a true innocent. So when Ma must finally risk telling him about the real world, she has to do so using the language and world view Jack is familiar with.
Jack is a sweet and intelligent boy. He’s also completely – and unknowingly – institutionalised. So when change comes he faces his own existential crises. As does Ma, who learns freedom is never simple.
Although Room is somewhat of a tense journey, it is a surprisingly gentle story with a truly beautiful message. It asks questions about truth and reality, and the nature of sacrificial love, and does so without sentimentality.
My tears at the end of this book were not because it broke my heart, but because it moved me as only great stories can. Room is a profound novel, and I know it’s another of those stories that’s going to stay with me for a very long time.
(As an aside: Ma and Jack live in a truly sustainable way inside Room. They only receive deliveries from Old Nick once a week, so must re-use and recycle virtually every single item that comes into Room. It’s quite fascinating to see how much can be done with so little when there's no other choice…)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Ransom - David Malouf
You don’t have to have read Homer’s Iliad to appreciate David Malouf’s short novel Ransom.While it provides a companion piece to Homer’s epic tale, it works just as well as a stand- alone novel, thanks to Malouf’s well drawn characters and poetic prose.
Ransom provides a back story to an event that features only briefly in Homer’s poem: that of Priam, King of Troy, asking for the body of his slain son from the Greek warrior Achilles.
In Malouf’s imaginings, Priam is inspired by the gods to do something unprecedented: he decides to strip himself of all royal trappings and military protection, and go to Achilles – man to man, father to father – and ask for the return of Hector’s body.
Against all the pleas of his family and advisers, Priam sets out with a great treasure (the ransom for his son’s corpse), accompanied only by a carter and his two mules.
Through the journey to Achilles’ camp and his meeting with his son’s killer, Priam begins to see his world anew. Even the great Achilles, still grieving the death of his friend Patroclus, is affected by Priam’s actions. And both realise they have much in common as leaders, soldiers, men and fathers.
Although Ransom is rich with mythology and meticulously researched (but unobtrusive) historical detail, it is grounded firmly in the strengths and weaknesses of the human spirit.
Both Priam and Achilles are driven by guilt and grief. Achilles expresses his with violence and rage while Priam finds the strength to humble himself before his enemy. In doing so, Priam discovers the joys found in the world by lowly men like his attendant – simple pleasures he can never experience as King.
Ransom is a gentle story, but Malouf slowly and expertly builds tension, to the point this literary gem is also a page turner.
This is a book where every line and passage can be savoured – not just for the beauty of the language, but the context in which it is written.
At only 219 pages, Ransom is well worth a read for anyone who appreciates great story telling and the poetry of language. (And I love the cover!)
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Beatrice and Virgil - Yann Martel
You know when you read a novel by Yann Martel you’re going to experience the story in a variety of ways.
There’s the story on the page, the story off the page, and your own intellectual and emotional responses to the experience.
As it was with Life of Pi, so it is with Beatrice and Virgil, a complex, fascinating and at times disturbing novel. Like its Booker-winning predecessor, Martel’s latest novel explores the nature and power of narrative.
Beatrice and Virgil is the story of a famous, award-winning writer, whose attempts to write an allegory about the Holocaust – accompanied by a non-fiction essay on the same topic – are rejected by his publisher. Angry and frustrated, he turns his back on writing, until a mysterious package leads him to a taxidermist.
The taxidermist is struggling to finish a play he’s been writing, featuring a donkey and a howler monkey called Beatrice and Virgil (named after characters in Dante’s Divine Comedy).
Henry is initially fascinated more by the gruff old man and his collection of meticulously mounted animals than he his with the play. But he’s slowly drawn into the strange piece of drama, especially when he suspects the play has the same intention as his failed novel.
Martel has said in recent interviews that he spent years writing Beatrice and Virgil, starting out wanting to write a play, a novel, and a flip book (with the “flip” side being a non-fiction essay). As it turns out, he’s managed to combine all three.
While not a flip book, there are elements of essay in the story, as Henry grapples with his own failings to combine fiction and non-fiction in a single tome, and muses on the dearth of fiction on the Holocaust (quietly establishing the basis for Martel’s own novel).
There are also numerous scenes from the taxidermist's play (provided out of chronological order) that become increasingly disturbing. The play itself initially feels like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, until the reality of Beatrice and Virgil’s situation is fully revealed.
Henry’s reaction to their suffering is compounded by the fact he sees the “real” Beatrice and Virgil among the mounted animals in the taxidermist’s workshop.
There are layers of ideas here. Martel explores the concept of “real” and “true”, the nature of life and death, and offers a parallel between the taxidermist and a novelist: both require respect for the subjects, both make choices that impact perception, and both must have an eye to detail to remain faithful to “truth”.
Martel challenges readers in ways we don’t always recognise until later. In Life of Pi, the scene with the flesh-eating island challenged our ability to suspend disbelief. Here he challenges our perception of the Holocaust – on an emotional level.
Through a series of surprising and shocking scenes (in the taxidermist’s play and Henry’s own life), it feels like Martel is asking: Do you understand? Do you really understand?
Like Life of Pi, Beatrice and Virgil is a story that stayed with me long after I finished it. Not just because of the unique combination of narrative techniques, or the intriguing plot, or even the suspense that slowly builds … but because of how I felt when I read those final chapters.
Life of Pi explained
There’s the story on the page, the story off the page, and your own intellectual and emotional responses to the experience.
As it was with Life of Pi, so it is with Beatrice and Virgil, a complex, fascinating and at times disturbing novel. Like its Booker-winning predecessor, Martel’s latest novel explores the nature and power of narrative.
Beatrice and Virgil is the story of a famous, award-winning writer, whose attempts to write an allegory about the Holocaust – accompanied by a non-fiction essay on the same topic – are rejected by his publisher. Angry and frustrated, he turns his back on writing, until a mysterious package leads him to a taxidermist.The taxidermist is struggling to finish a play he’s been writing, featuring a donkey and a howler monkey called Beatrice and Virgil (named after characters in Dante’s Divine Comedy).
Henry is initially fascinated more by the gruff old man and his collection of meticulously mounted animals than he his with the play. But he’s slowly drawn into the strange piece of drama, especially when he suspects the play has the same intention as his failed novel.
Martel has said in recent interviews that he spent years writing Beatrice and Virgil, starting out wanting to write a play, a novel, and a flip book (with the “flip” side being a non-fiction essay). As it turns out, he’s managed to combine all three.
While not a flip book, there are elements of essay in the story, as Henry grapples with his own failings to combine fiction and non-fiction in a single tome, and muses on the dearth of fiction on the Holocaust (quietly establishing the basis for Martel’s own novel).
There are also numerous scenes from the taxidermist's play (provided out of chronological order) that become increasingly disturbing. The play itself initially feels like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, until the reality of Beatrice and Virgil’s situation is fully revealed.
Henry’s reaction to their suffering is compounded by the fact he sees the “real” Beatrice and Virgil among the mounted animals in the taxidermist’s workshop.
There are layers of ideas here. Martel explores the concept of “real” and “true”, the nature of life and death, and offers a parallel between the taxidermist and a novelist: both require respect for the subjects, both make choices that impact perception, and both must have an eye to detail to remain faithful to “truth”.
Martel challenges readers in ways we don’t always recognise until later. In Life of Pi, the scene with the flesh-eating island challenged our ability to suspend disbelief. Here he challenges our perception of the Holocaust – on an emotional level.
Through a series of surprising and shocking scenes (in the taxidermist’s play and Henry’s own life), it feels like Martel is asking: Do you understand? Do you really understand?
Like Life of Pi, Beatrice and Virgil is a story that stayed with me long after I finished it. Not just because of the unique combination of narrative techniques, or the intriguing plot, or even the suspense that slowly builds … but because of how I felt when I read those final chapters.
Life of Pi explained
Friday, May 7, 2010
Come and hear Nick Earls at Fitzy's Tavern
As part of Australian Library Week, Logan Libraries is hosting best-selling and much-loved prolific Australian author, Nick Earls, at Fitzy's Tavern, Loganholme on 21 May (6.30pm).Nick's a great speaker, so whether you've read his books or not, he's always entertaining (check out my review of last year's The True Story of Butterfish).
The author of the popular Zigzag Street, Bachelor Kisses and Perfect Skin writes humourous popular fiction about everyday life. The majority of Earls' novels are set in Brisbane. At this Behind the Books event, Nick will tell his best stories of the things that have happened along the way with writing, touring etc.
This is a coup for Logan Libraries, so if you're within driving distance - come along! The ticket price of $17.50 includes nibbles. And of course, Fitzy's has some lovely wines for sale at the bar. :)
Tickets available through the Logan Entertainment Centre on 3412 5626 or online.
(Just helping out my good buddy and fellow book-lover Janet Poole, who's organised this event.)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Road - Cormac McCarthy
How to describe The Road? It’s as brilliant as it is harrowing; as tender as it is brutal…The overwhelming sentiment of McCarthy’s award-winning masterpiece is best summed up in one of the book’s many insightful lines: “The frailty of everything revealed at last.”
But, despite its bleak premise, The Road is ultimately a story of hope.
It’s the story of a father and son (known only as “the man” and “the boy”) trekking across a post-apocalyptic America in a desperate struggle for survival.
Every waking moment in their scavenger existence is consumed by the need to find food, clean water and dry shelter.
Whatever event is responsible for the destruction of civilization – evidently man-made – was so devastating the ash is still falling years later, contaminating water, blocking out direct sunlight and creating a perpetual winter.
Early on, we know there are threats from unseen strangers in this bleak landscape, and when the reality of that threat is revealed, it is shockingly clear just how barbaric the world has become.
Disaster has brought out the worst of human nature among survivors. But it has also brought out the best.
In the midst of this horrific, nihilistic existence, the father and son share an unshakable bond. The man’s love for the boy is so tender, it’s palpable. As is his desperation to protect him. And the boy returns that love unconditionally, despite his almost constant state of fear.
As the full extent of their plight becomes obvious, you can’t help but question why - in the face of such a seemingly senseless struggle – do they keep fighting to survive? Why care for each other? Why keep living?
If the question is how to be human in an inhumane world, McCarthy answers it through this relationship. The pair share a tenderness that’s illogical and impractical in their brutal world, and yet neither questions it. It is what helps them “carry the fire”.
Even as they scavenge, the man and boy retain a sense of dignity and morality. Or at least, the boy clings to his father’s moral code tightly enough that it reminds the man how he should be.
Like All the Pretty Horses, The Road looks at the duality of human existence.
McCarthy’s vision of a post-apocalyptic world – where cities lie in ruins, medical care is non existent, starvation is a very real threat and the rules of civilization have collapsed – is frighteningly believable. Like, just how dark the night would be with the sky hidden behind ever-present clouds, and the fear of the most simple of illnesses.Most frightening is the fact this vision of the future is perhaps not so far-fetched…
McCarthy’s sparse prose sets the perfect tone for this story and, as always, he offers up evocative imagery:
“By day the banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a lamp.”
I finished The Road a week ago and I still can’t get it out of my head. Not because of its bleak brutality – although some of that imagery will linger for a while too – but because of its beauty.
The Road is heartbreaking and heart-pounding. The tension is at times unbearable. And yet, ultimately this is a powerful story about love and humanity that moved me to tears. I couldn’t put it down, and I can’t recommend it enough.
(So yes, Ink-stained Toe-poker, I get why you love this book so much. I wish I’d read it years ago.)
One last thought: the film version of The Road is due out on DVD in coming weeks, and I can’t wait to see Viggo Mortensen in the lead role. I suspect he will be perfectly dignified and heartbreaking as the man.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Peter Temple's Truth - expletive inspiring...
There’s a very good reason critics have been falling over themselves to praise Peter Temple’s new novel, Truth: it’s sublime.
It’s not often I read the last page of a book, close the cover and use an expletive to express how good it was. (The colourful language was partially a flow on of the abundance of profanity in the book, and mostly the fact it really was the best way to describe how impressed I was).
Temple is a master at fusing literary and genre writing. Truth is a gritty page-turning crime novel. It’s also a surprisingly moving study of the frailty of machismo. The Australian Review’s Peter Craven said last year that The Broken Shore “is a crime novel the way Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses is a western”.
Truth has been described as sequel of sorts to Temple’s award-winning 2005 novel, The Broken Shore. But while it features some of the same characters (and even gives a nod to his earlier fictional creation, Jack Irish), it can be read as a stand alone story.
The central character is Stephen Villani, a peripheral character in The Broken Shore, who is now the head of Homicide for the much maligned Victorian Police. Over a few scorching summer days, Villani must face personal and professional crises as he simultaneously deals with a series of brutal murders, corruption in his own ranks, and the disintegration of his family, all while bushfires bear down on Melbourne.
It all starts with the murder of a young woman in the city’s newest luxury high-rise, followed by horrific torture killings of three hard-core drug-dealing criminals. As Villani and his fractured team investigate, he finds himself heading into murky political waters.
Villani’s world is populated by politicians on the knife edge, charismatic entrepreneurs, well-connected journalists and seedy underbelly criminals.
For those unfamiliar with Temple’s sparse prose, it can take time to settle into his rhythm and storytelling style.
As a reader, you just have to dive in and hang on, even if you have no idea who’s in a particular scene or even why. He’s a realist in the true sense. In reality, we don’t have internal monologue to provide exposition, and so it is with his characters. But patience is rewarded – often spectacularly.
Although there are crimes to be solved – and Temple gets to them – he’s primarily concerned with Villani’s personal challenges. Truth is about fathers and sons, and damaged relationships. It’s about hard men and the frailty inherent in them. It’s about authority and power, and the way men measure each other and demand respect.
When it comes to dialogue, Temple is a master. So much is conveyed with so few words. Villani, in particular gets some wonderfully wry lines.
When he asks his offsider, Bickerts about wellness spas, the detective replies:
“Respect your body. Think positive thoughts. Live in the moment.”
Villani: “What if the moment is absolutely shit?”
Or when the forensics guy gives his report about a crime scene: “Man near entrance is shot in the head at close range from behind. The other two, multiple stab wounds, genitals severed, other injuries. Also head and pubic hair ignited, shot, muzzle in mouth. Three bullets recovered, 45 calibre.”
Villani: “So you can’t rule out an accident?”
There are definitely a lot of characters – too many, to be honest – but every one and every piece of information provided is important. Nothing here is superfluous to the story. All the dots connect in the end. And brilliantly so.
Melbourne’s politicians, media and police hardly come up shining (and recent headlines make the bleak picture painted in Truth all the more disturbing), and yet Temple offers redemption for drug-crippled city in the form of honest, if not heavily flawed, men and women.
Truth had me marveling at its cleverness and honesty, and left me with a great sense of satisfaction at how it all came together. (As mentioned earlier, it also left me foul mouthed for a day or two – Villani and his mates certainly don’t talk sweetly to each other…).
I loved the Jack Irish series (particularly Temple's debut Bad Debts), and enjoyed The Broken Shore, but Truth is now without question my favourite novel, from one of my favourite authors.
It’s not often I read the last page of a book, close the cover and use an expletive to express how good it was. (The colourful language was partially a flow on of the abundance of profanity in the book, and mostly the fact it really was the best way to describe how impressed I was).
Temple is a master at fusing literary and genre writing. Truth is a gritty page-turning crime novel. It’s also a surprisingly moving study of the frailty of machismo. The Australian Review’s Peter Craven said last year that The Broken Shore “is a crime novel the way Cormac McCarthy’s All the Pretty Horses is a western”.
Truth has been described as sequel of sorts to Temple’s award-winning 2005 novel, The Broken Shore. But while it features some of the same characters (and even gives a nod to his earlier fictional creation, Jack Irish), it can be read as a stand alone story.
The central character is Stephen Villani, a peripheral character in The Broken Shore, who is now the head of Homicide for the much maligned Victorian Police. Over a few scorching summer days, Villani must face personal and professional crises as he simultaneously deals with a series of brutal murders, corruption in his own ranks, and the disintegration of his family, all while bushfires bear down on Melbourne.It all starts with the murder of a young woman in the city’s newest luxury high-rise, followed by horrific torture killings of three hard-core drug-dealing criminals. As Villani and his fractured team investigate, he finds himself heading into murky political waters.
Villani’s world is populated by politicians on the knife edge, charismatic entrepreneurs, well-connected journalists and seedy underbelly criminals.
For those unfamiliar with Temple’s sparse prose, it can take time to settle into his rhythm and storytelling style.
As a reader, you just have to dive in and hang on, even if you have no idea who’s in a particular scene or even why. He’s a realist in the true sense. In reality, we don’t have internal monologue to provide exposition, and so it is with his characters. But patience is rewarded – often spectacularly.
Although there are crimes to be solved – and Temple gets to them – he’s primarily concerned with Villani’s personal challenges. Truth is about fathers and sons, and damaged relationships. It’s about hard men and the frailty inherent in them. It’s about authority and power, and the way men measure each other and demand respect.
When it comes to dialogue, Temple is a master. So much is conveyed with so few words. Villani, in particular gets some wonderfully wry lines.
When he asks his offsider, Bickerts about wellness spas, the detective replies:
“Respect your body. Think positive thoughts. Live in the moment.”
Villani: “What if the moment is absolutely shit?”
Or when the forensics guy gives his report about a crime scene: “Man near entrance is shot in the head at close range from behind. The other two, multiple stab wounds, genitals severed, other injuries. Also head and pubic hair ignited, shot, muzzle in mouth. Three bullets recovered, 45 calibre.”
Villani: “So you can’t rule out an accident?”
There are definitely a lot of characters – too many, to be honest – but every one and every piece of information provided is important. Nothing here is superfluous to the story. All the dots connect in the end. And brilliantly so.
Melbourne’s politicians, media and police hardly come up shining (and recent headlines make the bleak picture painted in Truth all the more disturbing), and yet Temple offers redemption for drug-crippled city in the form of honest, if not heavily flawed, men and women.
Truth had me marveling at its cleverness and honesty, and left me with a great sense of satisfaction at how it all came together. (As mentioned earlier, it also left me foul mouthed for a day or two – Villani and his mates certainly don’t talk sweetly to each other…).
I loved the Jack Irish series (particularly Temple's debut Bad Debts), and enjoyed The Broken Shore, but Truth is now without question my favourite novel, from one of my favourite authors.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Three novels explore music, fame and intimacy
It’s never fair to compare novels, but it’s hard not to when three books come out around the same time and each – on face value at least – cover similar territory.
In this case, it’s formerly famous musicians dealing with the legacy of fame, each working towards some sort of emotional redemption and relationship maturity.
I’m talking about The True Story of Butterfish by Nick Earls, Juliet Naked by Nick Hornby and 88 lines about 44 women by Steven Lang.
All three central characters were part of the creative force of their respective bands, and all three have sought out some form of seclusion and anonymity to “recover” from their experiences with fame.
In The True Story of Butterfish, Curtis is a keyboard player returning to Brisbane to escape the glare of publicity following the split of his mega-selling band Butterfish. In a quiet suburban street, Curtis tries to concentrate on his new role as a producer, slowly reconnecting with the real world around him.
But things get a little messy when he gets to know his neighbours: an attractive single mum recovering from a bitter divorce, her gothic teenage son, and her 16-year-old daughter, who thinks the only way to connect with Curtis is through sex.
Curtis’ attempts at a “normal life” are further complicated when Butterfish’s hard rocking lead singer turns up on his doorstep unannounced.
With any Earls story, Brisbane itself becomes a character, but this can actually be distracting as a reader when it’s your own home town.
Earls is a very likable writer – he’s always a favourite at festivals and after seeing him at last year’s Brisbane Writers Festival I know why – and of the three muso-focused novels, this is certainly the gentlest and safest.
On the surface, Julie Naked is another of Nick Hornby’s trademark lad lit offerings about a man whose relationships take a backseat to a more pressing obsession.
The man is Duncan and his obsession is Tucker Crowe, an American singer-songwriter from the 80s. Tucker has lived as a recluse for 20 years, but thanks to the power of the internet, his fans have been able to keep his music alive. They call themselves Crowologists, and Duncan is their king.
His long-term girlfriend Annie has ignored the cracks in their relationship for too long, so when a stripped-back version of Tucker’s best known album is released, Duncan’s slavering reaction to it finally pushes her over the edge.
She writes a scathing review on Duncan’s blog, much to his horror. But on the other side of the Atlantic, Tucker himself reads the review, respects it, and makes contact with her…
Ultimately this is Annie’s story, although we do get chapters alternating between her perspective and that of the two men.
Through Juliet Naked, Hornby explores the nature of creativity and fan obsession, but it’s also about loneliness and the struggle for intimacy. It features Hornby’s trademark wit and insights. And – like High Fidelity – made me want to trawl through my music collection and reacquaint myself with my favourite albums (in a non-obsessive way, of course…).
The capacity for emotional intimacy and honesty is the driving force of Steven Lang’s excellent 88 lines about 44 women.
Like Earls’ Curtis, the central character is a keyboard player-songwriter who has returned to a place of his youth solace and escape – in this case the bleak Scottish Highlands.
Lawrence Martin was once part of one of the biggest bands in the world, but it all fell apart after the death of his model-actress wife in calm waters not far from Sydney.
This intelligent and well crafted novel is less concerned about the music and Lawrence’s drug-fuelled career than it is with issues of male sexuality and how men find – and lose – intimacy with lovers, family and friends.
88 lines about 44 women (named after a song by The Nails) asks the questions: “Are all men emotionally disconnected? Does true intimacy bring redemption or is it the other way round?”
Despite the title, the novel is really about two women: the beautiful but damaged wife who compounded his emotional frailty, and his intelligent and well-grounded new neighbour, who may his hope for the future.
When a call from his former best friend and songwriting partner reveals a past Lawrence’s has omitted to share with the locals, he finally attempts to deconstruct his past experiences and how they’ve influenced his ability to be intimate.
As a narrative character, Lawrence is articulate, insightful, painfully honest and frequently vulnerable. Even in his self awareness, his blindspots are obvious, and as a reader, you hope he works them out.
For me, 88 lines about 44 women was the pick of the above novels, purely for its rare insight into the male psyche and the skill with which Lang uses words.
In this case, it’s formerly famous musicians dealing with the legacy of fame, each working towards some sort of emotional redemption and relationship maturity.
I’m talking about The True Story of Butterfish by Nick Earls, Juliet Naked by Nick Hornby and 88 lines about 44 women by Steven Lang.
All three central characters were part of the creative force of their respective bands, and all three have sought out some form of seclusion and anonymity to “recover” from their experiences with fame.
In The True Story of Butterfish, Curtis is a keyboard player returning to Brisbane to escape the glare of publicity following the split of his mega-selling band Butterfish. In a quiet suburban street, Curtis tries to concentrate on his new role as a producer, slowly reconnecting with the real world around him.But things get a little messy when he gets to know his neighbours: an attractive single mum recovering from a bitter divorce, her gothic teenage son, and her 16-year-old daughter, who thinks the only way to connect with Curtis is through sex.
Curtis’ attempts at a “normal life” are further complicated when Butterfish’s hard rocking lead singer turns up on his doorstep unannounced.
With any Earls story, Brisbane itself becomes a character, but this can actually be distracting as a reader when it’s your own home town.
Earls is a very likable writer – he’s always a favourite at festivals and after seeing him at last year’s Brisbane Writers Festival I know why – and of the three muso-focused novels, this is certainly the gentlest and safest.
On the surface, Julie Naked is another of Nick Hornby’s trademark lad lit offerings about a man whose relationships take a backseat to a more pressing obsession.The man is Duncan and his obsession is Tucker Crowe, an American singer-songwriter from the 80s. Tucker has lived as a recluse for 20 years, but thanks to the power of the internet, his fans have been able to keep his music alive. They call themselves Crowologists, and Duncan is their king.
His long-term girlfriend Annie has ignored the cracks in their relationship for too long, so when a stripped-back version of Tucker’s best known album is released, Duncan’s slavering reaction to it finally pushes her over the edge.
She writes a scathing review on Duncan’s blog, much to his horror. But on the other side of the Atlantic, Tucker himself reads the review, respects it, and makes contact with her…
Ultimately this is Annie’s story, although we do get chapters alternating between her perspective and that of the two men.
Through Juliet Naked, Hornby explores the nature of creativity and fan obsession, but it’s also about loneliness and the struggle for intimacy. It features Hornby’s trademark wit and insights. And – like High Fidelity – made me want to trawl through my music collection and reacquaint myself with my favourite albums (in a non-obsessive way, of course…).
The capacity for emotional intimacy and honesty is the driving force of Steven Lang’s excellent 88 lines about 44 women.Like Earls’ Curtis, the central character is a keyboard player-songwriter who has returned to a place of his youth solace and escape – in this case the bleak Scottish Highlands.
Lawrence Martin was once part of one of the biggest bands in the world, but it all fell apart after the death of his model-actress wife in calm waters not far from Sydney.
This intelligent and well crafted novel is less concerned about the music and Lawrence’s drug-fuelled career than it is with issues of male sexuality and how men find – and lose – intimacy with lovers, family and friends.
88 lines about 44 women (named after a song by The Nails) asks the questions: “Are all men emotionally disconnected? Does true intimacy bring redemption or is it the other way round?”
Despite the title, the novel is really about two women: the beautiful but damaged wife who compounded his emotional frailty, and his intelligent and well-grounded new neighbour, who may his hope for the future.
When a call from his former best friend and songwriting partner reveals a past Lawrence’s has omitted to share with the locals, he finally attempts to deconstruct his past experiences and how they’ve influenced his ability to be intimate.
As a narrative character, Lawrence is articulate, insightful, painfully honest and frequently vulnerable. Even in his self awareness, his blindspots are obvious, and as a reader, you hope he works them out.
For me, 88 lines about 44 women was the pick of the above novels, purely for its rare insight into the male psyche and the skill with which Lang uses words.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Literary tattoos
Do you love a book or character enough to immortalise them on your skin in ink?
Writer Marieke Hardy (who also appears on ABC's First Tuesday Book Club) raised the topic of literary tattoos today in the Sydney Morning Herald, with her comment piece Mark my words.
While Marieke is clearly a fan of literary tattoos in the true sense (tatts inspired by popular fiction just don't cut it for her), she makes some interesting points about the whole literary tatt trend.
Of course, the topic is not new in blogland. Bibliobibuli had the discussion back in 2008, and you only after to do a Google Images search for "literary tattoo" and you'll find an amazing range of book lovers' tattoos, like this one below, from http://community.livejournal.com/literarytattoos/434923.html. Contrariwise is also a great site for literary tattoos.
I like the idea. I just need to decide what I want and why. Given it's a piece of art that's going to stay on my skin for the rest of my life, I want to choose wisely.
Writer Lee McGowan (aka the inkstained toe-poker) had some thoughts on tattoos this week, so maybe Marieke's article will give him some food for thought in his own decision.
So, of course, it raises the question of whether you would get a literary tatt and if so, what you would get? Or do you already have one, and if so, what is it?
Writer Marieke Hardy (who also appears on ABC's First Tuesday Book Club) raised the topic of literary tattoos today in the Sydney Morning Herald, with her comment piece Mark my words.
While Marieke is clearly a fan of literary tattoos in the true sense (tatts inspired by popular fiction just don't cut it for her), she makes some interesting points about the whole literary tatt trend.
Of course, the topic is not new in blogland. Bibliobibuli had the discussion back in 2008, and you only after to do a Google Images search for "literary tattoo" and you'll find an amazing range of book lovers' tattoos, like this one below, from http://community.livejournal.com/literarytattoos/434923.html. Contrariwise is also a great site for literary tattoos.
I like the idea. I just need to decide what I want and why. Given it's a piece of art that's going to stay on my skin for the rest of my life, I want to choose wisely.Writer Lee McGowan (aka the inkstained toe-poker) had some thoughts on tattoos this week, so maybe Marieke's article will give him some food for thought in his own decision.
So, of course, it raises the question of whether you would get a literary tatt and if so, what you would get? Or do you already have one, and if so, what is it?
Monday, January 4, 2010
I promise I will write a new post for this blog soon ... but I've had a flurry of activity over at otherworlds as I've read a lot of urban fantasy in the last two weeks (yes, had some holidays and finally found time to relax!).
If you're interested, you can check reviews for:
Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick
Fallen by Lauren Kate
The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Catherine Jinks
If you're interested, you can check reviews for:
Hush, Hush by Becca Fitzpatrick
Fallen by Lauren Kate
The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Catherine Jinks
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Lili St Crow - Strange Angels
I've just posted a new review on my other blog, Other worlds, where the emphasis is on fantasy stories.
It's about Lili St Crow's Strange Angels urban fantasy series, and you can check it out here if you're interested.
It's about Lili St Crow's Strange Angels urban fantasy series, and you can check it out here if you're interested.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tackling Israeli-Palestinian issues through fiction
One of the hardest things to do in fiction is tackle a complex issue and still deliver an engaging story.
Randa Abdel-Fattah, a Muslim of Palestinian and Egyptian heritage who grew up in Melbourne, has a strong literary track record of tackling the challenging topic of being a teenage girl of Middle Eastern descent in urban Australia.
Her breakthrough first novel, Does my head look big in this?, was a witty and enjoyable story about an Australian-Palestinian Muslim who decides to wear the hijab, and the courage it takes to display her faith.
Her follow up, Ten things I hate about me, was more about cultural identity (rather than religious), in which a Lebanese teenager in Sydney goes to great lengths to hide her ethnicity from
her friends.
Now, Abdel-Fattah has gone a step further, using her gifts as a storyteller to present a Palestinian perspective on the Israeli occupation of the West Bank.
Where the streets had a name features the likable narrative voice of Hayaat, a teenage girl whose face is scarred from an event we don’t fully understand until almost the end of the novel.
Hayaat is like most teenagers. She wants to be loved and accepted. She wants her family to be safe. She’s learned to live with the restrictions and curfews of the occupation and the bitterness of those around her who have lost homes and land to the Israelis.
Hayaat has no desire to cause trouble, but when her beloved grandmother, Sitti Zeynab, falls ill, Hayaat is convinced the only thing to lift her spirits will be to touch the soil of her village again. So she and her best friend Samy decide to go themselves, to bring back a jar of the precious dirt.
The trouble is, Sitti Zeynab’s village is on the other side of the giant concrete wall built by the Israelis to keep them separate from the West Bank Palestinians. What should only be a trip of a few miles will take Hayaat and Sami a full day, as they negotiate check points, roadblocks, unreliable public transport and Israeli soldiers.
Given the polemic nature of the Israeli-Palestinian situation itself, it’s a near impossible task to write a story about it with polarising people. But while the Abdel-Fattah’s sympathies lie with the non-violent men, women and children suffering under the occupation, she avoids the trap of painting a simple picture of villains and heroes.
This is a human story. It’s an attempt to show the human face of the occupation – on both sides of the wall. Both sides fear and mistrust the other, but – as this novel quietly suggests – there is hope on both sides too.
Hayaat is a Muslim, yet her best friend Samy is Christian and the difference in their faith appears to have very little significance to them or their community: they are all Palestinian and all living under occupation. And, interestingly, the men and women who help Hayaat and Samy the most during their journey (probably because they have the freedom to so) are Israelis, who – openly or otherwise – oppose the occupation.
Abdel-Fattah’s connection to the people and the place in this story allows her to capture the humour, spirit and humanity of a people whose plight is frequently over-shadowed by the violence perpetrated by a few, but ascribed to all.
Sitti, who has
suffered the most in Hayaat’s family, also has the greatest capacity to laugh at the situation of her people.
To Hayaat’s sister, who is dieting in the lead-up to her wedding: “A little meat on a woman is nice. Do you want people to look at your on your wedding day and think you had a holiday in Gaza?”
But Sitti also carries the grief of a nation without a status. To the Israeli family who claimed her home as her own: “I’m sorry for what happened to your family and your people, but why must we be punished?”
And finally, it is Sitti who offers her granddaughter a glimmer of hope that one day the Israelis and Palestinians may find a way to live together: “Justice will come when those who hope outweigh those who despair. Hope is a force that cannot be reckoned with, ya Hayaat.”
Randa Abdel-Fattah, a Muslim of Palestinian and Egyptian heritage who grew up in Melbourne, has a strong literary track record of tackling the challenging topic of being a teenage girl of Middle Eastern descent in urban Australia.
Her breakthrough first novel, Does my head look big in this?, was a witty and enjoyable story about an Australian-Palestinian Muslim who decides to wear the hijab, and the courage it takes to display her faith.
Her follow up, Ten things I hate about me, was more about cultural identity (rather than religious), in which a Lebanese teenager in Sydney goes to great lengths to hide her ethnicity from
her friends.Now, Abdel-Fattah has gone a step further, using her gifts as a storyteller to present a Palestinian perspective on the Israeli occupation of the West Bank.
Where the streets had a name features the likable narrative voice of Hayaat, a teenage girl whose face is scarred from an event we don’t fully understand until almost the end of the novel.
Hayaat is like most teenagers. She wants to be loved and accepted. She wants her family to be safe. She’s learned to live with the restrictions and curfews of the occupation and the bitterness of those around her who have lost homes and land to the Israelis.
Hayaat has no desire to cause trouble, but when her beloved grandmother, Sitti Zeynab, falls ill, Hayaat is convinced the only thing to lift her spirits will be to touch the soil of her village again. So she and her best friend Samy decide to go themselves, to bring back a jar of the precious dirt.
The trouble is, Sitti Zeynab’s village is on the other side of the giant concrete wall built by the Israelis to keep them separate from the West Bank Palestinians. What should only be a trip of a few miles will take Hayaat and Sami a full day, as they negotiate check points, roadblocks, unreliable public transport and Israeli soldiers.
Given the polemic nature of the Israeli-Palestinian situation itself, it’s a near impossible task to write a story about it with polarising people. But while the Abdel-Fattah’s sympathies lie with the non-violent men, women and children suffering under the occupation, she avoids the trap of painting a simple picture of villains and heroes.
This is a human story. It’s an attempt to show the human face of the occupation – on both sides of the wall. Both sides fear and mistrust the other, but – as this novel quietly suggests – there is hope on both sides too.
Hayaat is a Muslim, yet her best friend Samy is Christian and the difference in their faith appears to have very little significance to them or their community: they are all Palestinian and all living under occupation. And, interestingly, the men and women who help Hayaat and Samy the most during their journey (probably because they have the freedom to so) are Israelis, who – openly or otherwise – oppose the occupation.
Abdel-Fattah’s connection to the people and the place in this story allows her to capture the humour, spirit and humanity of a people whose plight is frequently over-shadowed by the violence perpetrated by a few, but ascribed to all.
Sitti, who has
suffered the most in Hayaat’s family, also has the greatest capacity to laugh at the situation of her people.To Hayaat’s sister, who is dieting in the lead-up to her wedding: “A little meat on a woman is nice. Do you want people to look at your on your wedding day and think you had a holiday in Gaza?”
But Sitti also carries the grief of a nation without a status. To the Israeli family who claimed her home as her own: “I’m sorry for what happened to your family and your people, but why must we be punished?”
And finally, it is Sitti who offers her granddaughter a glimmer of hope that one day the Israelis and Palestinians may find a way to live together: “Justice will come when those who hope outweigh those who despair. Hope is a force that cannot be reckoned with, ya Hayaat.”
Friday, November 27, 2009
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies
The idea is promising: weave a zombie plot through a Jane Austen classic.In Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Seth Grahame-Smith inserts zombie references and action throughout one of the most loved and recognisable stories in the English language.
The altered classic opening line certainly captures the mash-up idea: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains”.
In Grahame-Smith’s version, Elizabeth Bennett and her sisters are renowned Shaolin-trained warriors, roaming the countryside to cut down zombies – much to the disdain of higher bred women such as Mr Bingley’s sisters. Mr Darcy is also a zombie slayer of great repute and his clashes with Elizabeth are no longer just verbal…
The set up for the zombie plot is actually all there in the original: the constant presence of militia, the threat of disease and the horror associated with breaches of social etiquette.
I laughed out loud the first time I heard about this book (and then again when I found it shelved in the classics section at my local book shop).
It promises to put familiar characters in unfamiliar territory (fighting the trashiest of all pop culture supernatural baddies), and comes complete with a tongue-in-cheek study guide at the end. It should be clever. It should be fun.
And it is, for about 50 pages. Then the zombie references and B-grade-worthy fight scenes become a distraction from the real story: the tension between Elizabeth and Darcy.
Around 80 per cent of the original text remains intact, and that’s the problem. Austen’s writing and origina
l plot are so strong, it makes the new scenes completely superfluous. It would have worked so much better if Grahame-Smith had actually re-imagined the story, rather than just inserting a few lines here and there in the original text.Actually, the best bits for me are the sketches scattered through the pages, perhaps a sign the mash-up idea would have worked better as graphic novel.
The book’s success (which has led to other hybrids, including Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters) proves there are enough people with eclectic reading tastes to create a market for this type of literary bastardisation.
And I have no issue with the concept, I just wish this one had offered something more because, by the end, I just wished I’d read the original.
(According to Wikipedia, due to the success of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Grahame-Smith has been contracted to write two follow-up books, one of which is reported to be titled Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.)
Monday, November 16, 2009
Coming of age with Jasper Jones
Anyone who thinks “coming of age” stories are just for the young adult market should take a read of Craig Silvey’s excellent Jasper Jones.It’s a gripping, well-written story about small-mindedness in a country town, that’s at turns sad, disturbing, funny and inspiring.
Set in Western Australia in 1965, it’s told through the eyes of teenager Charlie Bucktin. One stifling summer night, the town outcast – Jasper Jones – comes to his window and asks for his help. Charlie follows him into the bush, and what he sees there changes him – and ultimately the town – irrevocably.
In that one night – and then the days that follow – Charlie is forced to step away from childhood innocence and see the world around him for what it is.
Charlie struggles with the burden of what he has seen, and his uncertainty is further compounded by how quickly the town becomes mired in suspicion and hatred.
My good friend Place (a regular poster on this blog) and I heard Craig Silvey speak on the theme of “coming of age” at the Brisbane Writers’ Festival in September. He defined coming of age as being more than just a loss of innocence, that moment when the bubble bursts.
“It’s gaining and adult point of view of self assurance. It’s when you start to look beyond yourself and learn tenets of empathy. You appreciate another perspective and arrive at some sort of objective truth. It’s all about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes.”
Silvey says it takes courage to challenge myths and traditions, which is what Charlie does when he realises the world is no longer the simple place he once thought it was. And he can’t “unknow” that truth.
Over the space of
a fortnight, Charlie sees and hears horrible things. He sees the world for what it is. He responds by trying to understand the nature of cruelty, and how people can go about their lives as if evil doesn’t exist (this theme was also tackled in Sang Pak’s American gothic novel Wait Until Twilight, reviewed here).In contrast to this soul searching is the comfortable familiarity of Charlie’s friendship with his cricket-obsessed best mate Jeffrey. Their adolescent banter provides welcome relief, as well as some of the most entertaining dialogue I’ve read in a while. (According to the Silvey, Charlie and Jeffrey’s conversations on puerile topics not dissimilar to the debates he has with his mates today. “It was a little too easy to write that dialogue.”)
For the creator of Jasper Jones, the idea of coming of age is not limited to youth: “We all become adults, but not all of us come of age.” And its this understanding that makes this novel such a riveting and enjoyable read.
Hearing the likable Silvey discuss Jasper Jones was one of the highlights of this year's Brisbane Writer's Festival Place and I. He was intelligent, articulate and self-effacing … and yes, we came away with a little bit of a literary crush…
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Final verdict (for now) on parallel importation of books
The final verdict is in: the copyright restrictions on parallel importation of books into Australia are staying (which is good news for Australian writers).
Kate Eltham from the Queensland Writers' Centre sums up the outcome (and links to more information) here.
For background on the issue, you can check out my post on the subject back in July.
(And yes, I will write about an actual book again very soon! - Nearly caught up on everything again...)
Kate Eltham from the Queensland Writers' Centre sums up the outcome (and links to more information) here.
For background on the issue, you can check out my post on the subject back in July.
(And yes, I will write about an actual book again very soon! - Nearly caught up on everything again...)
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The household guide to dying
I’m back from my big adventure and a tad behind on a large number of projects. So … I thought I’d post a review I wrote for a competition recently (which did not bear fruit), until I can offer up posts on my holiday reading material.
Dying is an ambitious topic to tackle in fiction. While death is used as a plot device or metaphor in countless novels, it’s not usually the driving force of the narrative.
Debra Adelaide makes death and dying the central theme in her 2008 novel The Household Guide to Dying. But while the impending demise of the narrative character propels the story, it’s also a mechanism for a broader story arc that prevents the novel from being a one-trick pony.
The novel revolves around Delia, a “domestic advice” columnist, whose often acerbic advice masks a woman whose life has not always been as well ordered as her pantry. Exhausted and ravaged from chemotherapy, Delia is preparing herself for the natural conclusion to a long battle against breast cancer.
In between making plans for her young daughters’ future weddings, and stocking the fridge with frozen home-cooked meals, she decides her final book of household advice should be about dying – a subject she’s now qualified to write about with absolute authority.
Delia’s impending death – which she faces with an often jarring sense of practicality –provides the motivation to not only prepare her family for a future without her, but to also finally tend to old wounds inflicted in a small country town many years earlier.
The Household Guide to Dying at first feels like another of those stories intent on celebrating the simple pleasures in life, usually best perceived in moments of human frailty. Certainly Adelaide has a wonderful eye for detail and an evocative turn of phrase, but she’s also intent on telling a story. So, as Delia starts to unpick the seams that have held her life together, it’s apparent there’s much more to this fastidious woman than immaculately laundered clothing and perfect cups of tea. Adelaide paints her stroke by stroke and, ironically, the closer she comes to death, the more human she becomes on the page.
The household, and the role of a woman in it, is a powerful motif throughout the story. So much so, the novel could easily be mistaken as a treatise on the pre-feminist importance of women in society. But a closer examination suggests Delia’s commitment to a perfectly ordered household is a response to the unpredictability of life in the world ou
tside – a world that has left her with deep, well hidden, scars.
Over the years, she’s taken control of her household with almost militant precision, and she approaches death in much the same fashion. Almost every decision she makes is about controlling as much as she can in the lives of those she loves from beyond the grave.
The Household Guide to Dying is meticulously constructed, with the mood continually shifting from humorous to macabre, witty to poignant. Delia’s catalogue of household knowledge and responses to hapless advice seekers are woven between accounts of her final days, and flashbacks to the moments that have shaped her life. Events are told outside of chronological order, ensuring the gentle pace of the story never stalls and saving it from being too flippant, morbid or melodramatic.
There can be no accusations of sentimentality here. Delia doesn’t pass through the seven stages of grief – at least not on the page – and perhaps the story would have been even richer if she had. But what grief she doesn’t express for herself, she does for the past, and when her moment of redemption finally comes, it’s surprisingly effective.
Threaded through all of this is Delia’s research into her own “household guide to dying” – learning about caskets, funeral services and autopsies. The latter is meant to emphasise the banality of death in the face of unbearable grief, but – aside from feeding morbid curiosity – is distracting by its detail.
Helen Garner also tackled the subject of dying in 2008, with her much lauded novel The Spare Room. It’s told from the perspective of a woman forced to watch a dying friend struggle against the inevitable. Narrator Helen agrees to support a friend battling the final stages of a terminal cancer while she undergoes bizarre experimental treatment. Over the course of three emotionally-charged weeks, Helen becomes nurse, guardian angel and unflinching judge of the choices made by her dying friend.
Ironically, Delia is more emotionally muted in her response to death than Garner’s Helen, but then Delia’s story is influenced by a different tension. In The Household Guide to Dying, the tension is not just about Delia facing her own mortality; it’s about what she needs to do before she can face it with a sense of completeness. To her, the task is everything.
Although The Household Guide to Dying is not focused solely on Delia’s inexorable steps towards death, it still manages to be confronting, simply because it deals with issues of mortality and how that theme translates off the page.
Dying is an ambitious topic to tackle in fiction. While death is used as a plot device or metaphor in countless novels, it’s not usually the driving force of the narrative.
Debra Adelaide makes death and dying the central theme in her 2008 novel The Household Guide to Dying. But while the impending demise of the narrative character propels the story, it’s also a mechanism for a broader story arc that prevents the novel from being a one-trick pony.
The novel revolves around Delia, a “domestic advice” columnist, whose often acerbic advice masks a woman whose life has not always been as well ordered as her pantry. Exhausted and ravaged from chemotherapy, Delia is preparing herself for the natural conclusion to a long battle against breast cancer.
In between making plans for her young daughters’ future weddings, and stocking the fridge with frozen home-cooked meals, she decides her final book of household advice should be about dying – a subject she’s now qualified to write about with absolute authority.
Delia’s impending death – which she faces with an often jarring sense of practicality –provides the motivation to not only prepare her family for a future without her, but to also finally tend to old wounds inflicted in a small country town many years earlier.
The Household Guide to Dying at first feels like another of those stories intent on celebrating the simple pleasures in life, usually best perceived in moments of human frailty. Certainly Adelaide has a wonderful eye for detail and an evocative turn of phrase, but she’s also intent on telling a story. So, as Delia starts to unpick the seams that have held her life together, it’s apparent there’s much more to this fastidious woman than immaculately laundered clothing and perfect cups of tea. Adelaide paints her stroke by stroke and, ironically, the closer she comes to death, the more human she becomes on the page.
The household, and the role of a woman in it, is a powerful motif throughout the story. So much so, the novel could easily be mistaken as a treatise on the pre-feminist importance of women in society. But a closer examination suggests Delia’s commitment to a perfectly ordered household is a response to the unpredictability of life in the world ou
tside – a world that has left her with deep, well hidden, scars.Over the years, she’s taken control of her household with almost militant precision, and she approaches death in much the same fashion. Almost every decision she makes is about controlling as much as she can in the lives of those she loves from beyond the grave.
The Household Guide to Dying is meticulously constructed, with the mood continually shifting from humorous to macabre, witty to poignant. Delia’s catalogue of household knowledge and responses to hapless advice seekers are woven between accounts of her final days, and flashbacks to the moments that have shaped her life. Events are told outside of chronological order, ensuring the gentle pace of the story never stalls and saving it from being too flippant, morbid or melodramatic.
There can be no accusations of sentimentality here. Delia doesn’t pass through the seven stages of grief – at least not on the page – and perhaps the story would have been even richer if she had. But what grief she doesn’t express for herself, she does for the past, and when her moment of redemption finally comes, it’s surprisingly effective.
Threaded through all of this is Delia’s research into her own “household guide to dying” – learning about caskets, funeral services and autopsies. The latter is meant to emphasise the banality of death in the face of unbearable grief, but – aside from feeding morbid curiosity – is distracting by its detail.
Helen Garner also tackled the subject of dying in 2008, with her much lauded novel The Spare Room. It’s told from the perspective of a woman forced to watch a dying friend struggle against the inevitable. Narrator Helen agrees to support a friend battling the final stages of a terminal cancer while she undergoes bizarre experimental treatment. Over the course of three emotionally-charged weeks, Helen becomes nurse, guardian angel and unflinching judge of the choices made by her dying friend.
Ironically, Delia is more emotionally muted in her response to death than Garner’s Helen, but then Delia’s story is influenced by a different tension. In The Household Guide to Dying, the tension is not just about Delia facing her own mortality; it’s about what she needs to do before she can face it with a sense of completeness. To her, the task is everything.
Although The Household Guide to Dying is not focused solely on Delia’s inexorable steps towards death, it still manages to be confronting, simply because it deals with issues of mortality and how that theme translates off the page.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
A brief break in transmission
Hello ... just a quick post to say I'm eating and drinking my way across Italy at the moment, so the next post is still a few weeks' away.
(I've just finished reading Craig Silvey's excellent Jasper Jones, so that's next on the list...)
(I've just finished reading Craig Silvey's excellent Jasper Jones, so that's next on the list...)
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