Narrative characters you want to slap

We all know how important narrative voice is, but is important enough to be the difference between pushing on with a book or throwing it aside when you don't like it?

After the dark violence of The Pilo Family Circus, I was ready for something life affirming and whimsical, so last week I picked up Chocolat by Joanne Harris.

In fairness, I appreciated the themes of this novel, which so frequently seems to turn up on people's "most loved books" list. For those who haven't read it, it's the story of a nomadic mother and daughter, who arrive in a small French village and set up a chocolate shop at the beginning of Lent. Their presence - and leanings towards paganism - raise the ire of the local priest, who wants his flock to focus on self-denial, not the sinful indulgence of the perfect eclair.

But, every time the novel switched narrators from the free spirited Vianne to the repressed Father Reynaud, I lost interest.

Not just becaue Reynaud was unpleasant - every good story needs a good antagonist - but because I wasn't that interested in knowning what was going on his head. Or at least, not so often.

Reynaud's reasonably fleshed out flaws are ideal for the story; experiencing events from his perspective gives the tale more depth; and his demise - as inevitable as it is ironic - is satsifying.

But, as necessary as his narrative voice was, it removed me from the story rather than drawing me closer.

I finished the book, but had Reynaud had more page time, I may not have.

So, it got me wondering how often people leave a book unfinished because of the narrative character. I don't mean not finishing a book because we don't like the story, or the style of writing, or the type size.

I'm talking about being aware you don't like the narrative character and choosing to put the book aside because of it (as I did a year ago with John Kennedy O'Toole's The Confederecy of Dunces). Or maybe even continuing to read but loathing the narrator to the final page (as, apparently, did many detractors of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series).

Has anyone else experienced the annoying narrator phenomenon?

(And yes, Belinda, your topic about narrators of audio books is the next logical post!)

Not for the faint- hearted

On more than one occasion, we’ve talked on this blog about how powerful stories have the ability permeate our moods and thoughts. It’s for this reason many readers choose their books carefully, aware of how they react to certain themes, imagery and genres.

Is that a form of self censorship, or simply self preservation?

A combination of reading material this week has led to this question. The first is The Pilo Family Circus by Will Elliott, and the second, author Frank Moorhouse’s essay in this month’s Australian Literary Review (more on the latter in a moment).

It’s been a very long time since I picked up a horror novel, but I’ve been meaning to check out Elliott’s debut novel, The Pilo Family Circus, since it won the inaugural ABC Fiction Award back in 2006.

I’m glad I did, as it’s an original piece of fiction by a gifted storyteller, but there were certainly disturbing elements I probably could have lived without (but of course, without which the story would lose much of its impact and sense of menace and absurdity).

The Pilo Family Circus is a darkly humorous and unsettling horror tale about Jamie, an ordinary guy eking out a simple existence in inner-city Brisbane. But after an encounter with a pair of bizarre clowns (and I mean face paint-wearing, giant-panted clowns, not the other kind that often grace city streets after dark), Jamie is plunged into the horrific alternate reality that is the centuries-old Pilo Family Circus.

He’s forced into service as clown, and discovers that as soon as he dons the white greasepaint, a new character – JJ – emerges, who is weak, sadistic and conniving.

Elliott has said in interviews the book is not meant to be an allegory about the battle against the dark side of human nature. But it’s easy to understand how readers might glean that theme when Jamie at first willingly surrenders to the face paint to cope with his new nightmarish reality, before embarking on a battle for survival against the evil JJ.

Elliott takes to extreme the idea that the circus caters to every human weakness: sideshow alley taps into greed, the acrobats elicit vanity and envy, magicians prompt a craving for power, clowns live out the fantasy of mocking and usurping authority, and the freaks weaken the resolve to resist all of the above.

As Jamie discovers, the Pilo Family Circus is a borderline world between hell and earth from which humankind's greatest tragedies have been perpetrated. Unsuspecting humans are lured into the circus ground, where they are then fleeced of their most precious possession, their souls, and sent back into the world, oblivious of violent events many of them have been programmed to commit. When that’s not enough, performers themselves are sent “up” to incite the carnage.

Among the characters in the circus, none is more absurd than Goshy, a mentally disturbed and simpleton clown whose erratic behaviour is more frightening than the brutal menace of head clown Gonko. And despite the violence and grotesqueness of life and suffering in the circus, the most disturbing moment of the story involves Goshy and the love of his life, a potted fern.

While reading this scene – which, admittedly, was inevitable and certainly captures the escalating depravity and absurdity of Jamie’s environment – I couldn’t help but think of Frank Moorhouse’s essay.

As I was reading the book, I kept wondering about how I would describe it on this blog. I knew it wouldn’t be a story for a lot of people because of its darkness, violence and disturbing imagery - and yes, Bec of The Small Stuff, you were at the front of my mind :).

And yet, award-winning Australian author Moorhouse berates us for wanting to shy away from disturbing material, and is particularly disdainful of those who would attempt to warn audiences about stories that might shock them or make them feel uncomfortable.

Much of his criticism is aimed at television and film censors, but he also points the finger at anyone who uses phrases such as “not for the faint-hearted”.

He says: “There is nothing wrong with being horrified or sickened and nothing terribly bad happens to us when we are. I think it is more likely that something good will happen: we might be moved.”

Is he right? Do we create the world we want to live in by the stories we choose to inhabit – at the expense of seeing the world as it is?

For me, I like to think my choices are a balance between challenging and comforting stories. Because let’s face it: the world offers both experiences, often simultaneously.

What do you think?

Ebooks: do you read them?

Booking Through Thursday (BTT) hosted an excellent discussion last week about electronic versus paper books.

The post directed meme participants to an interesting Time magazine article Books gone wild: the digital age reshapes literature by Lev Grossman, and then asked for thoughts and comments.

In the article, Grossman discusses the changes facing the traditional publishing industry in the wake of online books, e-readers, and self-published books marketed by bloggers.

He sees the move towards electronic books as a natural progression in the world of literature. Just as the emergence of books in the early 18th century was shaped by the forces of money and technology as much as by creative genius, so too, he says, is the move from the paper-based novel to the ebook.

Grossman says publishers need to be looking beyond existing means of selling books, given the increasing uptake of e-readers like Kindle and the Sony Reader (for those unfamiliar with these gadgets, they’re electronic devices the size of a small novel, on which you read downloaded ebooks in a format that looks like the page of a novel).

The ebooks available for these e-readers are not just those provided by publishers, but anyone who wants to make their writing available in cyberspace via services like Kindle.

In discussing this recently with two librarians, it seems the issue is not just about a shift in attitudes towards books without tangible pages, but also about the availability of a single platform in which to read ebooks.

From what I understand, existing e-readers only access some books, not all. Which means that if you want to read novels from various sources, you need more than one type of reader - otherwise, you're limited to the titles available to your particular reader. The librarians I spoke to don’t expect to see a huge uptake in the general population until that situation changes.

Interestingly, many of the comments left in response to the Time article on BTT were along the same lines: people like the idea of having an ebook reader – offering hundreds of titles at their fingertips, often with dictionaries, glossaries and note-taking options. But they still love the feel of an old fashioned book in their hands and can’t see a day when they would turn away from the paper option completely.

There’s also a trend for people to read initial chapters of a book offered online and then go out and buy the “real” version to finish reading it.

Personally, I’ve not bought an e-reader, or read a fiction ebook. I can see the benefits of the technology, and would certainly be willing to give it a try, but I too still love the feel of a book in my hand and the sight of books on my shelves.

The paper versus electronic debate has been raging for years and will continue to rage as the industry and the fiction-loving public grapple with these issues.

The traditional system of agents, publishers and editors exists to provide a level of quality control and discernment, preventing readers from having to wade through thousands of un-edited and potentially badly written books before they find the good stuff.

But Grossman says even this open-slather approach will find its own level. “The wide bottom of the (literary) pyramid will consist of a vast loamy layer of free, unedited, web-only fiction, rated and ranked YouTube-style by the anonymous reading masses”.

What do you think about the issue?

Do you read ebooks? If not, would you?

If yes, do you choose work from writers unpublished in the traditional sense or only those already available in book shops? Do you read ebooks to find new work, or because they are a more convenient and cost-effective way to buy popular titles?

A world without America...

It’s a provocative idea to tackle in a novel, and definitely one guaranteed to attract attention.

Australian writer John Birmingham, when he’s not writing more literary fare like He died with a felafal in his hand, pens fast-paced alternative history thrillers. His latest is Without Warning, in which the vast majority of the continental United States is inexplicable covered in a giant wave of energy from space.

The result is the instant disappearance of more than 350 million people.

Not only has the Wave (as it becomes known) devastated the bulk of the US population, it shows no signs of leaving. And while machines and electronic devices are unaffected by the Wave, all humans who come into contact with it instantly disintegrate, meaning the bulk of the continent is a no-go zone.

What starts as an inexplicable mass tragedy – disturbingly celebrated in certain parts of the world – quickly turns into a chaos that threatens the downfall of the industrial age.

The novel is less concerned with the cause of the phenomenon (as one character puts it, “we’re like ants whose nest got hit by a kid with a magnifying glass on a sunny day … we’re probably a thousand years from understanding…”) and more interested with the social, political and economic impact it would have on the globe if the US was to suddenly “disappear”.

Without Warning is told from multiple perspectives (almost too many, as it’s hard to keep track of everyone). The most interesting are a former US Ranger-turned war correspondent, embedded in Iraq with troops suddenly without a Commander in Chief; and a female American assassin in Paris, cut off from her controllers and hunted by terrorists.

In Birmingham’s scenario, with the might of the US gone – and its remaining military forces scattered across the globe – the world begins to unravel.

Jaded assassin Caitlin, frustrated by the attitude of an extreme left-wing Frenchwoman explains the inevitable impact America’s disappearance will have on the global economy and availability of oil:

“Think about where it (oil) comes from… Think about what’s going to happen there now the evil global overlord is no longer around to oppress everyone into behaving themselves. Think about what’s going to happen to the evil world financial system now that the planet’s greatest debtor nation has winked out of existence and won’t be meeting its mortgage payments to anyone.”

The alternative history offered here is frightening because, in many ways, the novel's twists and turns are realistic consequences of the current geo-politics and cultural clashes dominating our headlines in this reality.

In Without Warning, things go wrong in so many ways: Paris erupts into civil war when its cultural divide meets head on in the streets; fires break out behind the Wave, where nuclear power plants and unmanned vehicles and appliances – left running when their human operators disappeared – are igniting and burning freely, creating a toxic fall-out that starts to move across other continents.

There are startling images of American citizens in the untouched outposts (Seattle, Alaska and Hawaii) lining up for food stamps, and the remaining millions of US citizens scattered across the planet suddenly seeking asylum as refugees.

Birmingham gives us some great moments (Seattle’s City Councillors are put under house arrest by the military when they decide to vote on whether or not they should still get biscuits during meetings when the rest of the city is on food rations).

He also gives some us blood chilling ones: Israel using its nuclear arsenal to remove the Arab threat closing in, wiping out another 300 million people.

Without Warning is a cautionary tale about globalisation (actually, it makes the current global financial crisis look pretty tame) and picks at the fragile nature of our industrialised society.

It’s hard to know how this book will do in the US. On the one hand, it reinforces the (increasingly unpopular) dogma that “the world as we know it would fall apart without America”. On the other, it shows America at is most vulnerable, and how quickly the rest of the world might turn on it in that state.

Politics aside, Without Warning is a cracking read. Birmingham’s characters have depth, the dialogue is excellent, and the story a page-turner. It’s a tad long, but the journey is worth it.

Does the price of a book influence your choices?

A debate is raging in Australia at the moment about how much we pay for books and how much we could be paying if booksellers were allowed to import cheaper versions.

The argument surrounds what’s known as parallel importation. That means importing international versions of books that are also printed in Australia by local publishers.

The Australian Productivity Commission is considering this issue in a study into Copyright Restrictions on the Parallel Importation of Books, and it’s sparked one of the most heated industry debates in recent years.

In one camp, you’ve got the “cheaper books mean more books being bought and read” proponents (predominantly booksellers); in the other, their “but at what price to the Australian publishing industry” opponents (publishers and writers).

In a nutshell, if booksellers can import the cheaper versions of books, they can naturally sell them for a much cheaper price than the locally printed editions. (This goes for books by best-selling international and local authors, who have editions published in more than one country – that’s why a web search on certain novels might deliver three or four different editions with different covers, and even different titles).

Former NSW Premier, Dymocks Books board member and avid reader Bob Carr argues that parallel importation of cheaper books will mean there will be more books on Australian shelves, which he says is good for everyone.

In a column in The Weekend Australian Review, he says best-selling books are unnecessarily expensive in Australia because bookshops can’t buy from overseas if an Australian publisher expresses an interest in publishing it here. He says the argument that the existing legislation protects local publishers is moot, because more and more Australians are buying books online through outlets such as Amazon. (You can read the full article here.)

One of the most pressing points of contention from opponents of cheap imports is that Australian publishers won’t be able to compete on price with international publishers, which in turn will impact their viability to publish local works.

Brett Haydon of UNSW Press, on his blog Hedged Down, argues that price is not the only consideration when a reader decides to buy a book. He says people don’t choose who they read based on price, any more than they buy books by the kilo.

On this point I agree: if I want a book, I’ll pay the cover price. If it is a new release blockbuster (like, say, a Harry Potter novel), I might shop around to get the best price. But I wouldn’t pass over the book I wanted for a cheaper book I wasn’t as interested in.

However, if there is a choice between a more expensive local edition and a cheaper import – which has exactly the same content – there’s a fair chance buyers are going to reach for the cheaper one.

But here’s the rub: there’s no guarantee the content will be the same when it comes to international versions of Australian books.

In US version of Australian novels, for example, the cultural references, slang and idiosyncrasies that make the story Australian, are often edited out or replaced with something more familiar to American readers.

So it’s entirely possible a young reader might pick up the cheaper imported version of a Tim Winton, Markus Zusak or John Marsden novel to find it full of American references, not the original Australian content.

As Bookseller and Publisher says in its response to Bob Carr, there will be fewer books in Australian homes if “Australian children can’t find themselves in them”.

And so, the debate rages on.

What do you think? Are these issues important?

Do you buy a book based on price? Would you buy a cheaper import? Does it matter if the content is different?

(The Commission has released an issues paper, outlining some key matters to be addressed in the study and calling for public submissions. It’s due to present its findings to the Australian Government in May 2009. You can find out more here.)

Top 6 reads for 2008

I thought I would end the year by sharing my favourite reads for the year. (I started with a top five, but felt guilty not including the title that’s made number six, so decided to go with an even number.)

What follows doesn’t represent books published in 2008, just my favourites among those I happened to discover this year. (Feel free to leave your own.)

1. The Patron Saint of Eels by Gregory Day
Without a doubt, this is the book that's stayed with me longer than any other this year. I read it back in January and can still vividly recall how I felt reading it.


Recap:
The Patron Saint of Eels is a unique and beautiful book. It is gentle, evocative and deeply Australian. Set in a coastal Victorian town, it's the story of Noel and Nanette, two life-long friends saddened by the changes occurring in their town, and the loss of their community's connection to the landscape around it.

When spring rains flood a nearby swamp, hundreds of eels are washed downstream and become trapped in a ditch near Noel's home. Coming to their rescue is Fra Ionio, a Franciscan monk who has travelled a long way to save the eels - and remind Noel and Nanette about the important things in their lives.

The novel offers a profoundly contemplative look at life and spirituality.

Original review

2. The Arrival by Sean Tan
This is another story that’s stayed with me since I read it back in June, and now sits on my desk at home. I feel calmer just knowing it’s within reaching distance.


Recap:
The Arrival is a beautiful story without words about a man who leaves his wife and child in an impoverished town, seeking better prospects in an unknown country on the other side of a vast ocean. He eventually finds himself in a bewildering city of foreign customs, peculiar animals, curious floating objects and indecipherable languages.

It’s a tribute to anyone who has left their home behind in search of a better life in a foreign land.

Tan’s narrative magic is woven two-fold: through his imaginative, evocative and detailed drawings, and the story (and stories within stories) of a man finding his place in a new world. And it’s the nature of this man's struggle - to understand his environment without sharing the language of its inhabitants - which makes the absence of words all the more powerful and appropriate.

Original review


3. The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro
This is one of those great books that reminded me what good literature is all about.


Recap:
The Remains of the Day is a story told in the first person by Mr Stevens, an esteemed butler of a once renowned house, now in the latter stages of his career. In this sad and moving story about repression and self sacrifice, it is what’s not said in the narrative voice that has the most power.

Beyond the words on the page, lie the regrets and longings of a man whose true feelings are hidden even from himself, under layer upon layer of discipline, reasoning and “dignity”.

And it’s discovering those poignant truths – which even the narrator seems oblivious to - that make The Remains of the Day such a remarkable and memorable novel.

Original review


4. Chenxi and the foreigner by Sally Rippin
This is one of the many excellent young adult novels I’ve read recently, and makes the list because of Rippin’s narrative style, sense of place, and the ironic history of the book itself.

Recap:
Chenxi and the Foreigner is the story of 19-year-old Australian, Anna, who travels to Shanghai in 1989 to visit her father and study traditional Chinese painting. Struggling to cope with her status as a foreigner, she becomes obsessed with fellow art student Chenxi, who ultimately teaches her life-changing lessons about the nature of freedom, and what it means to be an artist in a culture that forbids non-sanctioned artist expression.

Ironically, this story about artistic censorship was censored by the author herself when it was first published.

Rippin says she was afraid of the parents, teachers and librarians who were the literary gatekeepers of her target market. In that original version, she cut out profanity, sex scenes and “unfamiliar Chinese politics”, for fear her book would be blocked and never reach its intended young adult audience.

This new version has all those aspects intact, and is a much more powerful read because of them.

Original review


5. Bad Debts by Peter Temple

I’ll remember 2008 as the year I discovered Australian literary crime writer Peter Temple. I read a number of his books, with Bad Debts (the first in the series featuring world weary lawyer Jack Irish) being my favourite.

In it, Jack does some digging into the case of former client who contacts him on release from prison, only be gunned down police before they can meet. Jack soon suspects the excon might have been a pawn in a plot that reaches to the highest levels of government, and discovers there are those willing to resort to brutal violence to keep that plot hidden.


Recap:
Temple's grasp of voice and place is mesmerising, his characters are Australian without being stereotypical, and he creates pervasive, slow building suspense.

I particularly liked that the narrative is first person, and Jack is a complex character whose morality is clear, even if the company he keeps is often murky.

Temple's writing has its own rhythm to it. His humour is dry, his violence graphic, and his physical descriptions wryly amusing.

The basis of his novels are crimes that eventually will be solved, or resolved, one way or another, but what you find yourself more interested in are his characters, the choices they make, and the seedy worlds they often inhabit, or must venture into.


Review of Peter Temple’s The Broken Shore


6. Twilight by Stephenie Meyer
While I still have some issues with the second and third book of this four-part series, I still stand by my admission of really enjoying this first instalment. Given how quickly I read it (and how much I enjoyed the film version last week), it would remiss of me to pretend this wasn’t a highlight for me this year.


Recap:
The core of the story is the romance between teenage Bella and her impossibly attractive classmate Edward, who also happens to be a vampire. Edward and his “family” have chosen to abstain from biting and killing humans, but Bella’s blood is so appealing to Edward, that even though he loves her, he’s terrified he’ll devour her if he loses control in her proximity.

Their relationship is one of restraint and longing, filling the pages with sexual tension. As the story progresses, particularly in the third book, the focus shifts to Bella’s growing desire to become a vampire, which Edward opposes.

Meyer, a practicing Morman, uses the story as a metaphor for sexual restraint, which is at once fascinating and effective.

Twilight review
Series review


In case I don’t get a chance to blog again before December 25 (highly likely given the high number of visitors in my house for the festive season) … Merry Christmas!

I’d really love to hear everyone else’s favourite reads for the year (can more be more or less than five – I don’t mind!)

The duality of human existence

Can there be life without bloodshed? Can sense be found in a world where violence and serenity co-exist?

Cormac McCarthy explores these questions in his classic coming-of-age novel All the Pretty Horses and his answers seem to be no and yes, respsectively.

It tells the story of sixteen-year-old John Grady Cole, who rides across the Texan border into Mexico with two companions, searching for purpose.

John Grady encounters a world that is at once beautiful and desolate, promising and threatening, serene and violent, and by the time he returns – less than a year later – he's irrevocably changed.

Although his new life in Mexico seems to offer an idyllic existence, there’s a pervading sense of underlying danger. But, like John Grady, I hoped the threat wasn’t real, and – like John Grady – when it the violence arrived, I realised had always been inevitable.

Perhaps one of the interesting insights into this novel is the idea that John Grady is ultimately heroic not because he stands by idealistic beliefs, but because he learns to put them aside when necessary to survive or seek justice.

He learns to accept life is both serene and violent – with little warning of which he will face each day – and while he loses his innocence, he does so without becoming disillusioned.

Through his experiences, he doesn’t simply grow up; he begins to understand the world in all its pain and glory and feels no less connection to it. John Grady gains a self possession that many philosophers and social commentators believe can only be grasped after great sacrifice.

Critics have debated whether this is a story without hope, but I tend to agree with those who feel McCarthy is more ambiguous than nihilistic. How can there be no hope when John Grady himself has learned who he is, is wiser for it, and still retains a gentleness in his soul?

All the Pretty Horses was my first foray into the world of the reclusive McCarthy, and I was immediately drawn into the story by his rhythmic prose and evocative sense of place.

The frequent conversations in Spanish were appropriate in the narrative, but a tad frustrating for a reader who doesn’t speak the language. Although, I could generally guess at the meaning through context, and when I couldn’t, the language barrier served as a reminder of how far John Grady and his buddies were from home.

All the Pretty Horses was an excellent read on a number of levels, not least of which was the question about the nature of the duality of human existence – serenity and violence – and whether you have to be able to accept that both exist before you can attempt to understand and accept the world.