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.

A year of blogging

Around a year ago, I wrote a post about my favourite reads of 2007 and then – holding my breath and peering out one eye – bravely hit the upload button.

It was the first instalment of a blog I’d optimistically titled Great stories, having no idea if anyone other my friends would read it or be interested in what I’d have to say on the subject of books, narrative and storytelling.

I decided to start this blog as a way to talk about books (and, at times, films and television) with anyone who might share a similar – or contrary – view on what worked and what didn’t when it came to telling great stories.

I found I was having discussions with a number of my book-loving friends on similar topics, and thought a blog would be the perfect way to have those discussions at the same time.

But what’s grown from that has been even better than I’d hoped. Who knew the blogsphere was such an interesting and generous place?

I still remember the excitement the first time I found a comment from someone I didn’t personally know (thank you Salty Letters!).

To be honest, I still get a buzz whenever anyone leaves a comment on my blog, even more so if they’re a new contributor (and aren’t you always curious how someone comes across your blog?).

Over the past year there have been some witty, insightful, clever and - yes, Ink-stained Toe-poker - cheeky comments left on my posts. All have been appreciated.

Some posts generate lots of comments, some only a few, and I still haven’t pinned down the differences between the two.

And then there was my brief addiction to meme, when I was first introduced to Booking Through Thursday (BTT).

When I found myself racing home from work to knock up a response to that week’s questions so I could make it in the first dozen comments, I realised I’d moved away from my aim of writing posts that were thoughtful and well considered. The only answer was to go cold turkey… If I was posting daily, or even a couple of times a week, the occasional BTT response would’ve been fine. But when I only post around once a week, those abrupt posts seemed out of place in the context of the rest of the blog.

Still, Booking Through Thursday remains a fantastic source of topics and bloggers, and I will be forever grateful to that meme for helping me find a whole new world of literary bloggers to exchange ideas with – on their blogs and mine.

Great stories has given me a chance to express some of the thoughts, ideas and questions bouncing around in my head, and I'm so so appreciative of those people who return to the site on a regular basis to join discussions.

I’ve met some wonderfully intelligent and thoughtful bloggers in cyberland, and blogging has added a new dimension to friendships with people who also inhabit my life away from the computer.

So, for fear of this sounding like some sort of Oscar speech, I’d just like to thank all of you who post regularly, and those who just visit.

I’ve got quite a few extra projects going on my life at the moment (in addition to my full time job), but I love writing this blog and reading other people's blogs, so I’m going to attempt to keep this going.

My posts my not be exactly weekly, but they will be regular.

And, hopefully, they’ll be worth waiting for!

A skewed view of the world

Last week I mentioned there was a particularly great line in High Fidelity I wanted to explore.

Bec, in her comment on that post, was on the same wave length, beating me to my follow-up post! (Just trying to squeeze two blogs out of one book :) )

The line involves Rob’s musings about how people whose lives are closely bound by music (or other forms of emotive storytelling) can end up with a skewed view of the world, particularly when it comes to relationships:

Maybe we all live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically, head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve within a stable, solid relationship.

Is that true?

Do great stories skew the way you see the world and live your life?

Whether it’s because you’ve read too many romances and no partner can ever measure up, or one too many crime novels, and you live in a constant state of fear, or one too many downbeat literary novels, and you feel there’s no hope to ever find happiness because the world is so flawed?

I know the books I read can colour my mood for hours, even days, afterwards (rarely more than that, unless I’ve deeply connected with the story), but I think my reading material is so eclectic that I’m generally not overwhelmed by one particular emotional theme.

I have a tendency to over-analyse most things, and I tend to experience emotions in their extremes, but I don’t think that’s because of my reading material, but more something in my own personality (or was it created from absorbing so much emotional material vicariously, in addition to my own emotional reality?)

OK, I’m going to stop now, before I hurt myself with over-analysis…

Anyone else given much thought to this topic?

Relating to High Fidelity

Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity is a much-loved classic, not least because it was the Brit lad lit equivalent to Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones Diary chick lit in the '90s.

It’s a great mix of wry humor, unpretentious intellect and blokey sentiment (a Hornby trademark that’s since inspired countless writers).

It’s also a call to nostalgia for anyone who’s ever turned to a favourite song/album to deal with a particular occasion or emotion.

High Fidelity, as well as offering an insight into one particular male mind, asks a few of life’s big questions:

- Is it possible to share your life with someone whose record collection is incompatible with your own?

- Can people have terrible taste and still be worth knowing?

- Do songs about broken hearts and misery and loneliness mess up your life if consumed in excess?

For Rob Fleming, a 35-year-old pop addict and owner of a failing record shop, these are the sort of questions that need an answer.


His girlfriend has just left him, prompting the dilemma of whether he can go on living in a poky flat surrounded by vinyl and CDs or should he get a real home, a real family and a real job? Perhaps most difficult of all, will he ever be able to stop thinking about life in terms of the All Time Top Five bands, books, films, songs. Even now that he's been dumped again, his first reaction is to create an All Time Top Five Break-ups list.

I had a couple of reactions to this book, but perhaps the strongest was that it took me back to my late teens, when my entire life revolved around music ... When the choice of cassette in my HK Premier was more important than my choice of outfit.

Regular poster, Bec C, one of my oldest, dearest and coolest friends, will remember this era vividly.

How many hours did we spend discussing whether ZZ Top was better in the '70s (Tres Hombres era) or the '80s (Eliminator era)? Or working out the lyrics to Black Sabbath’s Paranoid? Or compiling the ultimate '70s and '80s heavy metal cassette, on which Rainbow, Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin could co-exist with Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and Whitesnake?

Our debates about top five lists were along the lines of best rock drummers of all time, coolest Angus Young guitar solos, best Aussie pub bands... We definitely made judgements about people based on their music tastes (and, as is apparent from last week’s blogs, I still do this to a degree with people’s reading tastes. Bec, of The Small Stuff, was also bang on a few weeks ago when she suggested I would “get” the appeal of the lists in Hornby's book).

For High Fidelity’s Rob, the ability to compile those lists and solve musical dilemmas of his own devising is central to his identity.

It’s one of his excuses for not growing up, as the “adults” in his life keep urging him to do (and by adults, I clearly don’t mean his offsiders in the record shop).

He equates growing up with having to give it all up – believing that maturity leaves no time to focus all one's energy on a single passion.

My experience with blogging this past year has revealed there are countless people who live and breathe stories (for Rob it's stories in songs – for us literary bloggers, it’s stories in books).

Book-loving bloggers are more adept than most at creating a list at the drop of a hat because the subject matter is always at the front of their minds.

But are they as obsessed as Rob is about music? Has their depth of trivial knowledge and passion shaped their lives at the expense of other things?

Are they still functional adults?

Well, are you?

(I’d like to think I am, but others may disagree…)

There’s a particularly great line in High Fidelity I also want to explore, but I’ll leave that till next time.

Judging people by book covers - do you do it?

When packing for a recent trip to Melbourne, I found myself spending as much time choosing my reading material for the flight as I did on the rest of the packing.

I could tell you it was all about finding the right book in my to-read pile best suited to a plane trip, but that’s not telling the whole story. Because, in truth, I was also making my choice based on what it would to say about me as a reader.

This is based on the irrational – and somewhat self-indulgent – assumption that complete strangers are as interested in my reading choices as I am in theirs.

I realised, on reflection, that I was putting more thought into the choice than I might if I was just going to carrying the book into the next room. So my selection wasn't just about what I felt like reading (and what would be a good distraction on a two-and-a-half hour flight), but what judgements other people might make on seeing the book in my hands.

I probably should clarify (as I suspect this may be one of those “honest reflection” posts I come to regret!) … I don’t spend every waking moment worrying about what other people think – I’ve happily outgrown that level of self-consciousness – but there’s definitely still a small, quiet voice in the background that speaks up when I pick a book off the shelf.

Most people make almost sub-conscious judgements on people based on clothes or appearance (remember Josh Weinstein’s documentary?). Some of us also do it with reading material (for others, it’s the DVD a person is holding in the shop, or the CD playing in their car).

It’s a single choice in a moment of time, which shouldn’t define us – but often does.

Regular readers of this blog will – I hope – know that I’m not a literary snob. I have wide and varied tastes in fiction. But, I must confess, if someone is going to make a snap judgement about my reading habits, I’d rather it be while I’m clutching a book closer to the well-written end of the literary scale, rather than something I’m reading out of curiosity or experimentation.

Is that wrong?

I wouldn’t read a book just for the sake of being seen with it, but I found it interesting how much of my view of myself these days is linked to my literary life – and how I want that literary life to be perceived by others.

In case you’re wondering, I resisted the urge to attempt to finish Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment (which has set half-read on my bedside table for about a year now), and chose Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity – the repackaged Penguin edition (post to come on my thoughts) for the flight down.

For the trip back, it was Mark Abernethy’s Second Strike (sequel to The Golden Serpent, which I’m still reading due to its size and my available reading time.) Both kept me entertained and kept my self consciousness to a minimum, even though the latter has a very blokey cover...

So, the questions then, for those who wish to join me in this little exercise:
- Do you judge people by the books they read?
- Are you self conscious about what you read in public?

Do you read more than one book at once?

This was a question posed to me by my blogging friend Gustav a few week’s back.

In thinking about it, it’s raised some interesting questions about the way in which we absorb narrative in its different forms.

I always have more than one book on the go at any time – but never more than one piece of fiction.

I’ll often have three of four books on the bedside table that may be about history, religion, or other non-fiction (and not all as high brow as that statement may make it sound!).

But I rarely attempt to read two novels at once. (Occasionally, a high-demand novel may become available on short loan from the library, and I’ll set aside whatever novel I’m reading at that moment so I can return the library book on time. But I always set it aside - I don’t try and read both at once.)

For me, it’s always been an issue of not having my head in two narrative spaces at once.

Which got me thinking: isn’t that what I do when I watch more than one television series in the same season? Or following stories in more than comic series?

Films are slightly different because we watch them in a single sitting, (unless you’re a pay TV “flicker”, of course, then you might watch it in three instalments, and not necessarily chronological!), experiencing the entire narrative before moving on to the next story.

I seem to manage quite well keeping track of story arcs and characters across these more visual mediums.

Is it because an episode of a television series or an edition of a comic has its own smaller story arc, with a natural place for a break at the end? Even a cliff hanger ending makes a clean break from one episode to another.

For me, the same rules just don’t seem to apply to novels. Is it because with a novel, the story takes up so much more of my imagination, and when I fill up that space with too many stories requiring my emotional and imaginative capacity, it becomes too messy?

Does the visual nature of television and comics make it easier for me to keep the stories separate?

So, my question this week is: do you read more than one novel at a time? And if so, do you find it easy to keep the stories straight?