Scrap the aspirations, what have I actually read?

I’ve written too much of late about what I haven’t read. Here’s what I have.

Travels with my Aunt, Graham Greene

A sort of spy novel with a dash of Are you My Mother. Henry Pulling is drawn from the quiet decay of retirement and his dahlia-packed garden and into the racy underworldish life of his aunt. It’s a late coming of age for Henry as he scoots around Europe and finally South America, seeking out the seedy haunts of his Aunt’s yesteryear and rubbing shoulders with thoroughly disreputable characters for this first time in his life – most of them his aunt’s old lovers. Funny, accessible and a great example of why (apparently – thanks New York Times – the French call Graham Greene the ‘Grim Grin’).

Swamplandia!, Karen Russell

Exclamation mark indeed! Released last year – it was recent holiiiiiiiiiday (see Burmese Days below) reading for me. Actually – like Travels with my Aunt I think it could be described as a dark coming of age story. Ava Bigtree’s Mum has died and the bank is about to foreclose on their family home slash alligator wrestling theme park.  Her Dad’s not really dealing with the situation and her sister Ossie is eloping with a ghost. Hilarious, kooky, a ‘lil bit spooky… I thought, until Ossie explains that she has no interest in dating the living because black fruit, a human decay rots inside us. I’ve trawled the book looking for the passage again but can’t quite put my finger on it. At any rate it was a drawn breath moment for me – the first of many. Enter the Birdman, promising Ava he’ll help her journey to the underworld to pluck her sister from the grasp of her ethereal husband. But what sort of grown-up promises something like that? Swamplandia! held me between the real and the imagined or magical, never sure which interpretation was the right one. Until all of a sudden, at about the same moment it becomes clear to Ava, it became all-too-clear for me too.

Burmese Days, George Orwell

Myanmar/Burma is where I went on my holiiiiiiiiday last month and so at the end of the trip I decided to give Burmese Days a go. Apparently George Orwell – then a policeman in Burma – arrived home to England to announce to his family that he was giving up his steady job in the colonies to become a writer. The result was this, his first novel Burmese Days (and presumably a little bit of family tension). Hints of what’s to come from Orwell abound. Not unlike 1984 it’s the story of a man who passionately hates the system he lives in but who lacks the strength of character to do anything about it. Here the system is colonial rule… so it’s a novel that in many ways was well ahead of its time. Except in its treatment of Burmese women – who just aren’t portrayed as very bright or very real. But the scenery described is evocative and it gives a painfully compelling picture of its main character John Flory’s boredom and desperation as a self-appointed outsider trapped amongst the drunken British sahibs of the club.

Unwrapped: the got and the not-got-lot

One out of six ain’t bad?

Like a bloke proposing to his missus on reality TV, when I posted my Christmas wish-list on a public forum, I was fairly confident of a particular outcome. Someone was going to buy me The Sense of an Ending.  My confidence stemmed from a conversation that followed an earlier conversation in which I’d modestly said I didn’t want anything special or specific for Christmas. I followed this by yelling across our (not altogether large) flat that there was one thing I should, at all costs, be got, please. I’m sure I said please...

So The Sense of an Ending, I got. The others, I did not, not got. I did however receive three additional unlisted, not wished for specifically but interesting (in the good sense) books, from three separate Santas.

When God was a Rabbit – Sarah Winman

According to the back of the book and reviewers from lots of prominent papers whose reviews are, in part, listed there (on the back), this is a ‘captivating, beguiling, mesmerising and whimsical’ book. Set in Essex, Cornwall and then later New York it’s not a memoir but it’s supposed to have that sort of feel (I read the note from the author at the end of the book and it says so). I’m sort of surmising from skim reading a few pages that bad things happen to good people and good people deal with them. Luckily there are avenging fairy Godmother style lesbian aunts and rabbits. It sounds witty and charming. Thanks Santa!

Great Expectations – Charles Dickens

'What the Dickens? This wasn’t on my list!’ I snorted – displaying very little gratitude to my real benefactor. It was the exact moment I realised that The Sense of An Ending was my lot – and that all my big hopes and Christmas library dreams were dashed. And that an older man dressed in red, year-round was not the giver of gifts at all. Dash it all. But I should still very much like to read the book – the description of Miss Havisham alone should make it worthwhile. Good one Santa!

Bird Typo – Yukina Narita

Little art book, you’re so fun! Bird Typo does what it says it will on the label. It’s an alphabet-slash-art book with a bird for each letter (even X gets a proper bird – xenops anyone?). Nice work Santa!

Oh, and in case you’re wondering… my birthday is in February.

On the sixth day of my wish-list, my Christmas library

I Want My Hat Back by John Klassen

And now… for a picture book. I lean towards the notion that children’s picture books are as much (maybe more) for grown-ups as children (my fingers aren’t jammy and I turn pages with the proper amount of zeal – i.e. not too much). I’ve gone all year without buying one for myself and I’ve bought lots and lots for wee people belonging to my friends so it’s time, Santa baby, you slipped one under the tree, for me. I’ve been an awful good girl.

One of the great things about a picture book is that you can read it cover-to-cover while you’re in the bookshop. So I’ve already read I Want My Hat Back – but I’d like to read it again. And again.

In the grand tradition of fiction for kids under four (The Little Mole, Are you My Mother, Hug) an animal (here, a bear) is on a quest to find something. Not poo, not his mummy and not a hug. Can you guess what he’s looking for?

Sounds like a book you’ve read before? You haven’t. It’s a bit darker than the aforementioned… it’s a jungle out there (well a forest) and if you steal a hat you might get eaten.

Fabulous illustrations, dark and witty. Not for sensitive souls... but for kids and parents (and childless book lovers) with a streak of evil genius.

Santa baby.... hurry down the chimney tonight.

Taking us to

Six bears searching

Five surreal things

Four Christmas quackers

Three Balkan tigers

Two Barnes’ ending

And a Snicket/Handler teenage love story

On the fifth day of my wish-list, my Christmas library...

1Q84

‘1Q84 – secret Santa gift for my wife'

‘1Q who?’ 

I’d somehow missed the hype that ushered in the new Murakami novel. 
How is this possible? I love Murakami. Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World most, Wind-Up Bird Chronicle next.

Even the titles are great – and (as established in yesterday’s entry) I love a pun, even when the double/triple what-have-you entendre is in Japanese. The titular Q, you see, stands for question (apparently) but also for the  ‘kyu’ sound of the word nine in Japanese. Mum, if you’re reading this – I know this, not because I remember anything from high school Japanese, sorry. It’s because I read it in a review. The good news is that while I didn’t learn much in the way of Japanese at school, I did learn to read (though, I agree my spelling could be improved).

So… what can I say – from what I’ve heard (head nod to Mr Kajagoogoo for jogging my memory) it’s, as you’d expect, surreal. Literary and pop culture references abound. It’s crazy long and involves a story within a story and some chrysalises and leprechauns (really). ACE. If there’s a secret Santa out there looking to get me a gift – I’ll have what she’s having thanks.

To recap we’re at:

Five surreal things

Four Christmas quackers

Three Balkan tigers

Two Barnes’ ending

And a Snicket/Handler teenage love story

On the fourth day of my wish-list, my Christmas library

Something non-fiction but not particularly serious to shake things up.

Moby-Duck: The True Story Of 28,800 Bath Toys Lost At Sea And Of The Beachcombers, Oceanographers, Environmentalists, And Fools, Including The Author, Who Went In Search Of Them

I love a pun – and this book sounds like a quacker… And really! How could 28,800 bath toys honest-to-goodness-for-rizza have been lost at sea? How? I must know! Is this incrementally over time – across the long, rich history of bath toys – or were they all lost at once? Were they all rubber ducks? What other sorts of bath toys are there?

So many questions! I must read the book (or someone who has read it must contact me immediately to tell me the answers). Spoiler alert – reading the New York Times article in the link in the title above will answer pretty much all of these questions… but guess what? Hong Kong features. Heyyyyyy! High five H-to-the-K, sometime city of mine.

So on the fourth day of my wish-list, my Christmas library that’s:

Four Christmas quackers

Three Balkan tigers

Two Barnes’ ending

And a Snicket/Handler teenage love story

On the third day of my wish-list, my Christmas library…

Téa Obreht’s The Tiger’s Wife

An admission: I love fables and allegories. And tigers. But I’m not keen on books set during or around war (Birdsong is one of my least favourite novels of all time and I couldn’t get through the first 100 pages of The Book Thief). So it’s taken me a little while to weigh these against each other and reach the conclusion that I’d like to read Téa Obreht’s debut and this year's Orange prize-winner.

Here’s what I mean.

The following, nicked from the blurb on the author’s website, really doesn’t do it for me: “In a Balkan country mending from years of conflict, Natalia, a young doctor, arrives on a mission of mercy at an orphanage by the sea.” 

But then… “She turns to the stories [her grandfather] told her when she was a child. On their weekly trips to the zoo he would read to her from a worn copy of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, which he carried with him everywhere; later, he told her stories of his own encounters over many years with “the deathless man,” a vagabond who claimed to be immortal and appeared never to age.”

Deathless man? Jungle Book? Hells yes.

I hope to add The Tiger’s Wife to my top tiger book faves (The Tiger-Skin Rug, Life of Pi and of course The Jungle Book), but I’m reminded that it doesn’t pay to be so black and white about these things. Not all tiger books have teeth… I was kind of tepidly enthusiastic about The White Tiger and will probably never read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (although I agree neither of these are, strictly speaking, about actual tigers). And war stories? Catch 22… fantastic. Birds without Wings… epic, moving, wonderful.

Taking the list to:

Three Balkan tigers

Two Barnes’ ending

And a Snicket/Handler teenage love story

The second book on my wish list, my Christmas library... two Barnes' ending

A little obvious…  Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending

This year’s Booker (Man Booker – whatever it’s called) prize-winner. Short, pithy and apparently very, very good.

In a misguided attempt to read each of this year’s shortlisted titles before the prize was announced – note to self, next year assign this sort of task a timeframe stretching to several months rather than two and a half weeks – I bought this, Jamrach’s Menagerie, The Sisters Brothers and Pigeon English online. They arrived, I unwrapped them – stroked the covers (creepy) and wept to find that I’d accidentally bought the book-on-CD version of Sense of an Ending. I immediately sent it to my parentals. I wept again, after they’d listened to it when they told me that they agree with the Booker judges – it’s very good.

I now know precisely what happens to Patrick DeWitt’s hit killer-cowboys the Sisters Brothers and Carol Birch’s tiger petting, dragon-hunting Jaffy Brown – not to mention Year Seven’s second-best runner 11-year old Ghanaian immigrant Harrison Opoku. But I have absolutely no idea what happens in Julian Barnes’ novel. I loved Arthur and George and I think its fair to say (and bear with me because it is the season of terrible Christmas cracker style jokes) I’d like to get…

Wait for it….

A sense of its ending.

BA-DOOM-CISH!

So that’s two Barnes’ ending…

And a Snicket/Handler teenage love story

On the first day of my wish-list, my Christmas library...

And I’m back! Just in time (more or less) for Christmas. Which means it’s a year (more or less) since BookSelfish began. Pa-poop! Confetti! Party horns! Paper crowns! Exclamation marks for everyone!!!!!!!

In celebration, commiseration and some other 'ation' words – which haven’t yet popped into my addled brain (addled: bad in both nogs of eggish nature and noggins of thirty-something self-styled wannabe bloggers) – I’ve made a Christmas wish-list. 

And count-down.

That’s right! I’m going to post about a  book I’d like to receive every day until Christmas. By my count, that’s eight books… if I’d thought of it sooner I’d have chosen the obvious festive number… (the best number according to both Sesame Street and Santa Claus, twelve).  If I’d thought of it sooner still, I’d have looked for books about drummers drumming and lords leaping. Maybe next year.

So… (you know the tune)

The first book on my wish list, my Christmas library:

A grown-up (well adolescent) Lemony Snicket – Daniel Handler’s Why We Broke Up

It’s been quite a year. Typing this I’ve come to the jaw-dropping epiphany that just as Alexander Skarsgard has surpassed Eddie Izzard to top my get-out-jail free list, so too has Daniel Handler pipped Mr Izzard in my personal hero stakes.

Why We Broke Up is Daniel Handler (AKA Lemony Snicket’s) new novel. It’s really young adult fiction, but we’re past all that right? Age appropriateness is for people who don’t eat cake for breakfast. And while the premise sounds a little trying (at the end of their romance, Min Green presents her ex – also an Eddie – or rather ‘Ed’ – a box of mementos explaining, AHAH!,  why they broke up… because it’s Handler/Snicket at the helm (and, ummm, now that I’ve read the NY Times review) I’m confident in my assessment that it’s going to be fresh, funny and interesting.

So Eddie (Izzard), here’s a virtual box of mementos for you from me. It’s covered in bees and comes with a slice of cake or death (sob). It’s not about the Eurozone, it’s just that I’ve moved on. Here’s why we broke up in one silly Snicket quote. 

To recap... on the first shelf of my wish-list, my Christmas library: a Snicket/Handler teenage love story.

Skippy Dies in a pool of angst, doughnuts and M-theory

It was bloody hard being 14, wasn’t it? Brutal. There we all were, not-yet-able to frock up what we really thought in a veil of grown-up hard-won empathy. The kind of emotional maturity you only learn from getting smacked over the head repeatedly (metaphorically for me, literally for many I’m sure), just out of our reach.

I’ve no idea how we all survived.

Skippy – as the title of Paul Murray’s tragicomic tale of teenage angst in a Catholic boys school not so much implies as straight out tells you – doesn’t make it.

That’s right. Skippy Dies… in a haze of painkillers in a doughnut house, his girlfriend a phony, his swim-coach more interested in what’s in his swimming trunks, his mother dying of cancer, the school Principal convinced there’s something unwholesome about his sudden interest in frisbee. Plot spoilers, sorry. But crikey, poor guy.

Such a good title though! And I think it delivers. I found it funny and gripping – even if some of the peripheral characters are a little obvious (a priest with a penchant for young boys, anyone?).

Of course Mr Murray is on the wrong track, as far as I'm concerned, about Skippy's mates and their adventures in physics... the thing I understood least in high school science. Forces were a bit ungraspable... M-theory... what???? Put it in a novel and call it sci-fi and I would have thought it was neato, though, so maybe he's not so far off the mark.

But by-and-large Paul Murray remembers, I think, how it was. He gets how unrelenting and how fragile kids are, or at least how I remember us. Because, surely, apart from the technology, nothing much has changed? Not that any teenagers you meet are likely to believe it. 

At any rate, every page reminded me just how breathlessly grateful I am to have reached adulthood, mostly unscathed.

Cheating on Kerouac

I’ve been cheating on Jack Kerouac with Michael Lewis.  I’m not proud, but there it is.  I’ve drawn myself into a web of deceit and I’m finding it hard to admit that the one I thought I’d be in lip-smacking, googly-eyed love with – the one that ticks all the boxes on my must-have list – is actually just ticking me off.

Look at them, sitting by the bed, one ravaged and tea-stained the other prim and straight-paged. Just look at them! Oh it verily breaks my heart. Though really I'm just keen on writing verily. Verily, verily, verily, verily, life is but a dream.

Anyway, a classic tale of the beat generation sounded dreamy – a must read. Bohemian road-tripping… swoon! But it didn’t start well. It seemed to lack direction. And so I took a break. Just for a little while, to collect my thoughts. It wasn’t the book – it was me.

As I brooded, waited and hoped, someone I think especially well of set me up. I’m (often) polite and it was hard to refuse. I agreed to a blind book date. Just a quick skim of a couple of chapters and I’d be back with Jack.

What I’d forgotten, when I picked up The Big Short was how irresistible good story telling can be. No matter that the book’s topic is the financial crisis. No matter that after 200 pages I still couldn’t explain the nature of a credit-default swap (my fault, not Michael’s). It’s a page-turning read. Michael Lewis knows how to write a story, he knows how to make a subject eejits like me think boring, intriguing. His story has structure, compelling characters a beginning, middle and an end. And I loved it. Against my better judgement I was wild about it. And now of course, like many good things – like all things that just can’t last forever, it’s over.

So I’m On the Road again. Back with Jack. It’s getting better. There are flashes of brilliance. But its lack of structure is doing my head in. He’s not, alas, the storyteller I’d hoped for.