Apples and Olives

For some reason over the last few months we have studied books written by male authors almost exclusively. This is probably just coincidence, but there has been a notable absence of female writers on our shortlist. This month we attempted to redress that with a couple of very different books authored by women.

I tend not to read memoir or biographies very often; first of all because the market is stuffed to the gills with them, and to be frank most of the subjects are of little interest to me. A sportsman writing (or ghost-writing, very often) their autobiography when still in their mid-twenties seems to me to be a highly cynical attempt to cash in on their popularity rather than having anything interesting to say. There are always exceptions to this, of course, but I approach such books with a degree of caution.

So when reading Magda Szubanski’s memoir Reckoning I was please to find my fears were unfounded. For a start, she can really write. I had little knowledge of her work as a comedian and TV personality before reading, which put me at odds with the other members of the book club, but I found it a candid and humorous read nonetheless. The crux of the book deals with Szubanski’s complicated relationship with her Polish father and his years spent under Nazi rule in Warsaw in World War 2. She struggles to come to terms with her identity, mostly because of her father’s reluctance to explain his formative years and its effect on him as man and father. Her other struggle with identity was dealing with coming out as a lesbian in the still hostile atmosphere of 1980s Australian society, particularly from those in the television industry.

This twin struggle gives the book its emotional weight, and there are some very tender and moving moments at the books conclusion when Szubanski begins to come to terms with her background and sexuality. As I said earlier, she has a talent for writing and a frankness that is admirable, exploring her own flaws with great insight and a constant dry wit. The celebrity pile of self-absorbed tittle-tattle books of gossip are already groaning under their collective weight. Thankfully Szubanski’s book eschews this mundane frivolity and the result is all the better for it. A welcome addition to the genre and I shall endeavour to seek out more of these sorts of biographies in future.

A bugbear of mine in book discussions is the criticism of a book as being ‘depressing.’ Firstly, everyones idea of what constitutes depressing is completely different – having suffered from it throughout my adult life I can say most peoples ideas are probably way off beam – and more importantly, a book which deals with such issues shouldn’t be criticised for doing so. Life is pretty depressing at times, and it would be dishonest to not say so, so the argument that it is something of a black mark against a book I have little time for.

This made Elizabeth Strout’s collection of intertwined short stories Olive Kitteridge something of a conflict for me. The eponymous hero  of the book is certainly a character who is pretty intolerable at times. She is selfish, neurotic, judgemental, and and at times quite nasty, with seemingly little self-awareness of these traits. This comes sharply into focus through her relationship with her son, who after entering therapy delivers some home truths that Olive is completely unaware of. She is completely immune to this side of her personality, and hostile to the criticisms that come her way. Which makes her a frustrating character to read.

Frustrating yes, but always fascinating. And this is my argument – to dismiss the book as depressing because of Olive’s character ignores the brilliance of the writing. Strout has created a woman who is compelling to read about and never boring. The structure of the book, with Olive appearing in some capacity in virtually all of them, makes you eager to see when she will crop up next. Indeed, the weakest of the stories are those where she is reduced to little more than bystander. I found myself turning the pages wishing to get back to Olive, to find out more about her and look for explanations of her flawed character. That feeling can only come when a character explodes off the page and into the reader’s consciousness, warts and all, demanding that their story be told. If the writing is weak, this just doesn’t happen. That it did so powerfully here is a testament to Strout’s strength as a storyteller.

First Novel Phenomenon

We took on two first novels at book club this month, and both caused something of a sensation on release. Very different books, and one in particular had an enormous effect on my teenage years when I read it many years ago.

I remember when Zadie Smith’s White Teeth came out at the beginning of the century and the buzz it caused. This tale of the lives of two wartime friends, one Bangladeshi and the other English, and their sprawling families, was a smash on release and made a superstar of its author. I never had much of an inkling to read it at the time, never being one for the popular read, so it passed me by. It is an amazingly accomplished work for a first novel, particularly from a writer aged just 25, and contains a cynical humour and pathos that I really liked. The themes it explores are weighty and really relevant to today’s society too.

Immigration and the assimilation of immigrants is a political hot potato no matter which side of the world you are on. The efforts of Samad and his family to integrate into British society form the backbone of the novel. Putting down roots is a major metaphor (hence the White Teeth title) and all the first-generation immigrants in the book face a struggle in trying to do so.

The second generation find it even more difficult; the children of Archie and Samad, despite being born in Britain, seem to have no further connection to their country of birth than their parents. They also turn against the influences of their parents in an attempt to find their own way – Millat being the most extreme of these, a rebellious womaniser who ends up being radicalised into an Islamic fundamentalist. The quest for assimilation ends up alienating the children from their parents.

These themes are woven expertly into the book by Smith, and shot through with the off-beat humour already mentioned. Despite being 15 years old the book remains really relevant today, as sadly many countries in the world face real problems from homegrown terrorism. In fact I would call the book very prescient in that way.

That’s not to say it is without its flaws – the ending of the book feels rushed and ties up the loose ends in an abrupt fashion. This was an almost universal criticism. The writing style changes and it feels jarring, as if Smith didn’t quite know how to pull everything together and got into a panic. Which is a great shame as it mars what up until then had been an enjoyable read.

I first read William Golding’s Lord of the Flies as a 10 year old at primary school, which in hindsight was a brave decision on the part of my teachers. The violence and savagery of the book has stayed with me ever since, and it was fascinating to re-read after all these years and assess my feelings about it from an adults perspective. I would now say this is one of the finest books I’ve ever read.

Why? Well, first and foremost it is a brilliantly written adventure story. Place a group of teenage boys on an uninhabited desert island and see what happens. The possibilities are endless, and Golding takes us down some very dark roads and into the shadows. As a kid this was the first book I’d ever read that opened my eyes to the dark potential of what my peers and I were capable of, and this thought was overwhelming and a little frightening. As the group dynamic begins to disintegrate and Jack and his band of hunters escape into the forest, the tension ratchets up notch by notch. Something terrible is going to happen, and its inevitability is both depressing and exciting. Once Simon and then Piggy are killed in acts of mindless savagery the destruction is complete and civilisation has been destroyed.

It was the sheer plausability of this scenario that got to me then and still discomforts  me now. How far away are we from total destruction? Would a group of boys today behave in such a manner? I think I know the answer, and it is a troublesome thought.

I think the books unique brilliance is its utter refusal to allow any sentimentality about childhood to enter the narrative. I think it is almost inevitable for this to happen when adults write about children – its hard to reminisce without becoming a little misty-eyed. This is the only novel I can think of which does so, and with complete success. I think it is peerless in its field and should be sought out and read by all.



I think every reader has an author that they struggle to get on with. In some cases it’s difficult to know why – it could be the writing style, the subject matter, the language. It’s particularly hard for me if the author is one of the so-called ‘classic’ writers in the literary canon. I feel dispirited with my travails, and worry if there is something that I am just not getting that is so blindingly obvious to others. This problem reared its head on our first book club choice this month, but I soon found I was not alone in my difficulties.

I first encountered Joseph Conrad at university, when I studied Heart Of Darkness as part of a modernism module. I remember finding the book, despite its brevity, pretty dense and impenetrable on first reading. As time progressed I began to appreciate its merits more, its comment on important themes of imperialism and racism, especially with the knowledge that it inspired one of my favourite movies Apocalypse Now. But I never shook off my trepidation of Conrad’s work, and I’m sad to say that reading Nostromo for this month has done little to dispel my fears.

Interestingly I was one of only two people who manged to finish the book. Everyone who failed gave up around the same point, a third of the way through. I can understand this completely, because the opening of the book is a morass of scene-setting and background, setting up the geography and politics of the fictional island Costaguana. This stuff, whilst important, is dry to the point of tedium. I was waiting to hear more of the exploits of the hero Nostromo and his attempts to smuggle silver out of the city of Sulaco. Frustratingly for this reader at least, Nostromo is relegated to a peripheral role in the novel. For me, just when the action starts to get interesting, we return to another diatribe about mining or revolutionary politics. I greatly admire the art of creating a world that is believable and Costaguana is convincingly drawn, but sometimes this stuff impacts on the story, which after all is what we are here for.

I learnt a good lesson from this book, though. It would have been easy to follow my fellow members and put the book down, and I was very close to doing so. But it is good to persevere with a book you find challenging, it’s good for the mind and can be an accomplishment. I felt I did a lot of heavy lifting with this, something I haven’t done with a book for a while. Whether I really got anything from continuing probably requires further reflection.

Another classic followed from this, and in terms of length and style couldn’t be further from Conrad. John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men runs to barely more than a hundred pages, but it really packs a punch in that time. Steinbeck wrote the novelette (that hideous term again) so it could be read like a play, with minimal scene setting and heavy with dialogue. I didn’t realise this until after finishing it, so the changes in scene come across as quite abrupt and jarring, but otherwise the book is a triumph.

Steinbeck’s early work deals with the lives of poor agricultural workers in Southern California. He explores the power of male friendship in the face of poverty and the hopelessness that stems from it. The hand-to-mouth existence and the loneliness of constantly being on the road are brilliantly described, and the dreams that our heroes George and Lennie take on a tone of melancholy due to being always one step away, just out of reach. Lennie, a man of limited mental capacity, needs constant reminders that the dream is still alive and that a settled life is possible.

The novel builds to a violent act committed by Lennie, a man who is unable to take care of himself. Emotional and physical abuse forms a large part of the story, with the dangerous jealousy of Curly creating an environment of menace and a suffocating air of inevitability that wrongdoing will take place. These men are lonely, frustrated, powerless, and this toxic brew couple with the manipulations of Curly’s wife, herself suffering from broken dreams and emotional deficiencies, leads to tragedy. It seems fate that the character’s aspirations will be destroyed, and Steinbeck paints this world with terrific aplomb. The sparse length of the novel accentuates the urgency and poignancy of these men’s lives and accelerates to its shocking conclusion with breakneck speed.

An aspect of the book that is ugly to read is the explicit racism expressed towards Crooks, the stable-hand. I didn’t find it shocking, as it reflects the pre-war period when such language was acceptable. but it is still quite difficult to read. Steinbeck paints Crooks with dignity so it is clear where his affections lie, but the language does carry extreme power and led to numerous attempts (some successful) to ban the book in modern times. A position that I fundamentally disagree with. Books of such importance need to be widely read and discussed.


Returning the Favour

Despite the fact that I am a voracious reader, I have some huge gaps in my reading history of writers that I have never gotten around to exploring. I’m sure every reader has these – it’s almost inevitable considering the endless number of books out there. I’m ashamed to say I have some classic authors missing from my stable, including Dickens, Trollope and Tolstoy. It’s pointless to feel bad about it as no-one can read everything, but I always feel satisfaction when I cross another legendary name from my to-read list.

With this in mind I was happy with this month’s book club choices. Ernest Hemingway has been on my radar for a long time. His writing style is one I have been recommended many times, and the brevity and clarity of his language has gone down in history. So to finally read his first novel The Sun Also Rises was a great joy and has made me eager to search out the rest of his oeuvre.

The economical and understated nature of Hemingway’s prose is his greatest strength and is impossible to ignore. The sentence structure is staccato, with almost no use of punctuation – commas, parantheses, semi-colons, and so on. This gives the prose an amazing punch. This style means that the language used must be clear and concise, with each adjective used with extreme precision. It’s a very fine line to risk, but Hemingway sails through with aplomb. It really is an extraordinary quality that defines his work.

This style partly comes from Hemingway’s background as a journalist, where he had to focus on events with little room for context or interpretation. He developed what became known as the ‘Iceberg theory‘, which basically means to only show what is on the surface of a characters mind, rather than explicitly describing underlying thoughts. The facts remain above the surface, and the themes and symbolism are hidden beneath.

These ideas are pivotal to The Sun Also Rises. The main character Jake Barnes was wounded in the First World War and became impotent; the object of his love is Brett Ashley, divorcee who worked as a nurse in the war and is suffering from a form of post traumatic stress. These facts are never openly told, they are only suggested through the characters words and actions. All the characters are greatly affected by war, and drink heavily and behave badly throughout. I would consider them not quite lost but scarred by their experiences, and desperate to cling to anything that will alleviate the memory, if only for a while.Brett is an extraordinary character – promiscuous and using sex for personal gain, with the one man she truly loves unable to give her sex. Their relationship is tempestuous, incendiary for the time, and completely enthralling.

The scenes of bullfighting are very memorable, reflecting one of Hemingway’s lifelong obsessions. Its the centrepiece of the novel and the characters react in different ways, Brett falling in love with the matador Romero, the only heroic character of the novel. Hemingway found bullfighting an idealised pursuit, with a purity and authenticity so lacking in the world that he found himself in. Obviously the violence of the sport is not for everyone but his admiration for it shines through.

There is so much going on in this book that I could go on for longer. Suffice to say it is a novel that rewards multiple readings and should be considered a masterpiece of 20th century literature.

Not an easy act to follow, then. Our second choice, written over 150 years earlier, was Voltaire’s influential satire Candide. I always have a fascination with reading novels from before the 19th century, partly because I have read so few and also because of their age. Australia wasn’t even discovered when this book was written.

Voltaire was most famous for his philosophy and this satire could be seen as a rejection of optimistic thought that prevailed at the time. Candide’s mentor Pangloss is a firm believer that ‘all is for the best’ and tries to justify the various evil encounters they come across. Over the course of this fantastical and sarcastic plot, with many deaths and hardships, Candide comes to the conclusion that this belief is nonsense. There are many horrible deaths described in such painstaking detail that it comes across as ludicrous, which I’m sure was Voltaire’s aim. The writing is playful, but do not mistake that for criticism. The novel must have been seen as explosive at the time, as it criticises virtually all the European civilisations and religions. This derision resulted in severe denunciation from many quarters and it was banned pretty quickly. Such is the power of this interesting book.

On a personal level, this book club was great for me as my sister joined us, returning the favour after I attended a session of her club in Germany at the beginning of the year. The knowledge that a love of books can transcend geographical and cultural boundaries has always been part of my love of literature and it was good to see it reinforced.

Holding a Dahlia

I approached this month’s book club with some excitement, as our first choice was a book by one of my favourite writers in a a genre that I regard as my favourite. Funnily enough this book wasn’t my choice, but I’m glad it was chosen, as it gave me a chance to have a little rant about my love for this writer.

I first read James Ellroy many years ago, about the time that the adaptation of his novel LA Confidential was released on film. I was drawn to his writing based on his ability to handle pace and the joy of his dialogue, which is among the finest in the genre in my opinion. Our choice was The Black Dahlia, a magnum opus seeped in obsession and paranoia, based on an infamous case of a murdered woman in the 1940s.

In many ways it has become my favourite Ellroy novel. Whilst I like some of his later work the staccato prose, very alliteration heavy, can be a bit of a turn-off after hundreds of pages. A British author, David Peace, is another that I struggle with for the same reason. This novel has the flavour of his earlier books and is just beautifully written. The theme of obsession outlined above is never more stark than here, and Ellroy’s lifelong pursuit of it is down to the unsolved murder of his mother when he was a child, and to whom the book is dedicated. This haunts the novel throughout and injects the prose with enormous power. The two policeman involved in the case find their personal obsession with the case overspills into their personal lives, and decisions that they make have a direct impact on their relationships and careers. Again, this is classic Ellroy territory but never done better than here.

The plot itself is labyrinthine and far too complicated to go into here, but in most of the great crime novels the plot is almost transcended by the sheer enjoyment and dynamism of the writing. I had the same feeling with this book.

We move to very different territory for our second book, Timothy Conigrave’s memoir Holding The Man, the story of a homosexual man growing up in suburban Melbourne in the 1970s and 80s. This tale is well-known in this country and one of our members went to the same school as Conigrave, so it had a familiarity to most that I wasn’t privy to.

That said, I enjoyed some aspects of the book. I found the overly ‘ocker’ language grating at times, and I found some of Conigrave’s character traits a  little annoying, in particular his promiscuity and willingness to cheat on his partner. He seemed to lead a ‘have your cake and eat it’ lifestyle and his partner John came across as a saintly figure for putting up with it. Indeed, this was probably not an accident, as the depiction of John was very much in that vein throughout, the quiet thoughtful man who stands by his lover stoically.

The novel ends in tragedy as both men end up contracting the HIV virus and the book concludes with John’s death. Despite the inevitability of this I found the conclusion quite moving. There were also some moments where the homophobia of some of their family members was really shocking. They had a tough time being accepted as a couple and even after John’s death Tim was only described as a ‘friend’ in death notices. Whilst this can only evoke anger, it does show how far society has come, even in 20 years or so. Which in the end can only be an uplifting message.

The only other warning I would give is that the book contains graphic sexual content, I would say it is astonishingly frank in places. I admire anyone who is willing to divulge such personal things to the world, I could never do it. I didn’t have a problem with the content but some of our members thought it was a little over the top. I disagree – always tell the truth, and you can’t go far wrong.

Crying for Ivan

So, after my sojourn into the world of a German book club, we regathered for our January meeting with me suffering from a bout of jet-lag. I finished our first pick, Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, in a hazy 24 hour period after getting off the plane. Ordinarily reading under such conditions would be a hindrance but with this complex tale it may have been a help…

It is almost impossible to know where to begin with this postmodern novella, such is its chaotic nature. It’s a week since I finished it and I still think of it with confusion and disorientation. The plot as I understand it is about a woman, Oedipa Mass, who may or may not have unearthed a vast global conspiracy between two mail distribution networks after being named executor of her ex-boyfriend’s estate after his death. If this sounds utterly bizarre, you’d be right. This is merely a jumping-off point for a series of loosely linked subplots, mostly involving alcohol, hard drugs and soaked in paranoia.

The point I guess is the reader is completely unsure if he is reading the truth, a fabrication, or simply the ramblings of a drunk, hallucinating mind. The cast of characters runs long, and all are eccentric to say the least – the one that sticks in the memory is Oedipa’s therapist, who we are told undertook his internship in a Jewish concentration camp, inducing madness into his patients. All of this leads to Oedipa believing she has discovered evidence of a shadowy underground postal service called the Trystero. Or it is a hoax designed by her ex. Or a figment of her imagination.

If you’ve got this far you are probably scratching your head, and I don’t blame you, it’s that kind of book. As a postmodern text it also contains a number of cultural references that may go unnoticed which adds to the frustration. I’d recommend this book without hesitation mind – I’ve certainly never read anything like it. It’s very challenging and probably requires a number of readings to peel back the layers, but I feel that taking on the task will give rich rewards.

Back on terra firma, our second choice was a brutal portrayal of a single day in a 1950s Russian gulag. Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich is an extraordinary account based on the real experiences of the author, who was sentenced to eight years hard labour after World War 2 for supposed ‘political’ crimes after criticising Stalin in his writings.

That the book was published at all was a major surprise, because never before had an account of Stalinist repression been openly distributed. It was a huge success and sold out immediately on publication – it must have been a huge shock to read for a repressed society at the time.

The plot as it is focuses on 24 hours in the life of Ivan Denisovich. The matter-of -fact authoritative oppression of the prisoners winds through the narrative on every page, as does the sheer bitterness of the cold winter and the desperate attempts to keep warm. The longing for small pleasures such as a piece of bread or a cigarette really encapsulate the desperate conditions these men lived and worked under. Our protagonist hides a small piece of bread in his mattress and this small crumb of comfort, if you will, sustains him through a back-breaking day of hard labour. The men snatch brief moments of free time whenever they can and savour every moment when they aren’t under the watchful gaze of the guards. Time really is precious here.

Despite the harsh conditions Solzhenitsyn injects the prose with a dry wit and an optimistic outlook which comes across as very inspiring. His dismissall of the regime as ‘one man works, the other watches’ is not only amusing but a sharp analysis of the almost nonsensical bureaucracy and hierarchy of the coommunist system. Indeed, a similar line springs to mind when seeing the hordes of construction workers seemingly doing nothing on building sites most days.

There is no positive conclusion or final judgement and I guess that’s the point – every day a relentless struggle, finding comfort when you can, and counting the days as the drift slowly by.

Adventures in a German Wonderland

I’ve recently returned from a trip to the UK for Christmas and one of the highlights of my trip was spending a weekend visitng my sister in the German city of Cologne. Best of all was recieving an invitation to participate in her January book club, which I accepted without hesitation.

I was interested in attending for a number of reasons. Most of all was my curiosity about how this book club would differ in dynamic from my own, particularly as about half the group are native German speakers reading a book in their second language, which poses extra difficulties that we do not have to deal with. Because of this, the book club has a rule that every choice has to be written by a native English speaker, which rules out a vast swathe of European and African authors. This is a shame, but the reasoning behind it is to keep anything which may be too challenging from being chosen. I can understand this, but it still seems a shame.

The other main difference is that my sister’s group are much more organised than our ramshackle group. They already have the dates and choices made for the whole of 2016, which is a far cry from us, who generally only work a month or two in advance. My sister put this down to the usual German efficiency, which raised a smile. I guess it is good to know choices ahead of schedule for planning purposes, but I’d be surprised if this level of organisation ever becomes a trait of my book club!

The friendship of the German group is something that I envied as the evening wore on. The group was started about three years ago when the organiser put an ad in his local paper, and after early teething problems they have had the same core of regulars for a long period. This is something that we have struggled to overcome – this is partly because our club was set up on the Meetup platform, which allows anyone to join and attend meetings. We have a large number of people who turn up for one meeting and then never attend again, or come once a year. This is perfectly fine, and allows for fresh perspectives every month which keeps us on our toes. We do have a group of four or five regulars who turn up every month and are active socially outside of the meetings as well, and that’s great. Familar faces allow a club to have a stable nucleus and make meetings more comfortable, and I wish we had more of them. The German book club is currently closed for new members and so they have the same people every month, and they have a really nice rapport with each other. And this familiarity hasn’t lessened the strength of debate, judging by my visit.

This comforting feel is exacerbated because the group meets in a member’s flat, rather than the pub. And everyone brings a bottle of something or some food (exceptional food going on what I ate that night!) which is rather lovely.

The book that was chosen for this month, my sister’s choice in fact, was the famous children’s classic Alice’s Adventure’s in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. I was sure that I had read this novel as a child, but after completing it this time I’m not so sure. The book has become a large part of the public’s consciousness, with numerous adaptations, films, plays, and of course the famous illustrations that accompany the prose and have been drawn by some of the great illustrators of the age. My memories of it are more likely drawn from some of these sources rather than the original text.

What to say about it? Well the novel is a blend of literary nonsense containing puzzles, wordplay, riddles, parody, logic problems, you name it. Most of these puzzles seem to have no clear solutions as Alice negotiates Wonderland, most famously the Mad Hatter’s riddle and the Queen’s croquet game. Logic, or the lack of it, is the theme. Anything is possible, and Carroll plays with language to express this point. Many words have multiple meanings and interpretations, and nothing is ever what it seems. Alice uses the word ‘curious’ throughout to describe her experiences.

Of course, at the novel’s conclusion we find out that Alice was having a dream the whole time, so the characters of the world of Wonderland are mixed in with aspects of Alice’s subconscious. This adds to the slightly hallucinatory feel of the novel, as does the Caterpillar’s mushroom, which Alice nibbles on to control her fluctuations in size. These changes in size and her confusion with them may have been used by Carroll as a metaphor for puberty and the fears of growing into adulthood.

These word games and riddles caused frustration in some of the group. I think this novel must have been very difficult to translate and as such some of the puzzles either lost their meaning or, because they are steeped in 19th century Victorian culture, made little sense. I found some of the wordplay a little hard to grasp, so someone reading this book in their second language must have found it very tough.

This is not to say that the English speaking of the group was basic. I was staggered by the quaity of the English of all the group, which was probably better than my own. I have enormous respect for anyone who can speak another language and am in awe of it to be honest. My sister speaks two languages fluently and it still amazes me when she conducts a conversation in German. I frankly feel inadequate and a little rude not being able to have the ability to speak to a German in their own language, particularly when they were such welcoming hosts. It is something I would like to address.

So it was a novel that I enjoyed, a playful, somewhat anarchic read. And the warmth shown to me by my German friends will linger long in the memory. Wunderbar!

Carry On, Australia

When the Christmas period comes around we tend to down tools a little bit at book club and choose lighter fare for the holiday period. One of our choices fit this criteria but the second threw up a couple of unexpected surprises.

Every reader has a few large gaps in their reading history, classic authors that somehow they have never got round to reading. P.G Wodehouse is one of those for me. I remember Fry and Laurie playing Jeeves and Wooster on 1980s TV in the UK and it was immensely popular. For some reason I never ticked that box but happily have now done so with Carry On, Jeeves, the first collection of stories in the iconic series.

I think I have said in previous entries how much I admire writers who can master the art of comedy in their prose. Satire is an extremely hard practice to pull off on paper in my view. Something that sounds funny spoken often doesn’t translate to the written word, losing its immediacy and nuance. Luckily Wodehouse has no such problems. The book is laugh out loud funny as the bumbling Wooster gets into yet another scrape for Jeeves to sort out. The language of Wooster is ridiculous, all exclamation and hyperbole, but it produces some genius comic scenes. Jeeves’s knack of knowing the solution to seemingly any problem gets Bertie out of a hole time and time again, but the farcical journey to get there is the great joy of the book.

I have to admit that the ten short stories in this volume are formulaic in structure, and indeed after having read them I would struggle to tell them apart easily. But I assume the stories were originally published separately, so this repetitiveness is really a product of modern publishing tastes. I think the brutal truth though is that I won’t be returning to Jeeves and Wooster any time soon – I can fully appreciate its genius and Wodehouse’s brilliant ability to write satire, but in all honesty it isn’t really for me.

Ethel Turner’s Seven Little Australians is considered one of the great, and earliest, Australian children’s novels. I have to confess that I had never heard of the book before, but even with the excuse of being a foreigner to these shores, I wasn’t the only one.

The book is considered for children as I said, but its subject matter and language are surely pitched at a more mature audience. The opening page contains the line ‘the miasmas of naughtiness’, which I suspect would fly over the heads of a number of adults, let alone kids. And the plot of the book is really quite harrowing in places, particularly (spoiler alert) the death of eldest daughter Judy, who is hit by a falling tree at rhe novel’s conclusion. This passage is beautifully written, and quite moving to read as Judy slowly succumbs to the fatal injuries she suffered in the accident.

There are some parts which would trouble a modern audience toom in particular the words and actions of the Captain, father to this unruly brood. I appreciate that families worked differently in the 1890s but his enthuasiastic approach to corporal punishment jarred very much with me, as did the almost lighthearted response to it that was shown by the children. Indeed the Captain could only be described as an appalling father, with a complete lack of empathy towards both children and wife. My sympathies lay with those kids, despite their moments of naughtiness.

All in all it was an unexpected read, and for that if no other I enjoyed it. I was surprised by what I read, and it made me think. Any book that can do that is worthy of praise.

High Fields and Hills

Two of my all-time favourite books were on the agenda this month. One a classic from my childhood (although in hindsight it’s debatable whether it is really suitable for kids) and the other a first novel that became a huge hit in the 1990s.

I first read Watership Down by Richard Adams over 20 years ago, in my early teens. It’s easy to realise why this book was such a smash with children – its a classic adventure story of questing rabbits with heroes and villains and all excitement and so on. It’s a decent length for young readers (my copy runs to about 480 pages) so I approached it as one of my first real reading challenges, along with Lord of the Rings, which in many ways is the book that spawned the fantasy genre and the idea of the noble quest.

In the interim years I picked the book up once or twice but never re-read it fully, until now. It’s obvious to say looking at it through an adult’s eyes, but there is so much more depth to the novel than just a simple adventure story. The first thing that struck me was the sheer beauty of the El-ahriarah mythology and the stories that the rabbits tell of him. These stories punctuate the novel at various points and are brilliant little vignettes that show how the tales of the Prince Rabbit influence the lives of the rabbits. Looking at it now you could make an argument that these stories draw heavily on religious symbols, but I (and Adams himself for that matter) disagree – it feels more the stuff of legend than anything specific.

I love the language of the book, too. Adams created the Lapine language himself, and it really only runs to a few words to describe themselves and the objects in their world. Hrududu for vehicle is still my absolute favourite. This language could be seen as extraneous to the story but I think it adds verisimilitude and gives the prose some punch.

Above all else, it’s simply a great story expertly written. Adams great strength is his descriptions of place and landscape, and the novel gave me pangs of homesickness for the English countryside that I haven’t really experienced since leaving. Such is the power of his prose. Sometimes all you want as a reader is a breathless, exciting tale of heroism and courage that can consume a few hours and keep you turning the pages. This is an expert example.

I think Nick Hornby is probably one of the UK’s most loved writers. His books carry a sort of ‘Everyman’ quality that appeal to vast swathes of the population and he has an ability to express feelings of everyday people that few can surpass. His first book Fever Pitch was an autobiographical essay about football and his relationship to it. What made the book a smash was his way of describing his emotions about the game which resonated with thousands of football fans who follow their clubs in the same, irrational manner up and down the land. He is a master of knowing what makes people tick, and exposing how they think and feel.

This quality was taken into his frst novel High Fidelity, which was also a bestseller. The plot is very much a well-trodden furrow – boy breaks up with girl, goes through some stuff, then gets back together with girl. Done many times before. But Hornby creates so many ‘I know people just like that’ moments that the book is a pure joy from start to finish. He absolutely nails the uncertainty that men feel in relationships and their sometimes fear of commitment, with at times pathos, others humour. The book is laugh out loud funny in many places.

Rob’s love of music in the novel, and he and his work colleagues obsession with talking and deconstructing it, appeals to everyone’s inner geek (if you have one). I feel quite the same way about books and every description of it strikes right to my very core. When you read a book and feel it is talking about you then you have something very powerful there – a connection between writer and reader that can reach across pages and span decades. This magic is what makes this novel so very special.

Ripley’s Scoop

I’ve found over the years that approaching a book having already seen the film adaptation causes some problems. One of the obvious and most enjoyable aspects of reading is conjuring up the characters in your mind’s eye, and having them as yours only. My image of Holden Caulfield, for example, is probably vastly different to yours, and for that matter, Salinger’s. This is all to the good, for the author really only supplies the hook, it is the reader’s imagination that provides the rest.

So when reading The Talented Mr Ripley, our first choice this month, I already had Matt Damon’s portrayal of Tom Ripley firmly in my mind, and this lessened the enjoyment somewhat. I saw the film many years ago, and remembered little of the plot, but when reading the book, certain scenes gave me a flashback to the movie and blurred the lines of what I was reading a little bit. The other problem with reading after watching the film is the inevitable conflict over omissions, stuff that was taken out of the film or amended. I struggle not to think of these things when in this situation and it does cause frustration,.

This is not to say I didn’t enjoy the book – I found it an enjoyable read and scarily plausible. Patricia Highsmith’s great strength is her ability to ratchet up the tension throughout. The pacing is exemplary, and the prose is seeped with paranoia as Tom has to keep looking over his shoulder to stay one step ahead of the police after his murder of Dickie Greenleaf.

One negative point – I inadvertently caught a glimpse of the last pages, which contained reviews of other Highsmith novels featuring Tom Ripley. I suspected that the novel would conclude with Tom escaping justice, but it would have been nice to find out for myself rather than have it given away. I suppose it taught me a lesson, not to go sneaking into the book and take it one page at a time.

A complete change of pace saw us look at Evelyn Waugh’s satire Scoop, written in the 1930s and poking fun at the journalism industry, I’ve always felt that satire must be one of the hardest genres to write well. It strikes me that comedy is easier to relay vocally than in the written word, which is why I admire those writers who can do it successfully.

And Waugh is certainly one of those; the novel tells of a man who essentially becomes a war correspondent by accident. A recipe for farce, sure, but Waugh keeps it hilarious without descending into the realms of ridiculousness. The novel feels relevant even 80 years after publication, particularly the idea that journalists can create news when there isn’t any through their sheer presence and influence. In a world now heavily commanded by social media, where seemingly innocuous tweets can suddenly become the news after being picked up and reported by journalists, this still resonates. The novel’s great strength is its timelessness, its sharp realism, which pins the dark art of journalism like no other before or since.