Bellman and Black, by Diane Setterfield

9781476711959
Atria/Emily Bestler Books, 2013
336 pp

arc (a big thank you to the publishers!)

To put it rather bluntly, this book is not very popular among fans of Diane Setterfield's previous novel, The Thirteenth Tale, who I suppose wanted something more along the same lines in her new novel,  Bellman and Black and didn't get it.  I sort of feel like one of the lone holdouts -- I actually liked this book.  Then again, I went into it without any expectations:  even though I also liked The Thirteenth Tale,  I wasn't expecting this one to be a carbon copy.  I still don't understand why people come unglued when a particular favorite author goes off in a different way than in previous books -- as I've said so many times, it's very unfair and limiting to the writer when readers tend to expect the same thing over and over again. 

Set in the Victorian era, as a boy of ten, William Bellman, his cousin Charles and their friend Luke were hanging out on a summer day, and Will tells the others he can hit a bird that was in a tree "half a field away." He had fashioned a perfect slingshot, picked the perfect stone, and launched it, hitting a black bird against all odds. The other boys were impressed; Will was "sick at heart, proud, abashed, guilty."  On his way home he glances back to where the bird had fallen and notices a congregation of rooks, all looking in his direction, and he also thinks he sees a boy dressed all in black. He's obviously haunted by what he's done, and while he spends a half week in bed with a fever,  he starts to apply what the author calls "his ten year old genius and power" to "forgetting." William's adult life starts out promising -- he is helping his uncle at the family's textile mill and comes up with a number of measures to make the mill more productive and lucrative.  He falls in love, marries just the right woman, and has beautiful children -- the perfect life, one others are either envious or proud of.  Yet, it's not long until he is faced with several deaths, and at each funeral, he thinks he sees a man all dressed in black. William throws himself into his work rather than deal with his grief; when tragedy strikes and he loses of all of his family members but one, he makes a "deal" with the man in black for the recovery of his dying daughter.  William then moves to London and branches out into a new career with death as its centerpiece, and again applies his magical touch, throwing himself body and soul into his work,  making it a successful enterprise.  And all along he's waiting for "Mr. Black" to return and collect what he's owed.

If you look at the title of this book on Goodreads it is Bellman and Black: A Ghost Story (which is btw, NOT  the title on the hardcover copy I bought) and somehow word has gotten out that it is just that, a ghost story. If you read it very carefully, though (and without wrecking the story for others who might wish to read it), you have to make up your own mind  -- in some ways, it reminded me very much of Sarah Waters' The Little Stranger, which also requires that the reader really examine the "supernatural" events that occur.  What I see here is a study of a man who has excelled in forgetting, keeping his grief buried, and who has tried to carry on while unable or unwilling to mourn the tragedies of his life just to function.  Seen in that light, this very much character-based story really works for me, explaining a lot of the ambiguities that follow throughout the novel. I will say that while the book is highly atmospheric, William's character may seem to some readers to come off as flat.  He is anything but -- his drive, his inner thoughts and his actions all point to a man in a great amount of pain.  It's all in how you read it.

Lots of readers have commented on "lack of plot," but again, this is a character-driven novel so the interest lies in trying to fathom what's going on inside of William.  I really don't get why people are so negative in their comments about this novel -- I found it highly unsettling and mysterious, haunting, but at the same time the horror here is completely on the subtle side until right at the end when all is made known.  Frankly, I couldn't put it down.  So what I didn't exactly care about were the rooks-eye scenes; while I get why they were there, they were often a little distracting. Otherwise, it's one I can definitely recommend, and one I'm definitely going to revisit. 

* The Year of the Ladybird, by Graham Joyce

9780575115316
Gollancz/Orion, 2013
265 pp

hardcover (UK)

The Year of the Ladybird surprisingly has much the same feel as Stephen King's recent Joyland, both set in kitschy kind of amusement places that used to be everywhere but which now are found largely in memories.    They're also both coming-of-age-stories, both have a slight infusion of the supernatural, and both capture a snapshot of  a certain place at a certain time.  Both main heroes start out young and naive; by the end of the story they've learned something not only about themselves, but about the way the world really works.  Ghosts and fortunetellers play a role in both; King's excursion into the ethereal has much more to do with the plot of the story, while Joyce's foray into the phantasmal is much more limited to the psyche of the main character. To be really honest, while I enjoyed Mr. Joyce's writing here, the ghost story neither grabbed nor thrilled me; nor did it give me even the slightest outbreak of goosebumps.  I'm also not a huge fan of coming-of-age stories either, but what's really well done here is the time-capsule element.  He describes this small piece of yesteryear so nicely that it's almost like being there, and the wide variety of people around the main character really enliven what could have otherwise been a been there, read-that-dozens-of-times kind of book.

 It's 1976.  England is sweltering, the political right is in turmoil as fears of immigrant job takeovers loom large and people are starting to not only notice but to get angry.  A heat wave has enveloped large parts of the country, water usage has been restricted, and and large clouds of lady bugs (ladybirds) are everywhere. In that milieu, David, a young college student, has decided that rather than take up his stepdad's offer of employment in his construction business, he'll be working at a holiday camp in the seaside town of Skegness.  The story is told from his own first-person perspective, and as he notes, in 1976, the "heyday of the British holiday camps had slipped," because cheaper flights were allowing more people to take their vacations in exotic locations.  David had  gone there largely out of curiosity: earlier in his childhood,  he'd found a photo showing his real father and himself at age three with the word "Skegness" written on the back.  He doesn't remember it, of course, and his mom and stepdad are unhappy with his choice to work there, but he takes the job anyway.  He works as a "Greencoat," someone who does pretty much anything, helping with the entertainments for all ages -- calling bingo, supervising sand-castle building among the younger kids, doing show lighting etc., etc.  While he's there, he meets all manner of people who also work in the holiday camp, falls for the wrong woman before finding the right one,  is introduced to an ultra right-wing group called  "The Way Forward," and learns how things really work in the world. David is bothered throughout the story with a sense of dread as if something terrible's about to happen, and he also encounters two strange figures along the seaside whom no one else but he can see.  

Butlin's Skegness Holiday Camp, from bygonebutlins.com

If you've read Water for Elephants, you're familiar with how well the author described day-to-day life and the behind-the-scenes rivalries and relationships in the the depression-era circus; Mr. Joyce does the same here for the holiday camp. There's a great variety of characters that he brings to life so nicely: the tough-guy abusive husband who pays David to look after his wife and report back to him, the magician, the Italian singer, the fortuneteller, David's constantly intoxicated roommate, the dancer, as well as the people in charge and who work behind the scenes.  The tourists, of course, are a large part of the story, as well as the daily activities -- sandcastle building, dance contests, donkey rides for the overweight women, beauty contests, bingo -- all of which are rewarded with gala ceremonies and rock candy.  I'm not sure if there's an equivalent here in America since in summer it's mainly kids who go to camp, but it doesn't matter -- the camp is described so well that a clear picture will form in your mind as you read.  And all through the novel runs the metaphor of the ladybirds in flight. 

As I noted, the ghost story isn't frightening, and I think it's just here to illustrate a point and aid in David's arrival at self awareness.  Considering that I read this book hoping for even a mild frisson of fright, I was a bit disappointed; considering the entire book is about the progression of the main character as he comes into his own awareness of the world around him, the ghost story definitely plays second fiddle here.  What kept me reading were the holiday camp scenes, the descriptions of  growing political unrest and turmoil of the time, and the people in this book.  The ending may seem a little ambiguous, but as I always say, if authors always wrap things up nice and tidy without leaving any questions behind, what's to think about? 

If you're looking for an eerie, unearthly sort of read, this isn't the one.  If you're into the bildungsroman genre, then this one may interest you as well.  Even better, if  the appeal lies in picking up a book with a wide range of characters, or getting sucked into novel where the author paints a portrait of a particular place at a particular time, then definitely add this one to your tbr pile.   

A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar, by Suzanne Joinson

9781608198115
Bloomsbury USA, 2012
370 pp

hardcover

A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar  follows two very different narratives and several journeys taken by a number of characters who populate this novel. One storyline is composed of journal entries from 1923 and the other set in modern-day London.  The journal entries come from Evangeline English, who along with sister Lizzie and a woman named Millicent, a representative of the Missionary Order of the Steadfast Face, have arrived in Kashgar, a predominantly Muslim area in East Turkestan governed by the Chinese.   The second narrative follows a young woman, Frieda, who, while trying to sort things out with herself, inherits the contents of a stranger's flat and meets up with a Yemeni man who has come to England,   has a steady job and friends until his security is threatened and he has to go on the run.  While I enjoyed the book as a whole, the 1923-based narrative was much more engaging.  When I'd move back into the present-day action,  I had the same sort of residual "cliffhanger" feeling I get when a favorite TV show ends with the promise of answers the next week, and couldn't wait to get back to find out what was happening with the three women in Kashgar.  I read this book in one sitting, unable to move until the outcome of the historical narrative was revealed.

While Millicent and Lizzie have come to convert the locals,  Evangeline (Eva) English has accompanied them, bicycle in tow, to gather material for a cycling guide.  The three have put many miles behind them, and as the novel opens, their journey comes to a stop outside of the walled city of Kashgar. There, in the desert, a young girl is giving birth and the three stop to help. There are other people there, but it is Millicent who delivers the baby with forceps. While the baby lives through the birth, the young mom dies, and the group of bystanders immediately put the blame on the three women. They accuse them of killing the girl and stealing her heart to protect themselves from sandstorms, and of planning to eat the baby.  None of the onlookers wants the baby, and Millicent finds herself accused of murder and witchcraft.  Placed under "house arrest" at first at a Muslim inn and home of a Muslim man and his family, they are soon moved to another house outside the city walls to await funds  from the missionary society to pay off the authorities and escape their fate.  While Eva tends to the baby, Lizzie spends time taking photos; as time moves on, tensions begin to surface within the house. Millicent continues her proselytizing in spite of Eva, who disapproves given their situation; outside events also culminate in tension that will ultimately explode, putting the lives of the women in even greater danger.

Kashgar, along the Silk Road, from travelwestchina.com

Meanwhile, in the modern day, Frieda is a woman whose mother left at a young age and  who has been involved in an affair with a married man with children. Things had been working out for a while, but her lover is a needy sort and she doesn't want to be responsible for "three little boys' battered hearts." Frieda travels for work, lately finding that the cities she's visiting were

"blending into one... just yet another place that was no longer safe for her to be in, being English, being a woman."

While she's trying to sort things out, she meets Tayeb, a young man from Yemen who for political reasons, can't go home.  He shows up on her doorstep, where she hands him a blanket so he can sleep there; the next day she finds he's drawn a bird, a "swirl of peacock feathers," a drawing of seagulls that become a sunset, and some Arabic writing with an English translation:

"As the great poet says you're afflicted, like me, with a bird's journey."

Eventually the two become friends, and Tayeb's story is revealed along the way.  Frieda also receives a notice that she is the next of kin to a dead woman she doesn't know, and that she'd inherited the contents of  the deceased's apartment. She's given x number of days to clear everything out, and takes Tayeb with her to help her, offering him the apartment for a place to sleep until the authorities take back the keys. What she discovers will not only put her back on the road again, but will also help to piece together and connect both past and present.

The author does an incredible job with the past, and honestly, if the entire book had only focused on the story of Eva, Lizzie and Millicent, I wouldn't have minded at all, and it would have been a most excellent work of historical fiction. There's obviously quite a bit of research that's gone into the making of this novel and in capturing the upheaval of a time and place. Unlike some authors who tend toward information/detail overload in establishing and sustaining a sense of place and time, Ms. Joinson avoids that pitfall so that these sections flow naturally. I was less in love with Frieda's story, although the scenes of her childhood were compelling, as was the reunion between mother and daughter which for me, maybe more than anything else, brought home some of the parallels between the past and present, although in a kind of roundabout way I'm still thinking about. I also enjoyed her writing style and the wide use of bird imagery throughout.  On the flip side, I figured out the big "wow" moment out long before it was revealed, and much like when I read crime fiction and can guess what's going on, it was a bit disappointing.

Overall, A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar is a good book for casual readers; there is a lot of bird imagery which is not too tough to ponder, and while the past narrative is much more engaging than the present, both come together quite well. My book group is discussing this novel on Tuesday, so it will be interesting to hear my friends' perspective.  Recommended, especially because the 1923 narrative is so very well done.

fiction from the UK

*Constance, by Patrick McGrath

9781608199433
Bloomsbury USA, 2013
240 pp

hardcover

Have you ever come across one of those novels where you can't stand a single character in the book and yet the writing is so good that you are addicted? Or how about this: there are two narrators, and you don't know if you can trust either of them? It makes things a bit difficult, to say the least, while you're reading.

The first paragraph is a dead giveaway that things are not going to go well at all in this story as we first meet the title character.  Constance, it seems, has daddy issues: 

"My name is Constance Schuyler Klein. The story of my life begins the day I married an Englishman called Sidney Klein and said goodbye forever to Ravenswood and Daddy and all that went before. I have a husband now, I thought, a new daddy. I intended to become my own woman. I intended, oh I intended everything. I saw myself reborn. Gone forever the voice of scorn and disapproval, the needling querulous voice so unshakeable in its conviction that I was worthless, worse than worthless, unnecessary."

and judging by the fact that she sees in Sidney a "new daddy," they aren't the kind that aren't going to be going away any time soon.  Constance's need to start over with this new daddy figure and make good is something she calls her "repetition compulsion complex," a strange phrase for someone who, as the reader finds out later, doesn't believe in going to psychiatrists.  For his part, Sidney, “a manipulating, pompous  "authority on Romantic poetry” and much older than Constance with two failed marriages under his belt, is initially attracted by her beauty, youth, naïveté and her aura of "angry untouchability."  His first feelings for her are "strong emotions rooted in lust."  On their first date, over coffee, she begins to unload about her childhood, her sister Iris, and their life in a home with the deliciously Gothic name of Ravenswood overlooking the Hudson. Her story has appeal to Sidney, a "sentimental man"  who, of course, sees it as a "Romantic cliché",

"The old house with its tower on a bluff above the river, and this beautiful girl, clearly in flight from who knows what horrors she’d suffered there, ... But for that I liked it all the more."

Constance's mother died when she was twelve, leaving her to take care of Iris. When she starts talking about her father, Sidney picks up on the fact that Daddy (a retired doctor by the name of Morgan Schuyler) is an issue with her.  At first, she sees in Sidney someone older with whom she can feel safe, and he recognizes a "sickness" in Constance which fosters a desire to love and protect her. He willingly  "took on Daddy’s role as best I could," hoping to be the "source of order  in her life.”  In short, it's a relationship where Constance remains the child, and Sidney is happy for a while to play the dad role;  he also takes it upon himself to lecture her, as he does (or did for a while) with the students he invites to his apartment, trying to impress on her how she should think  -- not the healthiest basis for a marriage. 

The arrival of sister Iris doesn't help much -- she's come to New York, unsure that she wants to go to med school (a dream of their father's) and  falls for an older pianist (a lounge-lizard sort) named Eddie in an old  hotel, a relationship that does not please Constance.  Sidney sees Iris as a person with "messy vitality," and his acceptance and attention to her makes Constance jealous, old patterns repeated. He also sees Schuyler as just a sad old man.  At Christmas Sidney and Constance travel to Ravenswood, with Sidney's young son Howard (whose mother is dying), and they aren't there long before Morgan Schuyler drops a bombshell and "everything properly went to hell."  Aha, but there are more secrets waiting in the wings. As they begin to unravel, so does Constance. She becomes increasingly bitter and self absorbed, swinging into spoiled-brat mode, turning toward rebellion and a need to punish, even using Eddie to put Sidney into “the hell of sexual jealousy.” (As an aside, Eddie is probably one of the more interesting characters in this book, and although he has a strong role here, he's pretty much neglected -- which is a shame.)  Sadly, the psychological fallout of her obsessions with her past rains down on herself and everyone close to her in unexpected ways, for example, during sex when she makes Sidney call her Iris.

From everything I've read review-wise, people are saying that the author's earlier books are so much better than this one, and the general feeling is one of disappointment. I've only read one book of his, Asylum (which I loved), but now I think I need to go back and acquaint myself with the others so I can understand why people feel this way.  This book is chaotic -- chock full of neuroses, a search for identity, self destruction, decline, and death all taking place alongside the demolition of Penn Station, which Sidney sees as unnecessary and just one more sign that civilization is going down the toilet in the city. The author writes a very credible 1960s atmosphere, and there is also a great touch of the creepies and the gothic, especially around Ravenswood. The house is  falling apart, a byproduct of the secrets it has held for years, and there's a strange, almost Danvers-like housekeeper, a woman who "absorbed no light and gave none out”  and stayed on to help raise the sisters after their mother died. Yet, given the atmosphere, and the ratcheting up of tension throughout, I really expected something much darker and more sinister with every new revelation -- instead, and disappointingly,  there's really nothing so earth shattering here -- just a lot of neurotic people for whom I had very little sympathy or for that matter, any empathy. There's so much post-mortemizing of every event on both sides that it tends to get old after a while.  And, as for Constance, she's  by no means a sympathetic character, and frankly, much less credible than I would have expected.   At the same time, there's just something addictive about this book which I just can't put my finger on that kept me reading, waiting for a big payoff that for me, just didn't materialize.  

The Death of Bees, by Lisa O'Donnell

9780062209849
HarperCollins, 2013
309 pp

Let me start my brief discussion of this novel by saying that I predict that it will be a runaway bestseller once word gets out about it. The Death of Bees is very easy to read, it moves very quickly, and it will capture the attention of people who are fascinated with stories about severely dysfunctional families or stories with young, teenaged characters at the center of it all.  From what I can tell by perusing the star ratings of this book, it is probably going to sell like hotcakes. 

Personally, I had heard of this novel and had planned to give it a pass, but it arrived from Powell's (along with an incredibly tasty jar of honey) in my latest Indiespensable shipment so I thought, well, okay, I might as well give it a go. I was admittedly mildly intrigued by the opening lines:

 "Today is Christmas Eve. Today is my birthday. Today I am fifteen. Today I buried my parents in the backyard.

Neither of them were beloved."

Hmmm, I thought, perhaps it's something along the lines of McEwan's Cement Garden.  As it turns out, it isn't.   After a few chapters, I came to the conclusion that this is definitely not my cup of tea and I  thought about putting it away unfinished, something I rarely do.  I'd even reached for another book before thinking that all of these 5-star ratings must mean something, so I picked it up again and read through to the end. It still wasn't my cup of tea, but overall, not because of the author, although I do think she missed the mark in a couple of places. The plain and simple truth is that I just don't like these kinds of novels -- especially ones geared (imho) more toward a mature young-adult audience or toward those who like women's fiction.  While it may be trendy, it's not my thing.

Set in Glasgow, the story is told through alternating points of view.  The two sisters at the heart of this story, Marnie and Nelly, take turns; Lennie, the next-door neighbor who takes the girls in when he thinks their parents have just gone off and left them also has a voice.  The story begins with the deaths of the parents and Marnie's realization that if the authorities discover their absence, the girls could be taken into care, so they construct a story that the parents have gone away and left them alone, but that they're planning to come back. After all, when Marnie turns 16, she can legally care for her sister and herself.   Meanwhile, they bury the bodies in the back yard, planting lavender over the graves.   Lennie has his own issues -- he was caught with a young male prostitute and now lives by himself; he's a very lonely old man who feels better being needed by someone. Both sisters deal with their childhoods and their parents' deaths in different ways; Lennie doesn't know the truth and tries to understand what it is the girls aren't telling him.  There are several twists to this story that gets darker as time goes on and as more players are introduced.  Thematically, the story looks at families and at grief; it also examines what it means to truly care about someone. 

To be fair, aside from the target audience thing, I felt that the story moved along very quickly,  never getting boring and the author throws in some dark humor at times. Some of the families other than Marnie and Nelly's also threw a light on different types of dysfunctionality -- for example, people who have well-paying jobs and live in nice houses who neglect their kids, a woman in a state of post-prison  religious mania who turns her back on her wayward son so he has to sleep on the streets, and a daughter who turned to her father in a serious time of need but was refused because the father had a reputation to maintain --  all make their appearances here.  Bringing all of this out was something the author did well.  But I discovered two major issues that I would consider problematic writing wise: first, I saw the big twist toward the end coming a mile off (sadly, I can't reveal what it is) and second, the end was just too pat, too sweet, too nice, too happy, whatever you want to call it. I get that she's offering a small glimpse of hope, but come on! That was just too way out there. 

As I said at the beginning, this book is probably going to sell very well.  I personally know people who LOVED this book -- all of them  YA and women's fiction readers so if that's where your reading interests lie, this is probably  the perfect novel.  I've seen it categorized in reviews as "depressing," which it could be, I suppose. I just wasn't that into it so I didn't really have that sort of connection to the story felt by most readers who lavished the book with heaps-o-praise.  Oh well!

The Teleportation Accident, by Ned Beauman

 
9780340998434
Sceptre, 2012
357  pp

[rumor has it that this book will be published in the US by Bloomsbury USA, February, 2013.]


The Teleportation Accident came out of the imagination of author Ned Beauman, whose first book, Boxer, Beetle (embarrassingly still sitting unread on a shelf in my British reading room),  was shortlisted for the 2011 Desmond Elliott Prize, as well as the 2010 Guardian First Book Award.  He is also currently working on a third novel, which, if it is as good and as well written as Teleportation Accident, should show up on some awards list somewhere in the future. It's definitely going on my "favorites of the year" shelf. 

How to describe this book is a really tough undertaking.  The novel  literally transports the reader through space and time in cutting bursts of movement, through a dizzying slew of ideas and a wide range of topics, all with the central proposition of the Teleportation Device.   It may sound a little like anarchy, but for the most part it's all really quite carefully controlled by the author's ability to take these ideas and his characters and bring them together in artfully-constructed, cleverly-crafted chapters that take on their own momentum as the book speeds toward its four (!!) separate endings.  I took copious notes here and now, in reviewing them, I'm actually able to see just how truly clever this author is.  I really can't say why without giving away much of the show, but trust me on this one.

Even providing a synopsis of this novel  is challenging.  The book opens in 1931 in Weimar Berlin, and begins by introducing its main character Egon Loeser as he's at work at the Little Allien Theater on a project called "Lavicini." He is a stage set designer, and his current work involves building a Teleportation Device for the play that will recreate the one built by the play's namesake, Adriano Lavicini, in the 17th century at a Paris theater. A terrible accident happened with Lavicini's original Teleportation Device, destroying a theater and killing several people in the aftermath, an event that Loeser becomes determined to understand. Loeser also believes that "politics is pigshit," and manages to remain staunchly apolitical despite what's going on all around him.  As an example, one night he passes by a university where a book burning is going on, and he thinks its an act of performance art  and joins in.  Loeser  fears "being at the bottom," achieving nothing and having only scorn for  those who "could make peace with failure."  He has a great disdain for all things American, except for a writer whose work he discovered by accident on a train to Cologne, Stent Mutton.  In fact, Loeser "yearned" to be Stent Mutton's unnamed narrator  -- who

 "seemed to find everyone and everything in the world pretty tiresome, and although he rarely bothered to dodge the women who threw themselves at him, the only true passion to which he was ever aroused was his ferocious loathing for the rich and those deferential to the rich."

 But most of all, Loeser liked the fact that Mutton's character "always, always, always knew what do. No dithering, no procrastination, no self-consciousness: just action."  

Since the breakup with his girlfriend Marlene, he hasn't had sex, relying instead on his Parisian photo album called Midnight At the Nursing Academy.  At a party one night, where Berthold Brecht is supposed to make an appearance, Egon sees a beautiful young woman, who turns out to be a former poetry pupil of his, Adele Hitler ("no relation").  Ultimately, and ironically, this particular Hitler will drive Egon out of Germany, as he realizes that he has to have sex with her, believing that if he could just be with her once, "then everything would be all right." She becomes his obsession, sleeping with everyone but him, but within a few years she disappears from Berlin. The rest of the novel follows Loeser as he follows Adele's trail to Paris then makes his way to Los Angeles, paralleling in a bizarre sort of way the flight from Nazi Germany by other intellectuals, whom Heinrich Mann once called  "the best of Germany."   In Beauman's hands, however, the émigré experience becomes anything but typical.  Throughout his travels, Loeser becomes unwittingly involved with an American con artist in Paris, Communist spies, a ghost (or not) who leaves him little gifts,  a rich man who made his fortune in car wax who also suffers from a bizarre condition, a truly mad scientist and other delights.  Add in a few unsolved murders and a connection between HP Lovecraft and the US State Department, and you end up with a rich, funny and definitely unforgettable reading experience. And at the center of it all is the Teleportation Device, which Loeser seems to encounter in some form everywhere he goes.

Part of the beauty of this novel is that Mr. Beauman does not confine himself to any  genre, taking aim at the conventions of literary realism and historical fiction while combining elements of both with sci-fi and horror throughout the book to come out with something very different -- a book that, as reviewer Simon Hammond says in August's issue of Literary Review (one of the online periodicals I subscribe to),  manages to "keep all the plates spinning, as the story dashes between years and continents with a large supporting cast."  While it's easy to dislike Loeser for being so blind, unfeeling and selfish,   you can't help but laugh at the stupid predicaments he finds himself in.  This book is absolutely hysterical, sadly, even when it probably shouldn't be.  But the real delight  here is really in how the author brings it all together -- although, of course, not in any sort of conventional way. With the Teleportation Device always taking center stage, many recurring ideas, people, themes and events crop up cunningly throughout each and every shift in time and place and continue on well into the future. The downside, from the casual reader perspective, is that there are just so many  literary and philosophical references, probably many I didn't get,  so once again, I have to leave the deeper meanings and the book's literary pedigree to the many readers much more so inclined than myself and to  the professional reviewers.  But having said that, I loved this novel and highly, highly recommend it. 

The Lighthouse, by Alison Moore

9781907773174
Salt Publishing, 2012 (UK)
available in US on Kindle
182 pp

“And Futh, looking at the lighthouse, wondered how this could happen -- how there could be this constant warning of danger, the taking of all these precautions, and yet there was all this wreckage.”


Now here’s a book I really, really like, maybe the best on the longlist that I’ve read so far. I’m not even going to wait until the end of my discussion on this novel to say that I HIGHLY recommend it -- it is so quiet and understated yet delivers a huge wallop that I hope lands it a place on the shortlist. Of course, tomorrow will bring the news of which books go through and which don’t, but if you’replanning to read only the shortlist and this one doesn’t make it, I’d advise getting a copy anyway.  It is that good.

A ferry crossing the North Sea is the setting for the opening scene of this novel.  Futh (no first name ever given) is on his way to Germany for a summer holiday, preferring to stand outside on deck  in the rough weather.  Back in England, he works for a company that manufactures synthetic smells; he and his wife Angela have also recently separated.  After his vacation he will have only an empty apartment to return to, filled with a few boxes of his things and some furniture, but not much else. 

In a small hotel in Hellhaus (which translates as “bright house,” or “light house”), near Koblenz, the proprietor’s wife Ester is having her first drink of the day, the one she likes just after finishing cleaning the downstairs rooms.  The hotel is empty, except for one customer there for  breakfast; she leads him upstairs to one of the uncleaned rooms.  Afterwards, she goes back to the cleaning cart in the hall as her husband Bernard comes looking for her to return the gloves she’d left at the bar -- he watches her for a while before he goes back downstairs.  She’s expecting a honeymooning couple and Futh that day; when he arrives, later than expected, he heads for his room and a shower while Ester brings his dinner upstairs.  In combing through his suitcase she finds little to get excited over until she comes to a silver lighthouse,

 “about ten centimetres tall and three or four in diameter,” with a “four-sided tower and a lantern room with tiny storm panes and a domed top. In relief on one side it says “DRALLE,” the name of an old Hamburg perfumery.”

As the noise of the shower ends, Ester tosses the lighthouse back onto Futh’s clothes and starts to leave, changing her mind midstream, turning back toward it.  Futh, however, is moving toward the bathroom door, and she leaves.  She is noticed by the ever-present Bernard, and later,

“In the night, there will be a storm. it will be brief, if a little violent, and hardly anyone will even realise it has occurred, although they might hear it raging, thundering in their dreams.”

In the morning, hoping for breakfast, Futh runs into Bernard, who tells him he should leave.  Thus begins Futh’s first full day of his walking vacation, a time filled with thoughts about Angela -- how they met, got together, married and failed; as well as his life growing up alone with his father.  But time and again his thoughts give way to the mother who abandoned him when he was a very young boy, after the family had returned from a vacation in Cornwall.  The lighthouse perfume case Futh carries in his pocket was his mother’s, originally filled with lilac scent. 

The Lighthouse has a very symmetrical structure and there is also a matching and beautiful balance of symbolism  moving back and forth between the stories of  Ester and Futh up through his last vacation day, when his trip will circle him back to Hellhaus before he is to reboard the ferry to take him home.  Scents abound in olefactory reminders of the past;  the lighthouse is a constant factor throughout the story, sadly not so much of a  symbol of safety but of wreckage.   The book is filled with haunting notes of loneliness, darkness and isolation; it’s not a happy story at all.   Futh is a tragic figure -- naive, childish, awkward -- almost as if his life stopped the day his mother left.

I can’t begin to say what an incredible book this is; I loved it so much I bought extra copies to share with friends and I’m adding it to the book group’s reading list this year.  I got so lost in this book that any interruption was unwelcome; I read it in one sitting and sat thinking about it for hours afterwards.  From the casual reader perspective, in contrast to some novels I’ve recently read, The Lighthouse is understated but powerful, making the point that an author doesn’t need to engage in being oh so clever to write a wonderful book.  The symbolism abounds in this novel but not in a boggy way so as to frustrate the reader.  The only negative thing I have to say about this novel is that its ending comes so quickly; at the same time it is not at all unexpected. 

If you aren’t into haunting or tragic then this probably isn’t the book for you, but I LOVED this novel -- I hope it does well in terms of sales even if it doesn’t make to this year’s Booker Prize shortlist. 

Communion Town, by Sam Thompson

9780007454761
Fourth Estate, 2012 (UK)
278 pp



"That ancient lonely thing, wandering the city forever in search of someone to whom it could speak its tale. No one ever knew what its story was, or what happened to those who heard it, but everyone knew that if you listened you were lost. You would never be the same again."

The subtitle of Communion Town is "A city in ten chapters," although it's really a collection of ten short stories with different characters in each one.  Common among them all is the city which "doesn't stop, however appalled;"  each "chapter" different because, as the narrator in the first story notes, "each of us conjures up our own city."  Another link between them all: a character eventually known as "The Flâneur", who wanders throughout the city, not always named as such but he's always there.   There's also no let up of atmosphere here -- even in the light of day things are dark and mysterious -- in fact, the book hones in on the mysteries of the city as experienced by different people who populate its streets and districts.  There's also a great deal about the power of the story to change lives.  On the other hand, aside from these  points, there is a lot of play with but  little continuity in terms of writing style -- and I'm taking it on faith that there's some purpose behind this device that is designed to make it a novel rather than just a collection of short stories.  There are some parts of this book where the author  drew me in with prose that triggered some vivid imagery in my head; in other parts, I got frustrated because I shouldn't have to work this hard to try to understand what I'm reading (why do some writers  have to show off so?).  Above all,  I'm wondering which voice is really Sam Thompson's ... why does he have to be so gimmicky here?  

The  first story "Communion Town," which takes place in an interview room, has a great opening that whets the appetite for more and keeps a level of tension going throughout.   An unnamed official of some sort with eyes that go everywhere and see everything -- "I'm good at not being seen and in my job locked doors aren't a problem" --   is talking to a newly-arrived woman, Ulya,  who came to the city with Nicolas. He is locked away after his involvement in a "terrorist" act; the official is talking Ulya "through the way he sees it," about Nicolas. She'll have the opportunity to correct him and give him her side of the story.   The city in this story  is composed of a society where homeless or other people on the margins are known as monsters, "ingrates or the abject," "pharmakoi", or "homines sacri"; Nicolas is in the habit of helping these down-and-outers, which is apparently never done in this city, especially not in public.  From there the book  goes into other mysteries of the city throughout its  various districts, told from several different points of view and related via different styles -- horror, noir, a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, sci-fi, etc. Despite the gimmicky-ness of the pastiche styles,  I will say that the  thinly-disguised Sherlock &  Moriarty-type characters of  "The Significant City of Lazarus Glass," helped it to become one of my favorite stories of the group, because of the concept of the memory house extending out to the entire city and its very reasoned conclusion.  It's also one of the most reader-friendly pieces in the book.

Here's the thing, though -- unless the author is aiming his work at  a specific target audience, it seems like he's expecting way too much of his readers.  As an example, I had to go look up the term "flâneur," to discover it's a concept from Beaudelaire.  Well, what do you know -- I haven't read Beaudelaire. Okay, so I get it after looking it up and that's okay. Then I  come to the noir-styled story "Gallathea," and off I go in search of insight on the title. Well, hey, whaddya know, it's an Elizabethan-era drama, currently reproduced on stages but of course, not something I've ever seen or for that matter heard of, but after reading about that, I know a little more about what I've just read. So now I'm thinking that perhaps I should have my iPhone in hand to use as an encyclopedia and look up Moll Cutpurse, a character in  "Gallathea," and another light bulb goes off over my head. I do a little more digging and discover that there are characters in this story whose names come from a work by Ben Jonson called "The Alchemist." Bingo.  The same thing happens again and again in the other stories and then this morning, after I'd written my initial response to this novel yesterday, I start scouring reviews to see what other people had written and I get to one from Strange Horizons  where the author notes about the story "Ways to Leave" that "There's even an image from Tarkovsky's Stalker in there if you look for it!"  Wow. Do I feel stupid or what for not having noticed that? That's sarcasm, by the way.

I'm not saying that this is a bad book, because it's not. I love the atmosphere and there are some really good stories -- "The City Room," for example and I've already mentioned "The Significant City of Lazarus Glass."  In fact, I liked many of the stories in this book. I could deal with the structural concept,   I didn't  mind that many stories were left without a resolution or explanation -- these are, after all, stories based on the mysteries of the city --  nor did I really get too hung up on trying to make connections -- they're there. There are also some really super moments of prose where I could actually see what the author's describing -- take this one from "Gallathea,"  for instance:

 "Behind me was the Part Bridge and ahead lay the wreck of the west pier, its grand pavilion listing down to the mud like a crash-landed flying saucer, with the fishbones of decayed struts bowed underneath."

What a great image! That one just sprung out and I could really see it.  Or here's another from the same story:

"I was moving through a new set of dimensions, subtle dimensions of treachery, marked in increments of outrage. I discovered a whole new city, mapping streets of fury and avenues of humiliation and gridlocked intersections of desire."

That comes off very clearly -- who couldn't enjoy such lovely writing?  I think the atmosphere and the ability of the prose to bring out such vivid images is really well executed, but sheesh! It's tough from the casual reader perspective  to wholeheartedly engage with a book when you're concerned about how much you may be missing.  So for me, Communion Town turned out to be a mixed bag, leaning more to the side of frustration.  On the other hand, if Mr. Thompson decides to write a novel in the future, I'd definitely be willing to give it a go.

 

Flight From Berlin, by David John

9780062091567
Harper, 2012
384 pp.
[ARC -- my grateful thanks to the publisher for sending me this copy, and to Trish at TLC Book Tours for offering it!]

Flight From Berlin is a work of historical fiction, set in 1936 and 1937 in both Nazi Germany and London.  It's a good light-espionage/adventure and action thriller/escape read, populated with historical figures as well as fictional ones inspired by real people of the time (as noted in the end section) and structured in three parts.  The author states that the book came about as a result of a "fascination with history's footnotes," which is an attraction  I just happen to share.

Eleanor Emerson, daughter of a senator and wife of a bandleader,  has just been accepted as part of the US Olympics swimming team. She is on her way to Berlin for the 1936 Olympics, and is expected to follow the team rules while on board the ocean liner taking her across the Atlantic with the rest of the Olympians.  Sadly, her penchant for rule breaking and partying with celebrities gets her kicked off the team even before she reaches Germany, but friends in the press offer her a job as a reporter at the Olympic games.  In the meantime, Richard Denham, a British journalist, finds himself on board the Hindenburg, guest of an old family friend, as it overflies the Olympic stadium during the opening ceremony.  Berlin has been completely transformed for the Games -- the "state sadism" has been  "hidden from view," there are no signs indicating "Jews Not Wanted," and the order of the day is "jollity and cheerfulness."  Denham, who lives and works in Berlin, has been tipped off to an incredible story: Jewish fencer Hannah Liebermann, who had already relocated to the United States, has been called back to compete for the Nazis in the Olympics -- as a guarantee that she'll participate, her relatives have been threatened.  She is also under orders not to win a gold medal.  On the trail of this story, which he wants to break to reveal the  real evil under the Olympics window dressing, he meets up with Eleanor, who is now a guest of the family of American Ambassador William Dodd.  The two become caught up in a very strange situation: it seems that both  British Intelligence and the Nazis are on the hunt for a secret, very explosive dossier, and for some reason, the Nazis seem to think that Denham has it, and will do anything it takes to get their hands on it.  The story tracks back to London, where Eleanor and Richard face a moral dilemma that returns them to Germany before finishing up with an explosive ending.

 Although there is no lack of action in this book,  and although  I was hooked early on,  I was really drawn to what was going on historically around the hunt for the dossier and the ultimate revelations toward the end of the novel.   There is a lot taking place behind the scenes that elevates this book from just another novel of Nazi vs. everyone else.  The author alludes to attitudes about the looming  trend toward appeasement,  the growing belief in the importance of intelligence vs. diplomacy, the reign of terror of the Brownshirts on German city streets, and of course, the fate of the Jews.   There's also a great deal here on the politically-charged 1936 Olympics -- the appeals for boycotts, etc., along with a passing mention of the irony of Jessie Owens' success up against the situation for African-Americans in America's Jim Crow South.  As Eleanor notes,

"The press boys told me that all gold medalists are interviewed on live radio after their competition. Imagine that. A black man's voice is speaking to Germany right now. They wouldn't put him on the radio back home unless he was singing Dixie."

Another really good thing he does here is to reveal that it wasn't only the Nazis who were the bad guys -- there were others lurking in the wings who offered their services without actually wearing  the party insignia.  Aside from the history, David John is really quite good at descriptions and setting; it's also very obvious that he's done a lot of research for this book. I was so taken with his writing on the Olympics that I bought a copy of Guy Walters' Berlin Games after seeing the reference in the Author's Notes.   The romance is light (which made me happy) and the characters are drawn well.   What I wasn't so thrilled with was the last part of the novel -- while it was exciting, it was somewhat predictable and more in tune with a movie version of this book rather than a realistic wind down to the final scene.  But having said that, the book is earning some 4 and 5-star reviews and is getting really good press, so I'd say it's one you have to experience it on your own.

On the whole -- Flight From Berlin is a good read; it may not be the most chilling of all the novels set in that era, but it is one that will definitely keep you turning pages while you soak up some of the well-developed historical background.   One final thought:  it's definitely a hell of a ride and an awesome first novel. I hope it does well.

 *** Flight From Berlin is currently making the rounds with readers at TLC Book Tours -- if you'd like to follow its travels, the schedule is posted here. 

Skios, by Michael Frayn

9780805095494
Metropolitan Books/Henry Holt, 2012
272 pp
(ARC - many thanks to the publisher and my apologies for taking so long to read it)

-read in June-

Talk about a light read! While I wouldn't use the term "sidesplittingly funny" to describe this book, it is fun in schticky, farcical kind of way, populated with oddball characters who are the heart and soul of this novel, and set on the Greek island of Skios.  

The basic setup for the novel is as follows: The Fred Toppler Foundation was conceived of as a "center of wisdom and civilization, a place of beauty where the finest minds in the English-speaking world can mix with the leaders of English-speaking society." Prior to the annual Fred Toppler lecture, the residents  have been spending  time at the "Great European House Party," taking  seminars about Minoan cooking, learning traditional Macedonian dancing or Late Medieval flower arranging, followed by afternoons of swimming, "civilized conversation," and other venues for "spiritual refreshment."  The speaker for this year's event is Dr. Norman Wilfred, who is set to enlighten everyone on "The Promise of Scientometrics."  All of the logistical details are handled by Mrs. Toppler's PA Nikki, who as the novel opens, is heading out the door for the airport. For Nikki, the event absolutely must go off without a hitch -- she's got designs on moving up to a directorship and can't afford any screwups.  Nikki arrives at the airport, picks up Dr. Wilfred and returns to the Foundation.  But, uh-oh! The Dr. Wilfred she's picked up is not the real Dr. Wilfred at all, but Oliver Fox, a guy who has recently decided to take any opportunities when they are presented.  When Nikki, holding a sign, sees Fox smiling at her she asks "Dr. Wilfred?" Oliver decides to be Dr. Wilfred. He smiles and says "I cannot tell a lie;" meanwhile, the real Dr. Wilfred has been dealing with a luggage mix up -- all of the information except his lecture notes are in his bag, and he can't seem to reach his PA.   He gets into a taxi where the driver says to him "Phoksoliva?" ready to take Dr. Wilfred to a villa that was supposed to be a temporary love nest for Oliver Fox and a Georgie, a girl he had met in a bar, an arrangement Fox is already sorry he made.  From there it's a crazy muddle, as the real Dr. Wilfred finds himself alone in the villa with Georgie, as Oliver Fox posing as the real Dr. Wilfred is winning friends and influencing people at the Foundation, and as things quickly go downhill on both fronts.  But just when the reader is ready to let the whole farce run its logical course, there are still a few more surprises to be had.

There are some  funny moments in this book that actually made me laugh out loud. There is the story of how Mrs. Toppler came to be Mrs. Toppler and came to Greece after her husband's death (she was formerly Bahama LaStarr, Vegas show dancer; before that she was Apricot del Rio);  in another the real Dr. Wilfred, who while at the villa, thinks he's actually at the Foundation center and calls the main desk to try to get directions to the breakfast area and ends up finding only goats; and the scenes with the taxi driving brothers Stavros and Spiros.  The characters are also quite funny in their own right -- not just the main players, but some of the people who have come to stay in Skios: Cedric and Rosamond Chailey who slip away when "anything so American" is being discussed; Chuck Friendly and his wife Mrs. Chuck Friendly, to name only a few.  Then there's Dr. Wilfred himself, whose egotistical and academic  exterior conceal silk underwear,  a hidden mole fetish and healthy sexuality, among other things.

The fun of this book is not so much in the schticky kind of situations caused by the mix-up of identities, for which, I might add, you absolutely must suspend all disbelief for several reasons, most notably that it's highly dubious that Nikki wouldn't even know what her famous keynote speaker looks like.  I much more enjoyed the characters, the interplay between them and the sheer implausible silliness of it all.   Frayn's wonderful way with detail and description are also plusses, as is his take on in-crowds, reputation, and credulity. 

Skios is funny, but then again, funny is in the eye of the beholder, so it's one of those books you have to experience for yourself.  I'm not a huge reader of farcical kinds of stories, but the novel did  produce a few hearty chuckles and a kind of fun tension wondering if "Phoksoliva" would ever make it up to the podium to deliver the Toppler Lecture.  I'd say give it a try -- its humor, satire and wit make for an easy, light summer read. 

A Summer of Drowning, by John Burnside

9780224061780
Jonathan Cape, 2011 (UK)
328 pp
(hardcover ed.)

"To become nothing, to remove yourself from the frame  -- that is the highest form of art."

The small, remote Arctic island of Kvaløya, located in the middle of a "string of islands running from Tromsø in the east to Hillesøy in the west,"  is the setting for this disturbing and atmospheric novel, which is narrated from the perspective of Liv, daughter of the celebrated and reclusive painter Angelika Rossdale, looking back ten years later at the summer of her eighteenth year.

Angelika had "turned her back on the big wide world," leaving Oslo when Liv was very small, to focus on her work. She had a "gift for refusal," especially for refusing herself -- removing herself from the world, and applying the "discipline" required in this effort to every facet of her life.  According to Liv, she and her mother

"...  had the house, we had the whole island, in fact.  We had enough quiet and space to live our own lives as we wanted, not somebody else's version of how life should be, and we were more or less self-sufficient.  We were perfectly able to look after ourselves and we didn't need a thing from anyone." 

Living in the space her mother marked out, Liv is free to define her life as she chooses, but much of Liv's upbringing is based precisely on Angelika's ideas of not being a part of the world.  Angelika's removal from the frame was by choice; Liv's isolation is imposed upon her and she eventually becomes much more of a recluse than her mother.   From the outset the reader wonders about Liv, who at age 28 is still living on the island, where she has "become invisible," and has done

"nothing at all; or nothing other than to choose the life I am living now, a life someone else would think of as close to non-existent. No career, no husband, no lover, no friends, no children... I am a witness, pure and simple, and unaffiliated, lifelong spy."

Liv's spying career actually began as a game at the age of 18 when she started watching people, realizing she wasn't like them, and she wanted to understand "why she didn't want anything at all," thinking that there was something wrong with her.  Her only real friend on the island at that time is an old man named Kyrre Opdahl, who rented out his summer cottage periodically and also told Liv tales of the huldra, a mythological, siren-like creature who lured men "to some far, lonely place, where chaos lurks: dark rocks, wild beasts, a cold, quick undertow." The huldra begins to take shape in Liv's mind in the form of Maia, a strange young girl who was seen with two brothers shortly before their individual but identical deaths by drowning.  After another drowning occurs, one where Liv is the only witness to Maia's presence,  Liv's  account verges into the eerie and horrific, leading the reader to wonder if there really are supernatural forces at play on this remote island.  As more tragedies occur, and as things become more disquieting, Liv takes a moment to muse about "before," a time with

"the seas empty of ships, the land of houses and roads, the shore from here to Africa one long, uninterrupted flock of feeding birds, sandpipers and terns and oystercatchers, curlew, godwit, ibis, vast herds of reindeer and elk wandering from feeding ground to feeding ground, all the way to Siberia, the birch woods bright and articulate with song, wolverines and wolf packs calling to one another over the high snow,"

a time Liv can't really imagine but regrets the loss of. It is also a moment where things begin to come into clear focus. There are clues all along that point toward the truth about that summer; it's up to the reader to put everything together.  As the knowledge of what really happened begins to dawn, it melds into an uneasy, disturbing truth that will send up shiver up your spine.

Maddeningly, this is one of those novels that to say any more would really kill it for anyone who may be interested.  It is extremely disarming; at the same time the writing is superb, producing a sense of great unease in the reader until the very last second.

Very highly recommended if you don't mind not having things absolutely spelled out for you; readers of literary fiction should really like it.