Christos Tsiolkas - The Slap

A Gen-X story, The Slap is set in Melbourne with a Greek family at the pivot point. Hector, the protagonist, is married to Aisha, an Indian girl. The two of them are the envy of their friends, set in their perfect lives, with two children. Of course, there is no such thing as perfection, once you peel away the layers, but on the face of it, they are pretty much "perfect." Aisha is vet; Hector is a bureaucrat. The two of them host a barbecue one afternoon, inviting their friends and family as well as the children. Disagreements between the kids (Spiderman on TV?), unease with the in-laws, and tensions building between some friends sums up the afternoon, although again, on the face of it, everyone seems to be having a good time. But then, the facade falls when Harry, Hector's cousin, slaps a brattish four-year old across the face, and that's the tipping point.

The drama that unfolds is almost unbelievable, with the parents looking to press charges - the mother is one of Aisha's best friends - and Hector and Aisha trying to maintain some kind of decorum. Hector sides with his cousin, and Aisha with her friend. Stalemate.

But, this linear narrative isn't just focused on the slap. One could argue for days as to whether the slap was deserved or not, and still not reach a verdict. Instead it focuses on the people at the barbecue, their reaction to the slap, and which side they're on. It also gives us a peek into the lives and thoughts of a bunch of people living in the middle-class Melbourne community. Apparently, affairs are rampant, alcoholism and recreational drugs common and racism and homophobia normal. Oh, and the slang is profanity-intensive.

I'm not sure I enjoyed the peek though. While some seemingly perfect characters had a massive fall from grace, the lack of self-awareness to the degree of coming across as complete morons was evident in others. Some people had over-inflated opinions of themselves, and some had haunting pasts. As the narrative progressed, we learnt more about all of them, and for the most part, they became more and more unlikeable. I'm an idealist, hate the very idea of cheating and don't really care about the boxes that society puts people in. As long as someone's "nice," it's good enough for me. So, reading this book had alarm bells jangling in my head almost like there's no tomorrow.

It's not a literary novel, and personally, I think the author tries too hard to be too controversial. Each chapter is written from the point of view of one of the characters (including Hector, Aisha, Harry, Hector's father, the slapped child's mother etc), and each chapter brings with it a plethora of expletives. Do parents, grand-parents and children actually use four letter words with one another as part of normal conversation? Again, maybe I'm super-conservative, but I don't think I've ever sworn in front of my parents... and vice versa.

I was really looking forward to reading this book, and I guess I had extremely high expectations from this book, which were unfortunately not met. Maybe I would've enjoyed this book a lot more if I hadn't opened it with about a million pre-conceived notions! That always happens to me!

What did you think of The Slap? Do you think badly behaved children deserve to be slapped? And does it have a place in the Booker shortlist?

I'm inclined to reply in the negative to the last question, but hey! What do I know?!

Paul Murray - Skippy Dies

Paul Murray's second book, Skippy Dies, has been long listed for the Man Booker Prize 2010, and to be honest, that's the main reason why I picked up this book. I had added it to my to-read list when claire (@ kissacloud) mentioned it ages ago, but it just kind of sat on the list, till the Booker long list was announced earlier. Don't get me wrong - I'm not planning on reading the entire long list. In fact, truth be told, once I read The Slap, I think I'll be done with the Booker for this year, although there are two caveats:

• If the winner is one of the books I haven't already read
• If I stumble upon an amazing review of one of the books on the longlist that I haven't already read

I digress again - back to Skippy Dies:

Daniel "Skippy" Juster is nicknamed so due to his buck-teeth which makes him resemble a kangaroo. He is one of the main characters of this ambitious tragicomedy, which is set in Seabrook, an expensive Catholic school for boys in Dublin. In the prologue itself, Skippy dies during a doughnut eating race at a local hangout, with his best friend, the genius Ruprecht. Skippy collapses, and in his final moments, he squeezes raspberry syrup out of a doughnut, and writes, 'TELL LORI'.  The rest of the book goes back in time, and then forward, with the incident described above as the pivotal point.

Seabrook is run by Holy Paraclete Fathers, although Greg "Automator" Costigan, the acting principal who is a thoroughly vile character, intends to change that. Then there are the teachers, the bullies (who are en route to becoming full-fledged criminals), the perverts, the sex-obsessed students and of course, the fairer sex - girls!

In this 661-page chunkster, various stories intertwine, to create a book that goes well beyond a boarding school story. There are the obligatory school bullies in Carl and Barry, who start dealing drugs. Carl borders on being totally psychotic - his hands are scarred with cuts, he hates competition and he has his eyes set on Lori, an attractive student from the all-girls school next door. Then there's Howard the Coward, who was a student at Seabrook. Currently, Howard is the history teacher, living with his American girlfriend, Halley, but infatuated with the new geography teacher, Aurelie McIntyre, "an investment banker not used to that kind of unbridled depravity." There's a slight play of words when it comes to the unlikeable French teacher, Father Green, whose name in French translated to Pere Vert, and there's the typical friendly teacher cum coach, Tom Roche - another teacher who used to be a student at Seabrook, and was on his way to become a national sportsperson before an injury robbed him off those dreams.

Ruprecht the genius has already been mentioned - he is a genius, single-handedly responsible for raising the average grade of the class by four percent. He wants to go to Stanford, has a role model in Professor Tamashi (who doesn't seem to exist, if I google his name?) who is a professor of m-theory (an extension of string theory that says there are eleven dimensions), and spends his time looking for extra-terrestrial life. He comes up with grand plans on how to draw the aliens into conversation or open the portal to the parallel universe(s), and dreams of winning the Nobel Prize, or studying under Prof. Tamashi.

"When you think about it, the Big Bang's a bit like school, isn't it? Well, I mean to say, one day we'll all leave here and become scientists and bank clerks and diving instructors and hotel managers - the fabric of society, so to speak. But in the meantime, that fabric, that is to say, us, the future, is crowded into one tiny little point where none of the laws of society applies, viz., this school."

And what about Skippy? Well, he's on the swim team, a good student, who seems to be going wayward due to some things going awry in his personal life, the details of which we aren't privy to until much later in the book. In a way, he's the glue that holds a bunch of the boarders together - boarders who don't take kindly to Ruprecht but still befriend him because of Skippy. The buck-toothed boy is in love with Lori, a girl he's never met in real life, but seen through the lens of his genius friend's telescope. At a school dance, he finally talks to her, and they leave the dance together.

So yes - all the typecasting has been done, all the stereotypes introduced. But, the manner in which Murray brings them all together is anything but typical. It's not Harry Potter, but then again, it's no Malory Towers! The characters are real twenty-first century characters, and despite the stereotypical roles that have been created for them, they do step outside the boundaries every now and again. None of the characters are perfect, although some are likeable and some loathsome. However, I did find myself rooting for Skippy throughout the book - not sure if it was a direct result of the book being entitled Skippy Dies or if he was actually a sympathetic character though, or ...

This book is funny and tragic - the banter between the students, the dialogues between the friends had me smiling a fair bit, but in equal measure, I found myself shaking my head. I don't really know if I should be asking this question, but seriously, how much time do fourteen year old boys spend thinking about sex? Or all the double entendres? I shouldn't have asked that, should I have?

It's really difficult to sum up this book in such few words - the book encompasses so much more. We learn more about the characters, their histories and their future. We see Howard through his obsession with World War I, and we see Lori alternating between two extremes of innocence and provocativeness; we see Skippy from being morose and obsessive to being jubilant and we see Ruprecht doing a complete metamorphosis from looking for life beyond earth to compulsively eating doughnuts. More importantly, we see how one event can change things so dramatically - almost like the butterfly effect - even if people haven't been directly affected by the incident in question. We contemplate questions - what's more important, punishment or honour? reputation or justice? reality or the version of history provided in our text books? the "right" thing or what people expect? And the list goes on and on...

Despite being massive, I found myself flying through this book - specially the first two chunks, Hopeland and Heartland. The penultimate section, Ghostland, was probably the most thought-provoking section though, and I found myself reading that chunk slower than the previous two - which is kind-of ironic, as I normally like flying through the last bit of the book, and taking my time with the beginning to settle in and acquaint myself with the book, the characters and the environment.

Have you read Skippy Dies? What do you think its chances are to make it to the shortlist? If it did, to be honest, I wouldn't have any complaints, despite the fact that parts of the book are colloquial, and I did want to scream when some of the students were texting each other, and textspeak filled the page. And, have you read Murray's debut novel, An Evening of Long Goodbyes? Recommend it?

How's your Booker reading coming along so far? Or, do you avoid the prize-winning hype just because it's not worth it?

Emma Donoghue - Room

This is probably one of the most gripping books I've read this year. I almost feel guilty that I didn't take Audrey Niffenegger's advice, scrolled across the book cover:

Room is a book to read in one sitting.

That's what working life does to you, I guess. I did read the last fifty pages or so at work though, ignoring the people who asked me if I was there to work or read. Hopefully, even they figured it was a rhetorical question. Anyway, as I couldn't agree more with the rest of the quote, I thought I might as well share it:

When it's over you look up: the world looks the same but you are somehow different and that feeling lingers for days.

Room is a novel "triggered" by Felix Fritzl, the five year old son of Elisabeth Fritzl. Elisabeth was locked in the basement by her father for twenty-four years,  raped repeatedly and had seven children. Three of them were imprisoned with her, and the five year old had no clue about the world beyond the basement they were locked in.

Normally, one would expect such a book to be a money-making gimmick, with the author milking the tragedy of another family. Realising that it was narrated by the five year old might add to that sentiment. However, with Room, Donoghue creates a wonderful "unputdownable" novel, with great insights and contemplations from the five year old, Jack, who was under the impression that the world existed in his eleven feet by eleven feet room he lived in with his mother (Ma), and had no clue as to the reality beyond the locked door and the skylight.

Ma, a twenty-seven year old, protects him and tries to bring him up right, by schooling him with the limited resources she has at her disposal. So, Jack's narration is actually reasonably articulate, although it is still from the viewpoint of a five year old, who has never experienced life outside the closed quarters of the room, and initially thinks himself and his mother are the only two human beings in the world. He has "friends" in the television, but as far as he's concerned, that's not real.

This morning it's Dora, yippee. She's on a boat that nearly crashes into a ship, we have to wave our arms and shout, "Watch out," but Ma doesn't. Ships are just TV and so is the sea except when our poos and letters arrive. Or maybe that actually stop being real the minute they get there.

Animals are TV except ants and Spider and Mouse, but he's gone back now. Germs are real, and blood. Boys are TV but they kind of look like me, the me in Mirror that isn't real either, just a picture.

In a way, it's almost a  relief that the book is written through the eyes of the child, and not the mother, for, if it was written through the eyes of the mother, it might have been one of the most heart-wrenchingly painful and scary reads. The innocence of Jack alleviates the horror of this book a great deal, as he doesn't understand some of the more delicate issues that his mother has to deal with, in her captivity.

When Old Nick creaks Bed, I listen and count fives on my fingers, tonight it's 217 creaks. I always have to count till he makes that gaspy sound and stops. I don't know what would happen if I didn't count, because I always do.

After he turns five, Ma finally tells him about Outside, but unsurprisingly, Jack doesn't believe his mother initially, and who can blame them? If you've known only one world for five years, and you're suddenly "unlied" to, and told about the wonders of a whole new world which exists, but you were never aware of, how would you react? It's too strange, too surreal, to be true, and I really felt for Jack when he was told the truth, and subsequently become the focal point of his mother's grand escape plan, which "scaved" (a "wordsandwich" meaning scared and brave) him!

More themes about society and values emerge as the book progresses, and each one evokes an emotion of either sadness or anger or sympathy. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but from the start of the book, when you're made aware of the situation, you can't help but hope and pray for a happy ending - no adult and no child should ever have to go through that kind of hell.

I was utterly hooked to this book, and I can't recommend it highly enough. I've not read a story like this before, and I doubt I'll come across one even remotely as engrossing and irrepressible as this work by Donoghue.

Have you read Room? Or, any other book by Donoghue? What did you think? Would you recommend any of the others?

And, what do you think are the odds on this book making the Booker shortlist?

Lisa Moore - February

Melancholic - that's the first word that came to my mind when I finished this book. I'm guessing that's how Helen, the protagonist, felt for a major part of her adult life. Her husband, Cal, had been on the Ocean Ranger that sunk in 1982, off the coast of Newfoundland - there were no survivors. Fast-forward to 2008, which is when this book starts: Helen, now a middle-aged woman, is battling loneliness and misery, as she tries to find some kind of solace in looking after the grandchildren and sewing beautiful wedding and prom dresses as a career. She's tried her hand at online dating, after being persuaded by the children; she's tried yoga; working in a corporation and all in all, it just sounds like she's tried a myriad of things to get over the grief - but to no avail. Does one ever actually get over losing a loved one?

The narration isn't linear though - it's almost like a series of random flashbacks and memories that have made up some of the happiest, saddest and most poignant moments of Helen's life : be it receiving a Valentine's card from her husband, days after the Ocean Ranger sank or, contemplating his last moments - did he at least get to play a last game of cards post-supper?

There is no plot - at least not one that I could find. It was essentially focusing on Helen's despondence, as well as the lives of her children and grandchildren: her daughter getting pregnant at the age of fifteen, her daughter coming home drunk and escorted by the police. It's also a very "twenty-first century" novel, with references to Cosmo and Vogue, eBay and online dating. I'm still not quite accustomed to seeing them in books - even though, for once, it didn't sound like those references were forced. It was just part of the narrative, and it made the book more real somehow.

Did I enjoy this book - not really. It depressed me, and made me ponder on things that I ordinarily wouldn't (e.g. do you ever get over the loss of a loved one, specially a husband?). It was just so - sad, for lack of better words! Well-written, descriptive, emotional, but sad! One of my favourite poems is Dylan Thomas' Death Shall Have No Dominion, but clearly, those left behind beg to differ, as this book reminds us, not very subtly! Who knows how life can change by things we have no control over, when we least expect it to?!

Have you read anything by Lisa Moore? I've heard Alligator is worth a read - would you recommend it?

As for this book being on the Booker longlist - well, I personally don't think it'll make the shortlist, but hey! What do I know?! What do you think - does the shortlist have a place for February?

Andrea Levy - The Long Song

I apologise for my thoughts on this book at the very outset. I'm going through a bit of a stressful phase right now, and while normally, it doesn't affect the way I approach books, I'm not completely convinced that it hasn't this time 'round. I mean, The Long Song was longlisted for the Orange Prize, and it's on the Booker longlist as well. It's got to be a good book, right? Well, I didn't finish it, and it wasn't for lack of trying! I put it aside at 150 pages - my edition had 308 pages, so I did read about half of the book, and it failed to engage me at any level. Strange, because the subject matter is intense and well, more often than not, I end up empathising and sympathising with the protagonists and narrators of such stories. This time - absolutely nothing.

Set in the early nineteenth century, this book focuses on the final days of slavery in Jamaica. The primary voice is that of July, a slave born on the sugar plantation called Amity, after her mother was raped by the overseer of the plantation. July was separated from her mother, Kitty, when the plantation owner's sister, Caroline, found her utterly charming and wanted to groom her to be a lady's maid. Caroline, new to Jamaica and the rampant slavery, depended much on July, and the slave girl often took advantage of her mistress' dependence.

Personally, I thought that the writing lacked the intensity that the subject matter deserves, and almost treated the subject frivolously. I also did cringe, occasionally, on reading some of the lines, although I'm willing to bet that Levy intended to have that effect on the reader.

"Stuff up her mouth with rags, come on, come on," he insisted once more. Rose took a rag, dipping it in the water from the pail and brushed it against Kitty's lips. But Tam Dewar, exhaling with annoyance, commanded, "Not like that!" He snatched at the rag that Rose held, then forced the damp cloth down into Kitty's mouth. "Like this, you fool, like this."

Rose protested, "Massa, she birthin', she birthin'!" as Kitty choked to accommodate the bulk of cloth in her mouth.

I don't think I got used to the style of writing either, where the narrator constantly addressed me as "Reader," and it switched between first person (present) and third person (past). And, I really didn't care what happened to the characters - who survived, who didn't.

Maybe I'm being harsh, but despite the writing being simple, I found reading this book a chore, and didn't feel inclined to pick it up. I wish I'd finished this book, to see what the end objective was - and maybe, just maybe, the second half of the book would end up redeeming itself. Have you read this book? Do you think the second half is better/more engrossing than the first?

Have you read Levy's Small Island? I think it's her most talked about book. Would you recommend that over her latest?

David Mitchell - Black Swan Green

About five years back, with the launch of the iPod Shuffle, Apple declared "random is the new order" to the world, as "life is random" so we should "give chance a chance." What does any of this have to do with Black Swan Green? Well, nothing, really! However, it does have a lot to do with the way I've approached the works of David Mitchell - Unlike some book bloggers (e.g. Kerry), I haven't read his works in any kind of order; just as and when I got my hands on one of his books. I never had a chance though. I didn't even know who David Mitchell was (yes, I was living in a black hole of sorts) until one of my friends shoved number9dream in my hands, and insisted I read it. From the opening line, which I can still repeat off the top of my head, I was hooked. The rest, as they say, is history.

And so, I started my fourth book by David Mitchell eagerly, not quite knowing what to expect. I knew it was a coming-of-age story, and I half wondered if it would be similar to the surreal number9dream, or well - I didn't really have an alternative.

Black Swan Green is much more of a "traditional" coming-of-age story. In fact, if I didn't know better, I would have assumed it was Mitchell's debut novel - not because of the quality of writing (seriously, I don't think you can fault Mitchell's quality of writing!), but more because the book was a lot more conventional than I'd have expected, specially considering it was released on the back of Cloud Atlas.

It's 1982, the year of the Falklands War. Havoc is wreaking on that front, but thirteen year old Jason is fighting another battle: against bullies, against a stammering problem he can't seem to get rid of, and harbouring a secret that might make him the laughing stock of the school: a secret desire to be a poet. Closer to home, his sister refers to him as "thing," and his parents' marriage is rocky - thirteen, it's a "wonderful miserable age!"

Bluebells swarmed in pools of light where the sun got through the trees. The air smelt of them. Wild garlic smelt of toasted phlegm. Blackbirds sang like they'd die if they didn't. Birdsong's the thoughts of a wood. Beautiful it was, but boys aren't allowed to say "beautiful" 'cause it's the gayest word going.

As opposed to a linear narrative, this book is essentially a set of snapshots in Jason's life as a thirteen year old, focusing on the events that help him mature, as he realises some hard truths about life, be it about his friend's father's alcoholism

"[...]Tell you what it's like, it's like this whiny shitty nasty weepy man who isn't my dad takes my dad over for however long the bender lasts, but only I - and Mum and Kelly and Sally and Max - know that it isn't him. The rest of the world doesn't know that, see. They just say, Frank Moran showing his true colours, that is. But it ain't" Moran twisted his head at me. "But it is. But it ain't.[...]"

or, about the cruelty of war, and how it ruins lives

War's an auction where whoever can pay most in damage and still be standing wins.

Okay, maybe that's a little too profound for a thirteen year old, but the point still stands! Speaking of profundity, how's this:

I've never listened to music lying down. Listening's reading if you close your eyes. Music's a wood you walk through.

And then, you have some mixed with a desperate call for anger management:

Me, I want to kick this moronic bloody world in the bloody teeth over and over till it bloody understands that not hurting people is ten bloody thousand times more important than being right.

Oh! To be thirteen again...

I enjoyed this book, and the various episodes of Jason's life, despite the fact that at times, he really did seem older and wiser than his years (above excerpts withstanding). It was an easy read, but delightful at the same time, and it was a story I could relate to - being someone born in the eighties myself! I got most of the music references, be it Duran Duran, Beatles, Sex Pistols, Joy Division or the infamous "Do the Locomotion". It took me back a long way, and I was reminiscing away about my life and how things were about a decade ago! I could identify with Jason's preoccupations and concerns at times, and I sympathised with him on the whole rivalry with the sibling - been there, done that! My brother and I couldn't possibly be closer now. Oh, how times change...

Have you read any David Mitchell? Any favourites? I still have Ghostwritten to go, so I'm really looking forward to that.

Also, do you have any other favourite coming-of-age stories? I do love reading them - they almost always take me away to a simpler easier time. Do you feel the same as well about comfort reads?

Just as an aside for you David Mitchell fans out there who've read Cloud Atlas as well:

Madame Crommelynck, the daughter of the famous composer in Cloud Atlas, makes an appearance in this book, when she attempts to introduce Jason to European literature. She plays Robert Frobisher's Cloud Atlas Sextet for the teenager, who is awed by it (see quote above). I loved that bit! Any idea if there are any more references to other characters from his previous books that I've missed?

James Scudamore - Heliopolis

Ludo, born in the favela of Heliopolis (a shantytown), is "lucky." He's escaped a life of squalor, on being formally adopted by the extremely rich Carnicelli family, who have also hired his mother as a cook in their farmhouse.

When she had nothing but a handful of beans to her name, the tough nugget of pride at her core sustained her. Then along came Ze and Rebecca, and took away that pride, replacing it with impotent gratitude. Like the mythological pelican slashing open her breast to sustain her young, my mother fed me her blood, and she took a mortal blow for me in the process.

Now in his mid-to-late twenties, Ludo reflects on life, the city he lives in, and his rags-to-riches story, which puts him in the awkward role of supposedly knowing both worlds : the squalor and the wealth, and trying to figure out where he belongs.

He's in love with his adopted sister (who he sleeps with occasionally, despite her being married), thinks his job (in advertising) is completely pointless and is mostly passive about most things - almost to the point of the passiveness being criminal! However, he's an insightful narrator, who sometimes has you nod in agreement and sometimes, just chuckle.

Practise your confidence tricks on the street and you risk getting shot by trigger-happy security guards; do it in the office and you get put on the board.

The other primary character, in my opinion, is Sao Paulo itself. The epigraph of this novel is a quote by Marlene Dietrich: Rio is a beauty. But Sao Paulo - Sao Paulo is a city. From a social perspective, the class divide that's shown, the general acceptance of it by the public, and the dignity with which the shantytown dwellers are portrayed makes the novel so much more colourful. Ze (Ludo's adoptive father) has not stepped on the grounds of the city for fifteen years, as his helicopter is his only mode of transportation, as nobody who's anybody gets driven to work in the city these days.

And then of course, you have the ambience of the Brazilian city, which is captured, almost to perfection:

Since the city took off in the nineteenth century, wave after wave of developers have ripped through it, obliterating what lies in their path. But occasionally, the past remains in isolated fragments that seem as if they have escaped the halo of a nuclear explosion.

The novel is fast-paced, and incredibly easy to read. It's not a translation, and Scudamore, in my opinion, has done an amazing job of making the book sound "Brazilian" enough, without anglicising the content overtly - a massive bonus! The other thing that I quite liked about this book was that each of the chapter headings reference food, be it Mango or Orange Juice; Crab Linguine or Feiojada. The food referenced in the chapter heading invariably appears in the chapter, and also plays a role in defining both: the social and cultural aspects of the city.

This is the first book I've read, that's based in Brazil, and I'd love to read more books set in Latin America. Do you have any recommendations? Possibly not a rags-to-riches story (although, I did read an interesting fact : the President of Brazil was buffing shoes and selling peanuts on the streets when he was ten years old! It's a city where the rags-to-riches story aren't always only a fairy-tale!), as I've read a fair few them in the recent past?

David Mitchell - The Thousand Autumns Of Jacob De Zoet

In terms of books being confusing and complex, this one ranks right up there. New characters being introduced every couple of pages, the story taking dramatic turns, changing from showing corruption while trading in the 18th-19th century to a surreal adventure story, and there's a love story thrown in, just for good measure as well. But no - that's not all. In fact, that's simplifying it much.

The book has one of the most graphic opening chapters, where a child is coming into the world, already dead. However, by some miracle, Orito (a midwife) saves the life of the child (and the mother). It's 1799 and the place is Nagasaki. Christianity is banned, most of the women are "wives" or prostitutes, and the locals and foreigners interact with the help of "interpreters," as the Dutch aren't allowed to study the local dialect.

The importance of the birth and the sequence of events it triggers isn't obvious in a first chunk of the book. Instead, we're introduced to the Dutchmen who inhabit the artificial island of Dejima - the corrupt greedy Dutch, working for the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie (VOC, or Dutch East India Company). Most of them are corrupt, trying best to figure out how to forge the books for their own personal gains, but there's the one employee/clerk who puts honour above all else : Jacob de Zoet.

Things get complicated when he falls in love with Orito, the midwife, and they get even further twisted when she's abducted and sent to the Shrine of Shiranui - where she's set to become a nun at a convent. The Shrine isn't really a convent though, and the Goddess isn't really a Goddess. Think The Handmaid's Tale... with a twist.

And here, we've just finished part one of the book! I don't want to give too much away, but the rest of the book is a whirlwind, with things happening at the blink of an eye: power trips and struggles, love, betrayal, tragedy, courage and a thirst for the truth.

The writing is extraordinary - something I've come to expect from David Mitchell's books (despite reading only the two). The ambience he creates almost seems to transport me back to the eighteenth century Dejima/Nagasaki. Considering most of my historical association with Nagasaki stems from August 9, 1945, this was a pleasant change. Mitchell even gave a nod to the growing friction between the English and the Dutch in their quest for power in Asia, and the extent to which the respective parties would go. Fantastic, as it almost seemed like text book stuff - but so much more gripping.

I enjoyed the book, but not as much as number9dream, nor as much as Cloud Atlas. I thought this book was less "fun," and more "serious" - the experimental style of Mitchell's writing does still exist, but I think, the ambition of this novel lay more in the plot than the surrealism or ambiguity that I've come to associate with his writing. I've still got two unread books by David Mitchell, and I'm curious to see how this would compare with them.

Do you have a favourite book by David Mitchell? What do you think makes the book stand out?

Sarah Hall - How To Paint A Dead Man

I wasn't planning on reading the entire Booker long list, prior to the short list being announced. However, there were a couple of books that intrigued me, and Sarah Hall's How To Paint A Dead Man was one of them. Initially, I was torn between Heliopolis (James Scudamore) and this one, but, I held both of them in my hand, and for some unexplainable reason, How To Paint A Dead Man just grabbed my attention a little bit more.

It's a bizarre book, in terms of the plot (if you can call it that). The book works on alternating stories of four characters across different decades and places, who are loosely connected. Hence, the story continuously goes back and forth in time, exploring the characters, on each of the chapters.

There's one set of chapters called The Mirror Crisis, which the book opens with. It introduces Susan, whose twin brother, Danny, has just passed away in an accident. The opening paragraph just won me over, and I knew I'd love the book, simply based on that.

You aren't feeling like yourself. You haven't been feeling like yourself for a while now, not since the accident. More accurately, not since the moment you heard about it. That morning, that minute, holding the phone to your ear and hearing your father say those horrific words; it was then you felt the change, then when you were knocked out of the kilter. You're not sure what's wrong exactly; it's hard to put your finger on, hard to articulate. It isn't grief. Grief would be simple. Something internal, something integral, has shifted. You feel lost from yourself. No. Absent. You feel absent. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing no familiar reflection, no one you recognize hosted within the glass.

Dealing with her twin's loss, Susan finds comfort in the arms (and bed) of her friend's husband, as she tries to deal with the shock of losing someone who was once a part of her - when she referred to everything as "We", not "I".

The second set of chapters is called Translated from the Bottle Journals goes back in time, to the life of an Italian artist, who is doing his final "masterpiece," as he approaches his final few days.

And then you have the third, The Fool On The Hill, which comes back to the present (kind-of), and refers to Peter, Susan's father. During his younger days, he would write to the Italian artist with ideas, and now, he's a famous landscape artist. However, he's abundant in his vulnerability, and is dealing with a mid-life crisis, trying to do his daughter proud. However, an accident leaves him trapped in the hills, with his left leg stuck, and as he struggles to get out, he reflects on his life, his first marriage, and how things have panned out.

And finally, you have The Divine Vision of Annette Tambroni: another collection of chapters that goes back in time, and focuses on a young girl, who has lost her sight, and is now a flower seller. She was taught by the Italian when he was lecturing at school, and was a prized student. After his death, Annette, despite her blindness, continues to visit him (and her father) in the cemetery, and contemplates on the Bestia, a monster whose presence she keeps feeling around her.

The story just trickles on, and you're lost in a world of beautiful writing, and heartbreaking narratives.

Of all the conditions we experience, solitude is perhaps the most misunderstood. To choose it is regarded as irresponsible or a failure. To most, it should be avoided, like an illness. Inside solitude people see the many compartments of unhappiness, like the comb of a pomegranate.

It gets difficult to read at times, due to the lack of continuity or relation between the four stories. However, I did end up feeling perfectly happy losing myself in the story, and sympathizing with the many actors. Times like this, I'm glad for things like the Booker long list, for I don't think I would have picked up this book otherwise.

Rating: 4

Samantha Harvey - The Wilderness

I almost bought this book two months back, but, for some unexplainable reason, I didn't. About a week back, I found the first edition signed hardback in a second-hand bookstore, and literally jumped with glee. Saying buying this for £2.50 is a bargain is an understatement of sorts. The Wilderness follows the story of Jake, as he slowly loses his mind to Alzheimer's - slowly, or fast, depending on your definition of 'time', something Jake has no concept of. The book starts with him taking a plane ride, a present, which he clearly doesn't want. However, at the very outset, this plane ride allows the reader to glimpse into Jake's world: the prison he built (in his architect days), which he admires but the pilot considers to be a travesty, and, Quail Woods where Jake has spent his childhood, but the woods has slowly been ruined by people.

The book follows various 'stories' of Jake's life: his Jewish mother, and her relationship with his anti-Semite father, his opinions on the Six Day War, his relationship with his wife, and his extramarital affair which he felt no guilt over, immediately becoming one of the men he hated. However, due to the evident disorientation, the stories may or may not be true, and one doesn't quite know what's a figment of Jake's imagination, or what actually happened. It also leaves a lot of questions unanswered: What happened to Alice? What happened to the money? What's the skin-covered Bible got to do with anything? What happened to Rook? Sara? Joy?

While this is a story about a man suffering from Alzheimer's, it's also a story about symbology ('yellow dress', 'the glass aviary', 'the cherry tree', 'the woman clothed with the sun', 'the wilderness' itself, etc), and the transience of everything.

What is better? To give up what you are and be alive, or keep what you are and end up dead? What you are is mere circumstance anyway. It isn't that important. [...] It isn't more important than being alive. [...] I am telling you an you must listen: where you are from, what is yours, what is home - sometimes these are not the point. The truth is not everything. You have to know when it is time to walk away.

Harvey's done an amazing job in creating a fairly realistic novel about Jake, and his disease. I found myself getting fast despondent over Jake's condition, and had to close the book a couple of times, because I just couldn't bear to read about how Alzheimer's makes your life near impossible.

He breaks eggs into the pan and throws the shells away. He then takes the shells away from the bin again and stands with them in his hand with the idea that he needs them for the omelette - he can't remember if the shells are like packets that you throw away or apple skins that you eat.

However, the part of the book that literally broke my heart, was when he told Alice that he had Alzheimer's, and he'd known for two years (which was the 'truth' as he remembered it, even if it wasn't the 'real' truth), and how she said she'd come and help. Nothing compares to the relationship a father and daughter share, and my dad's been ill for the last two years, and I've had to battle some difficult choices, and it just hit home.

So, we've established it's a beautifully written, thought-provoking book, that just makes us realize that no matter what we do today, or who we are, in the end, we'll just fade away. Nothing is perpetual, not even in our own lifetimes, and sometimes, we just loop 'round and 'round in our own thoughts, convinced by the reality we make up for ourselves, and there's no good reason why.

The one thing that did get to me, though, was the fact that the book was written in third person, despite it being about Jake, and the other peripherals (if I may call them that) in his life. In a manner of speaking, Jake is the narrator, but then again, the whole book focuses on the 'he' instead of the 'me'.

Rating: 4

Catherine O'Flynn - What Was Lost

Catherine O' Flynn's much acclaimed debut novel probably has one of the most fascinating opening chapters I've ever read, which revolves around Kate Meaney, a ten year old aspiring detective. Following Kate, and her 'partner' Mickey (a soft toy),  through her 'stakeouts' as she looks for 'suspicious' people, simultaneously trying to determine their possible motives, her friendship with Adrian, the neighbor's twenty-two year old son, her friends at school, and her life with her dad, the book comes across as an innocent feel-good book.

Anyone who asked for a chocolate lime was a killer, according to Adrian, due to his abhorrence of the sweet and his belief that no law-abiding person could like such an unnatural combination.

Things have a habit of going disarray, though, and when Kate's father dies in suspicious circumstances, her maternal grandmother becomes Kate's official guardian. She thinks it would do Kate a world of good to go to boarding school and be around kids her own age. Kate has other ideas, although she does promise her grandmother that she'll do the entrance exam, and give it her best shot. Adrian drops her off to the school for the exam, and Kate's never seen after that. When they look through the entrance exam papers, they can't find Kate's.

Cut twenty years later to Green Oaks mall, a popular stakeout location for Kate, and the reader is introduced to the two 'actual' protagonists of the book: Lisa, a duty manager at 'Your Music', and Kurt, a security guard, who spends most of his time observing the CCTV videos. One night, a long time ago, he had seen a young girl with a monkey on the screen, but when he attempted to find her, he failed. When he meets Lisa, and sees that she's holding the same monkey, the two somehow find themselves developing a kind-of relationship, and together try to find the 'lost girl' - a girl who has affected both their lives, although they don't know it yet!

There seems to be a fair bit of indirect social commentary, with the author taking pains to explain how things work in a big mall, where the employees are always under great stress and pressure due to unreasonable customers, who insist it's illegal to charge non-Sale prices once the sale is over. There's also added stress when they keep expecting an inspection that keeps everyone on their toes - more often than not, these inspection-alerts turn out to be false alarms. It also gives the reader a quick peek into how "new developments" like the mall ends up influencing the lives of so many people, leaving them jobless, or having to find an alternate career which isn't necessarily what they want to do.

While I loved the opening section of the book, I wasn't quite impressed with the way the book turned out. The narration itself seems to be in a passive voice, which makes the book slightly less exciting, and despite the fact that the characters are echoing their thoughts, it's done in third person, and not in quotes, making it slightly bizarre. Call it a writer's license, if you like.

But every night after another shitty day at work she was filled with an urge that would not be denied to go to the orange back room and get lost in a blur of words and faces and alcohol. The room where everything was so fucking hilarious, and where time whipped by at ten times its normal awful speed.

The switchover from present-day to twenty years later (or twenty years earlier to today, depending on how you look at it) was sudden, and I was left baffled for a couple of minutes trying to figure out where the story had turned a corner, and which direction it was accelerating towards.

The characters aren't really built up and seem fairly two-dimensional. Kate and Adrian, in my opinion, are the only characters that seemed to have another dimension (and their roles lasted only seventy-odd pages!). It might have something to do with the other characters being caught up in the monotony of their daily lives while dealing with the past tragedies in a mechanical manner, which I can relate to - Since I've started working, I feel like my life's fairly robotic, and I just go about doing things without really thinking about them.

The mystery of Kate going missing does get solved (no surprises there), but the ending was unimpressive, and left me feeling like there was much to be desired.

Rating: 3

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - Half Of A Yellow Sun

War destroys all that is left of innocence. It pulls people together, and it drives them apart. People are left asking questions, as they pine for their loved ones, as they try and contemplate the horrors of war, and as they struggle to survive - just so that they can see a better day.

And it is this aspect of war that Adichie focuses on in her much-acclaimed novel, Half of a Yellow Sun. The story, based in the 1960s, revolves around the Nigeria-Biafra war - a historical event that has escaped the chapters of most history texts outside Africa - and the massacre, starvation, illness, and fear it brought in its wake, as the Igbo people battled for their independence, which was short-lived. Biafra (even my spell-check doesn't recognize it!), in 1970, returned to Nigeria, and as the book stated: a million people died, in the process.

The story's main protagonists are the twins: Olanna and Kainene, who are poles apart, both in looks and in attitude; their lovers: the 'revolutioary professor' Odenigbo, and the awkward introverted Richard - an expatriate writer, enchanted by Igbo history. And then of course, there's Ugwu, a poor village boy who has come to serve the professor, as a house-boy.

The twins, at the outset, are estranged and distant, for no reason whatsoever. Olanna is about to move in with Odenigbo, and teach in Nsukka, whereas Kainene is looking to take her father's business to greater heights. However, as things turn out, due to love and betrayal, the twins' rift grows deeper, and Olanna finds herself avoiding Kainene. She does, however, adopt Odenigbo's love-child from a brief one-night affair, and finds herself devoted to Baby's health and happiness.

When war breaks out, and strains some of the relationships, while simultaneously bridging the gap in some, we see the weakness and strength in the characters as never before.

Richard, an Englishman (and Kainene's lover) remains in the warzone, and writes articles for the international media, propagating the cause of the Igbo, instead of returning to his motherland. He is disgusted when some white journalists show up, and ask about the unfortunate death of another Englishman. His sarcastic comment at that point is along the lines of: one white person is equivalent to a thousand Biafrans.

Odenigbo finds comfort in his papers, and his theories, but when war breaks out he resorts to alcohol. Olanna, and Ugwu set up a small formal school, as all the schools around them are closed down, and transformed into refugee camps. Kainene, on the other hand, sets up a refugee camp, and tries to ensure that there are enough protein pills and food for everyone - specially the children.

As the characters are introduced, and their role in the story starts shaping up, I couldn't help but marvel at how Adichie's writing shifts from prosaic to poetic. And that, at times, is disconcerting. For example, in the opening chapter, Ugwu is overwhelmed by the richness of his new environment:

He looked up at the ceiling, so high up, so piercingly white. He closed his eyes and tried to reimagine this spacious room with the alien furniture, but he couldn't. He opened his eyes, overcome by a new wonder, and looked around to make sure it was all real. To think that he would sit on these sofas, polish this slippery-smooth floor, wash these gauzy curtains.

and I think that's a beautiful piece of writing - so vivid, and I can close my eyes, and actually imagine Ugwu's wonder, just by the above line.

But then, later on in the book, after the war had started, the descriptions were enough to make me, as a second-hand observer, feel queasy. The below is a snippet when Olanna was on a train, heading back home to her revolutionary lover, after the war had broken out, and the Igbo people were being found out and massacred.

Olanna looked at the bowl. She saw the little girl's head with the ashy-grey skin and the plaited hair and rolled back eyes and open mouth. She stared at it for a while before she looked away. Somebody screamed.

The woman closed the calabash. 'Do you know,' she said, 'it took me so long to plait this hair. She had such thick hair'.

And then there's the scene Richard witnessed at the airport, on landing from England, where his cousin was getting married.

Richard saw fear etched so deeply on to his face that it collapsed his cheeks and transfigured him into a mask that looked nothing like him. He would not say 'Allahu Akbar' because his accent would give him away. Richard willed him to say the words, anyway, to try; he willed him something, anything, to happen in the stifling silence and as if in answer to his thoughts, the rifle went off and (his) chest blew open, a splattering red mass [...]

My favorite character of the book has to be Kainene, just because she's offbeat, and has no illusions (read delusions) of grandeus about herself. While Olanna was occasionally self-piteous, Odenigbo was a character I couldn't relate to. He was an intellect, but came across as a know-it-all. Ugwu was a character I had grown quite fond of, as I could actually relate to some of his thoughts (hats off to Adichie for creating one of the most 'real' characters I've come across, in a long time), but without giving much away, I will say that there are certain things that make a character somewhat irredeemable. And Richard, well, I admired him for sticking to the Igbo people, as though they were his own, but, his character was probably the blandest of them all, if you know what I mean?

In this story about love, loyalty, betrayal, redemption, and survival, Adichie brings up the painful reality of war; unflinchingly discussing gang-rapes, starvation, children dying, and the horrors of air-strikes, where everyone tries to hide in a bunker. In an ironic statement, we see how everything is held together, precariously, as a girl's belly starts to swell, and her mother wonders is she pregnant or is she dying. (a swollen belly indicates 'kwashiorkar', or protein deficiency).

This is a very well-written profound book, and it really wouldn't surprise me if it became a classic of our times. However, in critique, the couple of things I will say are:

In my opinion, the flow of the book was disrupted by how the first section was based in the early 1960s, the second in the late 60s, the third in the early 60s again, and the final section was based in the late 1970s. I didn't quite understand why that was done, because I'm not at all convinced it enhanced the story in any way.

Second, why on earth was a six year old referred to as Baby throughout the whole book? Fair enough, it worked for Jennifer Grey in Dirty Dancing, but, in a warzone, even if you're trying to depict the innocence of a child, the name 'Baby' really doesn't do it. Well, it didn't for me!

And also, I found the last paragraph a weak ending to an otherwise great story. I really do not want to give much away at the time, but, it was an ending that left a bit to be desired. In fact, the way it came about was almost rushed.

Overall, a 7.5 on 10.