Wolf Hall

Wolf Hall

By Hilary Mantel

(Note: Before reading, I want to be clear that this post has very little to do with Hilary Mantel's Booker Prize winning novel Wolf Hall. I know it's the title of the blog post, but I'm feeling tangential.)

When I first started Reading in Taiwan, it was my mission statement that I would anything and everything that fell into my grubby, book-devouring little hands. The thought process was that I was living in a small town on a small, non-English speaking island with the bare minimum of English books at my disposal. It was a great social experiment and for a time it was pretty damned awesome. I read books I would have otherwise never have read. I read romance, fantasy and non-fiction novels about soccer players. I read I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. I was taking one for the proverbial team.

But over the course of three years, things have changed in my neck of the woods. I am not as isolated from the literary world as I once was. A couple of years back my wife was thoughtful enough to buy me a Kindle which made acquiring new books a cinch. Furthermore, acquiring actual bound books made of paper has become a lot easier in Taiwan due to the Internet and 7-11 (God bless 7-11). Nevertheless, I remained resolute in my stubbornness to read anything that came my way and finish everything I started, regardless of how good or bad it was. I mean I read The Story of O when I really didn't have to. I wanted to keep the spirit of the blog intact despite the encroachment of modern technology and increased access to books.

That is, until today.

I was driving home tonight thinking about how I was 40% through Hilary Mantel's 2009 Booker Prize winning novel Wolf Hall. I set the same goal I had set for myself every day this past week: to finish at least 10% before going to sleep. I have accomplished that goal exactly zero times this past week and it suddenly occurred to me that I would not achieve it tonight either, nor tomorrow night nor any night after that. I was staring down another two weeks (minimum) of slogging through Wolf Hall. It felt like the literary equivalent of sitting in a dentist office waiting room waiting for a voluntary, and completely unnecessary, root canal. Why was I subjecting myself to such an avalanche of torture when there are perfectly corpulent books awaiting me on my shelf and Kindle? And considering I was trying to read Wolf Hall quickly just so I could start something new, well, that's a terrible reason to read.

"But what about your mission statement?" I thought to myself.

"A cute but antiquainted dogma," I rebutted. "One rooted in another time. Another place."

"But what will people think when you say you couldn't finish Wolf Hall, a novel that was so celebrated? and why do I sound like Yoda?"

"Care not what people think. Nothing to prove, you have."

(Seriously, this is actually how I think).

The truth is, I was never going to like Wolf Hall. And I should have known.

Don't get me wrong, Wolf Hall is well written and painstakingly researched and probably deserves the Booker Prize for its meticulous (almost obssessive-compulsive) attention to detail alone. But Wolf Hall had three strikes against it right from the start and I should have seen the signs.

First, Wolf Hall is about the English Royal Family in general and unless the novel was written by Bernard Cornwell and is set on a blood-soaked 10th century battlefield in Essex, I'm not interested. As an unwilling citizen of the Commonwealth, I have a knee-jerk disinterest in the Royal Family. Just mention the names of Prince William and whatshername and my mind switches to auto-pilot whereby I continue looking at the speaker and nodding in a polite fashion but internally I have begun to ponder new and interesting ways in which to rip the speaker's tongue from his or her mouth.

Second, Wolf Hall is about Tudor England in specific. As a history major, there are nations and time periods I like better than others and I am hard-pressed to think of a time and place that interests me less than Tudor-era England. (maybe modern day England, but I'll have to run some tests to see which sets off the boredom alarm first and that's a diagnostic I'm in no hurry to run). Give me the Mongol Hordes riding across the Asian steppe or the Early Christian Church fathers or Qing Dynasty China any day of the week. But try to get me excited about Henry disengaging from Rome due to his inability to conceive a son and you've got a recipe for a nap.

Third, the length of the novel was the nail in the coffin. I have a pretty high threshold for shit. I can usually roll my eyes through a bad book just to say I've suffered like Jesus on the cross or something at parties. My mother always called me a masochist, but even I have limits. It's one thing to press on through a 250 page novel you hate. It's quite another to press on through a 700 page novel of the same ilk. I'll force down a bad meal, but I won't eat the leftovers for a week. That's just dumb.

Of course, I want to be clear that I'm not calling Wolf Hall a bad book. It most certainly isn't. It's just not my thing. Not at all. Not even a little.

But all this got me to thinking about novels that I have left unfinished. Surprisingly, in a lifetime of voracious reading the novels I have quit are few and far between. I've read lots of books that seem to pop up on other people's Did Not Finish lists. I've read (and enjoyed) long books like Infinite Jest. I've read difficult books like V. by Thomas Pynchon (I didn't understand it, though) and I've read the entire Old Testament. I've also read my share of terrible novels (Cathy Lamb comes to mind) But when it came to finding books I never actually finished, I could actually only think of six (though I'm sure there are more):

1. Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien: Of all the books I have ever hated, I hate this one the most. I hated it from the beginning. I hated the language. I hated the fact that each character took three pages to ask for a cup of tea and I hated Tom Bombadil (seriously... WTF?). I think I dropped this book somewhere around page 400 and have vowed never, ever to pick it up again.

2. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky: At the age of 16 I had this notion that I was going to become a man of letters or some such nonsense. I determined to read all the great works of literature and I was going to start with The Brothers Karamazov. Great start. I got about 60 pages in, realized I didn't understand a single thing that was going on and I went back to reading Michael Creighton novels. I've been meaning to pick this one up in recent years, but there is always something more interesting on my shelf. I think my 16-year old self has 37-year old me spooked.

3. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: I love Marquez and I've read several of his other novels, but this one eluded me. Perhaps it had something to do with every character having the SAME GODDAMNED NAME!

4. Wuthering Heights by Charlotte Bronte: I recall literally throwing this novel out my bedroom window with only 40 pages to read. I recall hating it with every fiber of my being but for the life of me, I cannot recall why. As I said before, I'm a masochist, but not so much of one that would willingly revisit this novel to find out why I hated it.

5. The Black Arrow by Robert Louis Stevenson: Because it's plain terrible.

6. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig: I honestly believe that everyone who loves this novel didn't actually read it. It's worse than The Black Arrow.

I can now add Wolf Hall to this esteemed list of personal literary failures.

Flesh

Flesh

By Khanh Ha

[The following review is part of the Flesh blog tour being organized by Historical Fiction Virtual Book Tours. This review also appear at the superbly excellent blog I Read A Book Once. For a full list of tour hosts, see the tour page.  For more information on Khanh Ha and his work, check out the author's website.]

I'm not an expert on the subject but I have noticed a shift in Asian historical fiction over the past decade or so. My first exposure to Asian literature tended to place an inordinate amount of emphasis on colonial powers. Whether intentional or accidental, it's hardly surprising that Asian literature would be colored by the regions tempestuous relationship with the domineering west, especially among writers writing in English, given the historical largesse that European power expansion had on the globe until well into the 1980s. Most (if not all) of the prominent Asian writers of the era were educated in the colonial education system. The end result were several generations worth of writers who examined their own culture as a reflection of a distant European culture. While the notion of colonialism was certainly one that deserved examination, it literally dominated the literature in a way that left very little room for other themes. In that sense, colonialism became the proverbial elephant in the bed for Asian writers.

However, as colonialism in Asia gradually recedes from the collective consciousness, we are presented with a second (and now third generation) of post post-colonial Asian literature (if this term is not yet coined, it's mine) come of age, there has been a sea change in the focus of literature from the Asian perspective. As a result of time and distance, colonialism has, mercifully, become less and less relevant as a theme in Asian literature. Asian writers are free to examine other, more organic experiences that have nothing to do with the White Man's Burden. Recent authors such as Jessica Hagedorn from the Philippines, Jeet Thayil from India and Amitav Ghosh from Bangladesh are just a sampling of the new wave of refreshingly innovative Asian writers on the current literary landscape.

If you are looking out for names to add to the growing list of skillful Asian writers, look no further than Khanh Ha. His debut novel, Flesh is a somber, brooding and grim exploration of revenge and moral responsibility in turn-of-the-century Annam (present day Vietnam). If debut novels are, in essence a declaration of an author's intent, then you could do a lot worse than pick up this interesting little novel by Khanh Ha.

Flesh is told from the perspective of Tai, a young Annamese boy who witnesses his father's execution for banditry in the opening pages of the book. Tai's family reclaims his father's body but not the head, which is sent to a neighboring village to be displayed. Tai makes it his own personal mission to reclaim his father's skull from the village and provide it and his father's body, according to East Asian tradition, with an auspicious resting place. This daunting mission takes Tai from his village to the city of Hanoi and under the wing of a wealthy Chinese businessman and becomes involved, both physically and psychologically, with a beautiful young woman from Yunnan.

Flesh is the quintessential story of revenge. At its heart it is a brutal tale about brutal people living brutal lives during a brutal time. But if all you take away from Flesh is its moodily executed story of revenge, you are only getting half the picture. At its core, Flesh is about coming of age and trying to be a good person and do the right thing in a world where the temptation to resort to crime and murder are all too common. Through Tai, we are exposed to a cruel and remorseless world of banditry, savagery and addiction. Tai walks the razor's edge of temptation on virtually every page of the novel and, like most people, succeeds as much as he fails in trying to be a decent human being along the way. In that respect, Flesh is as much a novel about humanity as it is about humanity's proclivities toward barbarity.

Ha's prose is dream-like and poetic. It has a lucid quality that, in it's better moments, adds volume and flair to the writing, though in portions, Ha's style gets the better of itself and becomes a convoluted morass of thoughts. I had mixed feelings about Ha's style. He tossed in enough great writing to make me sit up and take notice, but its uneven quality betrays his inexperience as novelist.

Flesh is not a great novel, but it is a very good one. As a purpose statement, even this inconsistent work is worthy of notice. I think that readers of Asian literature, and specifically Asian historical fiction, should take notice of Flesh. Ha has laid a foundation for what could be a very promising career.

The Astronomer

The Astronomer

By Lawrence Goldstone

Extremely mild spoilers ahead, though if the spoiler I reveal ruins the book for you, I sincerely suggest you brush up on your history. Tsk tsk.

Historical fiction can be an unforgiving genre. Writers have to walk that fine line between historical accuracy and a good story. If the writer focuses too much on historical authenticity he/she tends to allow the pace of the novel to lag, alienating the reader from the actual narrative. To little attention to historical detail and the reader will view the novel with a degree of consternation. I tend to fall on the side of a good story and to hell with authenticity, but that's just me. But truly bad historical fiction is that which hold no regard for neither historical accuracy nor a good narrative. Lawrence Goldstone's novel The Astronomer is one such novel.

The Astronomer is set in the early days of the Reformation. Martin Luther is still alive and preaching in the German states. John Calvin is touring Europe making a name for himself and the ultra-corrupt Catholic Church under Pope Clement VII is ill-equipped to handle the burgeoning new heresies gaining popularity throughout Europe. Heady days indeed.

Amaury is the bastard son of the Duke of Savoy and a middling theology student at the College de Montaigu in Paris. He is more interested in the rapidly expanding field of science than the stifling study of scripture. This mildly-heretical behavior has not gone unnoticed by the school's faculty who recommend Amaury to the French Grand Inquisitor of France Mattieu Ory to spy on French Lutherans (they are not yet referred to as Protestants or Calvinists) as there are rumors that the Lutherans are in possession of a secret that will disprove Genesis itself (the (not so) secret information is Copernicus's heliocentric theory of the universe, if you are wondering. I fear that Gladstone was building a mystery here but it was so plainly obvious from the opening pages, much of the suspense was lost due to the transparency of said secret). Amaury has to decide between his dedication to the Church, his sympathies to the reformation and his love of scientific research.

What starts as a lumbering story that meanders all over the place ends up being an action film starring Nicholas Copernicus (no doubt played by a CGI enhanced Sean Connery).

While I don't really want to harp too much on Lawrence Goldstone since he has written far more books than I have, but I have some real problems with this book. First and foremost is the pace. Goldstone bogs the narrative down with loads of unnecessary descriptions of settings, clothing and weather as well as loads of unnecessary characters that have no emotional connection to the reader thus rendering them two-dimensional. The narrative seemed to slow to a crawl when it begged for a quick pace (i.e. the excruciatingly long overland trip from Paris to Nerac) and it would mysteriously speed up when attention to detail would have been appreciated (i.e. the riots in the streets of Paris).

Furthermore, story lines seemed to pop up out of nowhere, amble along for a while only to be discarded without sufficient closure. Characters appear as suddenly as they disappear and their motives are often opaque. Francois, the king of France is wholly unnecessary character who could have been replaced by a quick narrative update on the happenings in France. The secondary characters don't fair much better. At one point in the novel Amaury spends pages and pages trying acquire the necessary documentation from the cardinal to save his bookseller friend only to watch him burn at the stake for heresy over the course of a quarter page. All the while it is never really revealed why Amaury would risk his life for a bookseller friend.

And while I'm not adverse to a love interest, the fact that Amaury is able to bed not one but two decidedly un-medeival women (i.e. in possession of a full set of teeth, unblemished skin and uncommonly large vocabularies considering their stations in the social hierarchy) in the course of a few weeks seems implausible, even for someone like me who is fully prepared to suspend my disbelief. And not to labor the point, but the fact that Amaury doesn't trust a single person throughout the entire narrative but trusts both Vivienne and Helene unequivocally. The complete lack of sexual tension in this love triangle is simply icing on the proverbial turd.

Listen, Goldstone's not a terrible writer. I suspect he's got a good book out there, either in print or in the works. But The Astronomer is not it. This entire novel seems slapdash and careless, as if he ripped it off over a weekend or two between episodes of Game of Thrones. It fails spectacularly as both a piece of historical fiction and as compelling narrative. Tough break. And while I don't expect that every single narrative tangent must circle back to the main story line, but a few certainly must. And while this isn't the worst book I've ever read, if I have a hankering for historical fiction set in the medieval era I will stick with Bernard Cornwall and Ken Follett.

Cool cover, though.

The Secret River

The Secret River

By Kate Grenville

About a third of the way through this book I developed a measure of regret for all the Australian literature I have not read. I admit it, I've read very little Australian literature. Furthermore, my understanding of Australian history is cursory. I know its history as a penal colony for the British Empire and I understand that, like their counterparts in North America, much of Australia's history is colored (pardon the mildly racist pun... I couldn't resist) by their relations with the indigenous populations. So it turns out that Kate Grenville's Booker Prize nominated novel The Secret River was a bit of an introduction to the particulars of Australia's earliest colonial days.

One part The Good Earth, another The Poisonwood Bible, The Secret River chronicles the life of transported felon Will Thornhill. Thornhill's story begins in late 18th-century London, where he has been born into extreme poverty. But when he marries Sal, the daughter of a local boatman, he is given the chance to make an honest go of it. However, a series of untimely events erases all of the marginal success bestowed on Will and his family and the vice-like grip of London poverty  returns. He takes one too many risks, gets caught and is condemned to hang. Sal, who is able to read and write, greases the right wheels and manages to have Will sentence lessened to life in New South Wales.

The introductory chapters about life in London serves as an exquisite preamble for the cultural collisions that follow in Sydney and, later, the Hawksbury River. It is vitally important to understand where the typical early 19th century Australian settler came from and what sort of person he was. They may have been industrious and diligent but they were also Great Britain's felonious castoffs. This is a point that cannot be ignored.

In Sydney, Will is able to earn back his freedom and works diligently to make a new life for himself and his ever expanding family. He becomes obsess with the notion of purchasing land, obviously taking to heart the old axiom "A man is nothing without land." When his eventually purchases a parcel of land in the wilds along the Hawksbury River, Will initially thinks that his life is complete. A place where he can earn an honest living off the land.

But the land of Will's hope and dreams, land that that he purchased with his own money and of which he holds title and deed  isn't his land and can never be his land. Within days of setting up a hut and planting a filed of corn, Will is confronted by a group of aboriginal people who make it clear that this land is, was and will always be their land. What follows is a escalation of tense that turns angry, the brutal, then murderous.

A lesser writer would have used this opportunity to roll out the tired "noble savage" trope whereby Will and the settlers learn a valuable lesson about living in harmony with and learning from their friendly aboriginal neighbors. In that lesser novel, the narrative would culminate in the evil settlers getting their comeuppance while the astute, forward-thinking settlers who sided with the gentle natives continue to live in peace and harmony. If said lesser novelist was truly Hollywood, there would be a big dinner at the end where all the good settlers and all the natives get together and laugh and sing and we'd all feel good about the future. Now I don't know a lot about Australian history but I do know that is exactly what never happened. And Kate Grenville is no lesser writer.

Instead Grenville paints a far more complicated image that is devoid of traditional good natives and bad settlers. We are confronted by white settlers brought to the land by force rather than choice, many of these settlers were shockingly uneducated and violent. Although driven by greed and hunger, these settlers were given the chance to reinvent themselves and make a life and they took it as would anyone else, often by forced removal of aboriginal populations. We are also introduced to the more lenient white settlers who befriend attempt to work with the aboriginals. Their plight is so ultimately marginal that despite their good intentions they seem to have blinded themselves to the very real problems surrounding them. Conversely, the aboriginal people aren't the pacific simpletons who trade their birthrights for a handful of seeds as they are often portrayed to be.  They know full well what is occurring along the river and act in retaliatory fashion all too often. 

In this context, the cultural clash that invariable follows is far more complex than simply the greedy white settler wantonly raping and pillaging the traditional lands of the indigenous populations. Grenville does an admirable job of painting life in early 19th century Australia with its escalating tensions and intensifying bloodshed. The Secret River is an extremely nuanced novel that masterfully balances the apprehensions of colonialism without resorting to traditional cliches.

It is also a reminder to me that I need to read more Australian literature.

City of Thieves

City of Thieves

By David Benioff

Writing historical war fiction is a precarious endeavor. It's not a genre to be entered into lightly. To be sure, many writers have waded into the troubled waters of historical war fiction only to be overwhelmed by the demands of the material. It takes a particular sort to venture into the genre of historical war fiction. I find that once finished, you can usually organize their efforts in three distinct categories.

First, many writers tend to get bogged down in the violence, tragedy and gore of war. These novels tend to be very heavy-handed and the moral lessons via graphic violence are more than a little blunt. War, by its very nature, is brusque subject matter and it is tempting to bludgeon the reader with death and disfigurement but, as in actual war, readers desensitize and writers paint themselves into a gory corner from which they cannot hope to escape. While I am certainly not suggesting that writers censor violence in the hopes of a better novel, sometimes enough is enough.

Other writers err on the side of caution and tread far too lightly on the topic of war. What you get is war rendered of all its violence and chaos and emotion. These sorts of novels strip the subject matter of any real emotional or psychological meaning. Of course, the story trumps all, but war provides such an interesting backdrop, it deserves proper development. I often wonder why some writers choose to set their novels in a time of war if they aren't fully prepared to dish the full spectrum of the time. If you wanted to distance the narrative from the conflict, why incorporate it in the first place? But I digress.

The best writers of historical war fiction know how to walk the razor thin line between war's relentless tragedy and absurd comedy. War is humanity at its most extreme. There is no future or past for those caught in the tumult of a major conflict, only now and the hope of later. There is an immediacy to war that forces us to live entirely in the present, whether it is dealing with the dangers at hand or appreciating a small act of kindness. Writing war fiction is an un-ending balancing act between comedy and tragedy.

David Benioff, falls into the latter category. His best seller novel City of Thieves finds that balance with almost perfect symmetry. The novel oscillates so fluidly between the horrors of war and the small joys of the human experience. Like the best war novels, the conflict weaves through the narrative like a character unto itself, presenting itself when it needs to be presented and disappearing when it is time to disappear. Benioff personifies the war with a deft hand.

The story chronicles a week in the life of Lev Beniov, a teenage chess playing Jew born and raised in Leningrad who, upon the arrival of the Nazis in 1942, opts to stay in the city and ride out the siege. Lev is arrested for burglarizing a dead German paratrooper and imprisoned. His life is spared by a Russian army official who, along with a Red-Army-deserter-turned-aspiring-novelist Kolya, sends him out on a mission to find a dozen eggs for his daughter's wedding cake... by any means available. Arms with a letter from the official and a few hundred rubles.

If this doesn't sound absurd enough for you, Benioff's narrative takes any number of twists and turns once the unlikely duo set off on their impossible mission. What makes the story even better is that Benioff reveals much of what is to come in the first few pages of the book, though he leaves out the who, what, where, when, why and how. Having the outcome firmly in hand only accentuates the tone and tempo of this novel. The story veers so wildly from disparity to hilarity the reader can only assume much of this story is actually true.

This novel reminded me so much of Roberto Begnini's film Life is Beautiful. While not strictly the same, the way Benioff incorporates humor and absurdity into the story which is neither funny nor absurd. To be sure, the Second World War was a catastrophe in Europe, and perhaps doubly so in Russia, but it is all in the way it is presented. Benioff could have presented the Siege of Leningrad with the severity and seriousness of a historian, but what would it have accomplished? We'd all be a bit more knowledgeable about the war in Russia, but the human factor would have been denied.

It's a rare treat to find an author that can handle such sensitive subject matter with the care David Benioff displays. Few authors have the ability to simultaneously depict the gravity and absurdity of war the way Benioff does here. Highly, highly recommended.

The Postmistress

The Postmistress

By Sarah Blake

Disclaimer: Forgive this review... Despite the fact that I understand that The Postmistress is a well written novel and a fine example of what a good book should be, I actually had very little feeling for this book. I think it shows in this review. Not my best showing.


If a reviewer is allowed to get away with one word reviews, my review for the Postmistress would be thus: Good.

Good. In all its mundane glory. Good. Not "great" or "fabulous" or, as the bloggers say: "awesome sauce." Just plain, workman-style, meat-and-potatoes "good." So let's see if I can elaborate a bit on its all-around goodness...

The Postmistress is Sarah Blake's second novel (that's Sarah Blake the writer not Sarah Blake the porn actress... I should have been a bit more specific when I did my Google search... I truly... didn't.... know). The Postmistress is a well-paced, interlocking tale of personal tragedy and perserverence in the years preceding America's entrance in World War Two. Although there is no shortage of novels set during the Second World War, I have read very few that concern themselves with America during that inter rum period following the outset of war and America's entrance. Few people realize that America remained neutral for a long while after the beginning of the war and opinion was very much divided about whether America had an obligation to get involved. This division is adequately emphasized in Blake's narrative.

Historical quirks aside, The Postmistress is the concurrent story of three American women, two living in Franklin, Massachusetts (Emma and Iris) and one, a war correspondent based in London (Frankie). All three are loosely connected through various degrees of separation and their lives invariably collapse upon each other.

Through the eyes of Frankie, Blake is able capture the migratory chaos in Europe in the early years of the war, prior to the sealing off of the European coastline. Blake's descriptions of Blitz-torn London and war-torn France is well-done. Through Frankie, the reader gets a series of snapshots from across Europe as Jews from all over were frantically attempting to get off the continent. Thousands of people migrating toward the ports of Lisbon and Bordeaux in the hopes of gaining access to the dwindling number of ships en route to anywhere not under fascist rule. Frankie serves as both the ears and the conscience of the novel. Also, I couldn't help read her bits with a hard-boiled, transatlantic accent a la Jennifer Jason Leigh in the Hudsucker Proxy. I liked that.

Emma, the wife of Franklin's young doctor is frail and uncertain. She seemed to me to perpetuate the stereotypical young wife of the pre-war era (or perhaps Sarah Blake as a novelist?). When Emma loses contact with her husband who has volunteered to serve as a doctor in Blitz-ridden London, Emma stays behind and seems to progressively disappear once contact with her husband ceases (I'm skirting perilously close to spoilers here, so I'll pull back). In my mind's eye Emma has wide, staring eyes and finds spaghetti and meatballs to be exotic cuisine. I liked that, too.

The lynchpin of the story is Iris, the postmaster of Franklin's post office who stands at the center as the stories in the novel weave in and out of her hands via letters and visits to the post office. As postmaster (America does not make any gender-based distinction for the title therefore the title of the novel gains a certain irony), she performs with the diligence and attention of a bygone era, something that always makes me smile. I love characters that take their work seriously and perform their tasks with weight. It's a quality you so rarely find in anyone these days, outside of books. She also probably wears turtle necks and drinks copious amounts of Earl Grey tea.

A series of interesting secondary characters (including a fictionalized Edward R. Murrow) colors the novel in nicely. While this is not going to make any of my year end lists (best of or worst of) it is a very competent novel that had me locked in from the earliest pages. My only complaint is the title. While there's nothing wrong with The Postmistress per se, it felt like there needed to be some sort of relation tacked on the end such as The Postmistress's Daughter or Cousin or Accountant or some such thing. Perhaps I'm a littler jaded by all those similar titles that have over-populared bookstore shelves for far too long.

Regardless of my sarcasm, If you are looking for something nice for your late-summer reading, you could do a lot worse than pick up a copy of The Postmistress. Blake's narrative is satisfactory. While it rarely takes any great leaps or chances, it holds its ground like a steady bass line. Blake allows the story unfold with the patience of a much older, more experienced author. She avoids the temptation of surging through scenes that deserve careful attention, she savors each scene as a pristine moment in history. These are the habits of an effective fiction writer and she executes well. Through her three main characters she serves up a neat slice of life on the Atlantic Rim circa 1941.

Like I said, it's good. Is it worth reading? Sure. Could you pass it by? OK. Would you be missing anything? Maybe. It's interesting that The Postmistress is often compared to Kathryn Stockett's The Help. Neither book offended me but both will be long forgotten by this time next year. But, if nothing else, this novel has me intrigued about what Sarah Blake might have to offer over the next few years. She has certainly stakes a certain claim on the literary landscape, despite my sardonic take on The Postmistress and its characters.

The Song of Achilles

The Song of Achilles

By Madeline Miller

Where to start concerning Madeline Miller's Orange Prize winning novel, The Song of Achilles. Well, I guess I should begin by saying that I enjoyed this novel. I say that because the rest of this blogpost is going to sound like I didn't enjoy it because I have a bit of a bone to pick with it. But rest assured, it was a thought-provoking novel that deserved award consideration (I can't say it deserved to win the Orange Prize since I have not read the other nominees nor have I read a large enough cross-section of 2012 novels to say anything otherwise). And since it seems to be getting universal acclaim (deservedly, I suppose) I thought I'd concentrate on the negatives for a change.

The Song of Achilles is very much an updated version of Homer's epic poem, The Iliad. Written in the same vein as the classic novel by Mary Renault, The King Must Die (about Theseus and the Minotaur), Miller has taken a well-known Greek myth, humanized it, personalized it and then turned the myth on its head.

In the original Iliad, it is the death of Patroclus (although a minor character in the actual poem, he is described as Achilles's most beloved companion) at the hands of Hector that rouses Achilles from his vain refusal to go into battle into a maelstrom of rage and despair that culminates in the slaying of Hector, Achilles dragging Hector's body around the walls of Troy for several days and the ultimate demise of the "greatest of all heroes" by the bow of Paris. But what was so special about Patroclus that would send a professional warrior into a blind rage so intense that he performs atrocities that even his compatriots and the gods find excessive and repulsive. Warriors watch their friends fall on a daily basis. What of Patroclus? In The Song of Achilles, Miller supposes that Achilles maintains a lifelong homosexual love affair with his Patroclus.

In an election year that sees gay marriage as a major talking point, it's no surprise that this novel has gotten a lot of media exposure. Gay issues are fashionable and a book depicting a popular literary character as gay was bound to cause a stir. But the notion of homosexual relationships among Greek (and Roman, and Persian) warriors is hardly anything new. Homosexual affairs are alluded to throughout the Iliad and Odyssey and mention of homosexual love is rife throughout Greek and Roman history from the Sacred Band of Thebes to the inhabitants of the island of Lesbos. While the most common form of homosexual relationship was pederasty (what is commonly referred to today as pedophilia), homosexuality enjoyed far more acceptance in the Athenian agora than it does in the modern western world. Hell, all of these words (homosexual, pedophilia, lesbian, etc...) descend to the modern English language from ancient Greek. It should hardly come as a surprise that the Greeks were tolerant of same-sex relations in all their various colors.

Which gets me to my first problem with The Song of Achilles. While Achilles and Patroclus don't face any overt persecution for their relationship, there exists an undercurrent of shame and secrecy about their relationship from the start. Achilles mother, the goddess Thetis is openly disgusted with the relationship (OK, she's a goddess and his mother so perhaps we can go easy on her) and more than one character tries to reason with Achilles to cut such nonsense out. Only Odysseus hints at the historical acceptance of homosexuality in the military when he notes that it is customary for young boys to take on a male lover during adolescents. But, he adds, once men come of age, they should not engage in such activities.

The hell?

As far as I knew, homosexuality was not only accepted in the Greek military it was actually condoned. Many armies (Thebes for example) encouraged homosexuality as a morale booster among their troops. And since the Trojan War dragged on for ten years even with the spoils of war one has to wonder whether Achilles was the only Greek king who maintained a relationship with another man. Sure Achilles was a beautifully vain mommy's boy and dressed in drag and had a retinue of girl besties (all in the novel, I'm afraid), but stereotypes hurt us all. Just because he fits a certain demographic doesn't me he should be centered out. There's no reason not to think that Menelaus or Ajax or Diomedes weren't into shopping for designer armor, gossiping about how Agamemnon is such a slut and sashaying down the front lines. I highly doubt Achilles and Patroclus were the only soldiers sharing a bed.

OK, sorry. I got carried away there.

My second problem with this novel is Patroclus himself. He's such an dependent, needy git. The guy can't spend a single moment out from under Achilles's shadow without threatening suicide. A weekend apart once in a while can be revitalizing to a relationship. C'mon dude! Achilles might be the son of a goddess but he's still human. Let's not put the guy up on such a pedestal. You studied with Chiron. You must have learned that all Greek heroes possess a fatal flaw. Unless of course Patroclus is, in his own way, a Greek hero and his fatal flaw is abject blindness to the bleeding obvious. Patroclus is the Bella Swan of Ancient Greek myth.

I hoped that by humanizing these characters, Miller might provide a little light as to why Achilles acted the way he did. While the Iliad remains one of my favorite stories of all time, there are more than a few moments in the story where I questioned the decision-making logic of the characters. I thought The Song of Achilles might shed so light on some of the quirkier moments in the narrative. Alas, I finished the novel as confused about the decision making process of both Achilles and Patroclus. Oh, sure, one might simply dismiss these decisions as the meddling of the Fates, but that seems like the easy way out, especially since the Fates aren't even established as characters in the novel.

But I digress. Like I said at the top, I actually really enjoyed this novel. Much like The Coen Brother's take on The Odyssey via O Brother Where Art Thou?, The Song of Achilles a fresh and innovative retelling of an old story. Don't let my overly critical, armchair intellectual curmudgeonliness hold you back. Madeline Miller can write.

By the way: If you liked The Song of Achilles, pick up a copy of Mary Renault's classic novel The King Must Die. You will not be disappointed.

The Map of Time

The Map of Time

By Felix J. Palma

This book took forever to read! There were points when I honestly thought I wasn't going to finish this one. Not that it was a bad book, in the end it was extremely compelling and I would recommend it to anyone who likes science fiction, horror, fantasy or historical fiction but, Jeez Louise, did it take a while to get going. But more on that later. Let's get down to the nuts and bolts.

Set in Victorian London, The Map of Time is a loosely (but ingeniously) connected series of stories about time travel centered around a fictionalized H.G. Wells and a charlatan by the name of Gilliam Murray. The stories take place in the wake of the publication of Well's first novel, The Time Machine, and London's burgeoning obsession with the idea of time travel.

Murray has capitalized on this obsession by opening a clever time travel agency that allows travelers to visit the year 2000, via a hole in the fabric of time, where they will be treated to a surprisingly choreographed battle to decide the fate of humanity between humans and automatons. Naturally, the London of 1895 eats it up and Murray gets rich beyond his wildest dreams off his elaborate hoax. Much like the novel, Murray's calculated use of smoke and mirrors allow his patrons to believe what they see though, as Murray points out later in the novel, people are prepared to believe anything.

It's this smoke and mirrors that drew me into this novel more than anything else. Time and again throughout this novel, the narrator describes various methods of time travel and presents them as possible ways in which to travel through the fourth dimension only to deconstruct them craftily as the narrative progresses. As a reader, I began to feel as duped as the marks who paid Murray an exorbitant fee to see a musical theater version of the future. But since I had only paid the price of a used book (and since the ultimate payoff in this book is so enthralling) I didn't close the book with the same bad taste in my mouth that Murray's gullible patrons must have had when the discovered his hoax.

And what a payoff! While I will not even hint at the final 200 pages of the novel, I will admit that it was one of the most exciting endings to a novel I have read in a long time. It is here that Palma makes the leap into pure science fiction and never looks back. Palma bends and twists time in complicated folds reminiscent of The Time Traveler's Wife and left me re-reading passages twice (and even thrice) just to make sure I understand the intricacies. Palma's science fiction universe is positively engrossing and extraordinarily compelling. It is of the sort that will have you up late at night salivating over the "what ifs."

But never mind the science fiction. With a cast of characters that includes not only H.G. Wells but also Henry James, Bram Stoker, Jack the Ripper, Joseph Merrick and the Queen of England herself, The Map of Time is also an exquisitely realized piece of historical fiction. The compellingly believable hoax concocted by Murray to explain is version of time travel is a wonderful side step into the realm of fantasy and the chillingly sinister importance of Jack the Ripper to the story adds an element of horror to an already layered novel. For anyone who likes any (or ll) of these genres, The Map of Time is a real treat... once you get into it, that is.

Which gets me to my only complaint about this novel: The incessant backstory toward the beginning of the book. The novel is told from the perspective of an unnamed but fully realized and entirely omnipotent narrator who seems extremely concerned with the reader's attention span but completely confident that the story he is telling is on for the ages. I was more than a little frustrated with this incessant reassurance. If it was such a great story why not simply get to the good story rather than dilly-dally through the Tom Jones of it all. Although it would seem that Palma, in this respect is his own worst critic. At one point Wells is speaking to Murray about Murray's manuscript:

In my opinion, not only have you started out with a rather naive premise, but you have developed it in a most unfortunate way, stifling its few possibilities. The structure of your narrative is inconsistent and muddled, the episodes are linked only tenuously, and in the end one has the impression that events occur higgledy-piggledy, without any inner cohesion, simply because it suits you.

This quote could have easily been a slander of Palma's first 200 pages. What really galled me was that by the end of the novel I discovered that a good chunk of the initial backstories were entirely unnecessary and did nothing to further the cohesiveness of the narrative. It all seemed like literary filler. For what? I'm still not sure.

But once through those first 200 pages, I must admit that Felix J. Palma has indeed written a science fiction novel for the ages and worth the investment in time. For anyone picking this tome up, I impress upon you the need for patience. I promise you that if you keep the faith, Palma will pay out. Oh yeah, and it has a really cool cover.

The Archer's Tale

The Archer's Tale: Grail Quest #1

By Bernard Cornwell

Before I get to the book, I have something to announce:

Turns out I won an award. First a jar of jam at a bake sale when I was 11, now this!

The good people over at Bibliomania (if you haven't been over that way, you really should. Fantastic book blog) have given me something called the Leibster Award. Liebster is a German word for beloved. The award is given to beloved blogs with under 200 followers. These blogs are meant to be "the best kept secrets" out there. 


I am sincerely flattered that someone dropped by and thought to bestow anything on this here little blog. Can't say I much like the little heart on the Award Badge, but the sentiment is wonderful.


From here I am supposed to pass the award on, so to speak. I am asked to present this award to up to five other blogs with less than 200 followers. Unfortunately, the good people over at Bibliomania bestowed this award on many of the blogs I would have otherwise honored. All except one, so I have the great honor of presenting a Leibster Award to:


Literati Reflections


OK, back to our regularly scheduled program.


I like Bernard Cornwell because I like historical fiction. I have read a two of his novels over the past two years (Azincourt and The Last Kingdom) and while I have not fallen head over heels into his numerous series, I really appreciate the historical accuracy and detail that he crams into his work, especially his ability to make Medieval Europe come to life. Medieval Europe is one of the most misunderstood eras in Western history and Cornwell goes a long way toward clearing up a lot of misconceptions.


The Archer's Tale (or Harlequin as my copy is called, because it's from England) is the first novel in Cornwell's Grail Quest series. The series centers around the, well, you can figure that out. This particular novel centers on Thomas, the son of a (suspiciously randy) priest in a tiny village on the south coast of England. When the French sack and raze the village and take off with the church's vaunted holy relic (The Lance of St. George), Thomas is inconsolable and trundles off in pursuit.


Along the way, he becomes an archer in King Edward's invading army (these are the early days of the Hundred Year's War and England is laying waste to Brittany, Gascony, Normandy and Flanders). He runs afoul of the English gentry, beds a French noblewoman, gets hanged, learns his true ancestry from a mystical Jewish physician and a dark secret about the stole lance and its association with the holiest of holy relics: The Holy Grail. It all seems like a little much for a small town archer, but you have to suspend your disbelief a little bit, right? 


A little. But not too much. For me, Grail lore can be tricky. It makes for great adventure stories (Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade) and classic comedy (Monty Python and the Search for the Holy Grail) but when it is discussed with a certain degree of seriousness, writers tend to lose me. It's gone, people. Gone. Disintegrated. It is no more! (That is, if it even existed in the first place). Besides, virtually every single relic on the planet could simply be (and most likely is) a random tooth or hair or splinter of wood some Crusader picked off a battlefield in the Holy Land, brought back to Shit-In-The-Woods, France and declared that it was the molar, follicle or shield of St. Paul or St. Thomas or Christ himself. It's a ridiculous industry based in fakery and inanity that could only have existed in a the religious vice grip that was Medeival Europe. And don't even get me started on Dan Brown's nonsense from The Da Vinci Code.


So I was a little apprehensive with Cornwell incorporating Grail lore in what was otherwise a fairly accurate account of the High Middle Ages. I enjoyed reading about the fear and carnage that the longbow inflicted on the French army, a military innovation every bit as game-changing as the atomic bomb would be almost 700 years later (and the ineptitude of Genoese "guns,"among the first ever used in European battles. Lots of noise, zero effect). I enjoyed the discussion on the insanity surrounding of holy relics and was vindicated to learn that many people, including people within the church understood how absurd these morbid trinkets were. I reveled in  the talk of heresies and was enthralled in the way Cornwell kept Thomas in the thick of major historical events such as The Battle of Caen, the Battle of Blanchetaque and the famously decisive Battle of Crecy. That's the sort of stuff I sign up for when I read Cornwell.


But the Grail stuff bores me. It's all a bunch of fanciful nonsense and how an archer gets mixed up in it all seems contrived and silly. Perhaps the later books in the series tie it up a little neater, but I found that this novel held up well without all the grail crap. It just seemed to get more absurd as the book went on. Every time it came up I half expected a dwarf or an albino to go on a rant about the Templars or the Rosicrucians and invoke the power of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch (I'm only half joking).


Mercifully, these episodes are short and far between. For the most part, Cornwell sticks to the narrative build-up to the Battle of Crecy. It is interesting to hear the personalities of the two Kings. Edward from England is a staunch, battle-hardened and stoic warrior bent on the expansion of his kingdom while King Philip of France, leader of the Europe's largest army, is shackled by nerves, indecision and superstition. The way these leaders take to the filed and command their forces is fascinating. In the hands of a lessen novelist, it could have been a disappointing climax, but Cornwell handles it adeptly. 


Much like another of Cornwell's novels, Azincourt, his account of the actual battle is so spectacular I can almost smell the blood and agony of dying soldiers and horses. He is able to pinpoint exact moves, almost down to the man, as to why the battle swung in one direction or another. I'm not usually a big fan of battle scenes in books. Most writers can't do it (they move too fast to keep straight). But Cornwell is a master of the craft. The way he describes the fog of war is sublime.  There isn't another writer out there that does it as well as Cornwell and if you haven't read one of his battle scenes, you are truly missing a great literary experience. In fact, if he isn't already, he should be given an award for Battle Writing.


Perhaps the Schlacht Award?

The Poisonwood Bible

The Poisonwood Bible

By Barbara Kingsolver

Disclaimer: Mild spoilers ahead.

I had never heard of Barbara Kingsolver nor the Poisonwood Bible before last week. It was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, won several other awards and was on the Oprah Book Club list at one point but somehow skipped past my radar. Now I'm more than slightly embarrassed that I hadn't read it. Written in 1999, The Poisonwood Bible is the sort of novel that ends up on people's "best of" lists pretty quickly, which is how I found it (full disclosure). This excellent, if sometimes heavy-handed, novel simultaneously traces the history of The Belgian Congo/Republic of Congo/Zaire/Republic of Congo and the disintegration of an evangelical Baptist family from the American south. What's not to love?

I really enjoy novels that weave narratives around actual historical events, especially when A) the events factor heavily into the narrative (but not so much that the historical figures become characters themselves) and B) when the historical events are unfamiliar to me. In this case, I got both.

Yes!

I am vaguely aware of Mobutu Sese Seko and the tumultuous history of The Democratic Republic of Congo/Zaire, but when I say "vague" I mean, "I've heard of Mobutu and I can extrapolate from what I know about African politics in general to hypothesize that his leadership didn't turn out particularly well for anyone except him." Throw in the Rumble in the Jungle and the Ebola virus and you have the totality of my knowledge on Congolese history. The Poisonwood Bible fleshed out my understanding of central African politics in a way a history book might not have been capable. And, to say that Mobutu was a bad leader is perhaps the single greatest understatement since "Genghis Khan may have killed a couple of people." So it was interesting to witness history unfold behind Kingsolver's narrative.

And what a narrative! If there is another literary motif that I enjoy, it is when bad guys (and particularly those of the Christian fundamentalist variety) get their comeuppance. While Kingsolver seems to love her five narrators (the four daughters and the mother) and develops their voices with tenderness and care from their childhood through middle age, she seems to have very little love loss for Nathan Price, the tragically misguided evangelical Baptist determined to "save" an entire nation. After a series of disasters that culminates in the death of one of the daughters, the remaining women in the family proceed to march off into the jungle and disperse.

Nathan Price is the worst kind of character. Partly because he is so plainly out of his element but also because he is so germane. Nathan Price is the sort of very real evil that exists in today's world and infects it in such unholy ways. He truly believes that he is doing God's work but, in reality is doing nothing but irreparable damage to himself, his family and the people he is determined to "save." There is no need for a suspension of disbelief to accept his brand of malevolence.

And while we are at it, what better metaphor for the relationship between Africa and America since the first European colonies gained independence than a Christian missionary in the jungle. The white man's burden. The noble savage revisited. All those heathen souls to be saved. And while we preach salvation in the eyes of our God, we'll take some of that cobalt and some of those diamonds along with us. Convert and corrupt. America's legacy in Africa, no doubt. I mean, who helped a monster such as Mobutu gain political power and supported one of the most corrupt regimes in the history of the world for over three decades? Nathan Price embodies all the swagger and arrogance of American policy in Africa. It's such a pleasure to watch his downfall. It's a shame it's only fiction.

So if Nathan Price represents America in this novel, who represents Africa, you ask? Well, this is where Kingsolver shines as an author. Much like Detroit in Jeffrey Eugenides stellar novel Middlesex, Kingsolver has a way of adding mass to her setting. So much so that Africa becomes a character in itself. No need for representative characters. The Africa in The Poisonwood Bible is s real it practically pulses out of the pages. Part of the reason Kingsolver is so successful is her use of history, as mentioned above. Her characters become involved in the very real (and often desperate) politics of the Congo. Much of those politics revolve around such basic ideas: food, clean water, medicine and transportation. It's hard for anyone, anywhere not to get politically active when a land's primary needs are so primal.

But Kingsolver's setting is more than that. Africa (and here I mean the Congo in specific, but also the continent in general) seeps into the pores of each member of the family (in different ways) and infects them (literally and metaphorically) for the rest of their lives. For me, as an expatriate living and working in Asia for the past decade, Kingsolver expresses the way a land can inhabit a soul, in a way that I could never. I relate to her characters completely (albeit with far less tragedy and malaria). Asia has infected my both literally and metaphorically to the point that my home country looks and feels more alien each time I return.

But I digress.

There are so many reasons to read this book, almost none of which I have described here. Although I did mention the novel was a tad heavy-handed at points... especially during Leah's narration, The Poisonwood Bible is worthy of the praise that has been heaped on it since it was published in 1999. I'm really glad I stumbled upon this gem of a novel and my only regret is that I didn't find it sooner. Of course, given my similarities to the character's relationship with their adopted home, one might argue that it found me at just the right time.

Recommendation: Read at your earliest possible convenience.

Post-Script: The downside of the Kindle (besides the fact that you can't smell the book) is that you never get to see the cover of the book. This is the first time I have seen the cover of The Poisonwood Bible and it's gorgeous. Now I'll need to find a print copy of it.

Captain Corelli's Mandolin

Captain Corelli's Mandolin

By Louis de Bernieres

Poor Captain Corelli never stood a chance.

As I've mentiond before, I'm a strict reader that adheres to a lot of self-imposed rules (My cousin, mentioned below, thinks this makes me strange). One of my self-imposed rules is that I finish everything I start, regardless of whether I enjoy it or not. The logic is that I gain from bad books as much as I do from good books, and it forces me to read outside my comfort zone. Also, laying into a bad book is so satisfying. Therefore, once I commit to a book, I'm locked in. Period. Paragraph.

When I picked up Captain Corelli's Mandolin, I was literally at my (reader's) wits end. I picked it off the shelf of my growing little community library (one of the biggest English libraries on the East Coast of Taiwan if I may pat myself on the back for a moment. Over 800 titles and growing!). I had zero interest in reading Captain Corelli's Mandolin when it was donated to the library last year and that interest had grown by a factor of zero. It just wasn't the sort of book that screamed: read me! But it was the best book available to me at that particular moment, so I locked in.

Almost as soon as I started the book a whole bunch of events conspired to ensure I would not give this book the chance it probably deserved. Here they are:

1. My cousin came to visit.

This is an awesome reason. Living 15,000km from my entire family means that when I get a visitor from home, it's a big deal. It happens less than once a year, but it's always a monumental event. My wife and I love visitors from home and we love playing tour guide for the area (Taiwan's east coast is spectacular and should be considered for your next vacation).

The visit has meant a lot of time driving, scootering, hiking, eating, talking, drinking and the such. Tons of fun for us, but less time for reading. Oh, sure, I'm fufilling my requisite 25 pages a day, but often not much more than just that. It's hard to really immerse yourself in a story when there is so much start and stop.

2. I'm knee deep in vinyl.

My cousin brought me a new needle for my turntable. This has been heavenly. My turntable has been out of service for over five years for various reasons but now it's turning and grooving and I have spent a lot of time rediscovering my vinyl collection (I am currently listening to Stereolab).

If there is one non-athletic pastime I enjoy more than reading, it's music. I started collecting vinyl records about 15 years ago and (like most audiophiles) prefer vinyl to CDs and MP3s. But moving to Taiwan put a temporary end to collecting as I did not have a turntable or records until my Mum shipped them all over earlier this year. It arrived fine, but the needle needed replacing. It has subsequently been replaced and it has been fantastic!

3. I got a whole lot of new books!

This is by far the best/worst thing to happen to me while reading something I would rather not read. When I got about 80 pages into Captain Corelli's Mandolin, I received three packages in the mail full of books from various awesome people. The first was a extraordinary birthday package full of books (and a George Foreman Grill... Thanks Mom!). The second came from a good friend on the other side of the island who was concerned about my recent lack of books (Thanks Tom!) and the third came from another fantastic friend on the other side of the island who has been kind enough to lend me some more books about Taiwan (Thanks Michael!). I also happen to know a fourth package is in transit from Canada (Thanks JP!). If anyone wants a book, let me know. I'll hook you up.

Within the space of 24 hours my reading shelf went from empty to full. New books staring at me and begging me to be read while I was mired in a book that never really found any rhythm for me given the relative chaos of the last week.

All of this was not fair on old Captain Corelli and his mandolin, which seemed like a good story that deserved a bit more attention than it got from me. I want to say it was the sort of book I couldn't put down, and I suspect that in any other instance it might have been. But circumstance conspired against Louis de Berniere this week and I'm left with very to say about a book and an author that should most definitely be given another chance.

Sorry.

People of the Book

People of the Book

By Geraldine Brooks

This isn't a great book. It's good, but not great. It's uneven, sometimes uninspired and its characters are often un-engaging. Some bits have all the drama of a visit to the Pottery Barn on a Sunday afternoon. I'll get to that in a moment, but first I want to defend this novel against a critical travesty. People of the Book, despite what critics would lead you to believe, is not The Da Vinci Code. So I find it unfair to see this novel being compared incessantly to a lesser novel everywhere I look. Even a friend of mine who saw the book sitting on the table when we met earlier in the week noted that it was an academic's Da Vinci Code, a comment that made my head hurt all the more. First, because a friend who espouses critical thinking was echoing back a comparison that has been made ad nauseam throughout the literary world and second, because if this is what passes for academic literature, we are in for a bumpy ride.

As far as I'm concerned, the fact that both People of the Book and The Da Vinci Code are slightly less-than-average historical fiction is the beginning and end of the comparison. If that were enough to merit comparison why not Gore Vidal's Lincoln or the collected works of Bernard Cornwell or Ken Follett? Why? I'll tell you why... because they are all different! That's why!

Whereas the Da Vinci Code is a crap pseudo-history of the Catholic Church, its marginal weirdoes, Gnostics, creepy Freemasons and virtually every other dusty European secret society mentioned in Foucault's Pendulum trying to pass bad fiction off as solid history (or at the very least conspiracy theory on a millennial scale), People of the Book is a pretty honest attempt at a fictionalized history that remains within a manageable time frame and nothing more. While it often fails, it doesn't do so on the scale of the Da Vinci Code.

People of the Book examines the possible history of an illuminated 14th century Jewish manuscript called the Sarajevo Haggadah, a very real and very famous codex. Scholars agree that the book was copied and bound in Spain somewhere around 1350 and has spent the past three quarters of a millennium avoiding destruction at the hand of the Inquisition, Nazis, the Ustache, Tito, the Bosnian War and various other European catastrophes that have made Europe so popular. It is a literary survivor if there ever was, and the people of Sarajevo (rightfully) have a great sense of pride in this particular manuscript. Here. Take a look. It really does have striking illustrations:

Brooks' novel examines the possible history of the book as it travels from Spain to Bosnia (via Italy) over the centuries. The over-arching story unfolds as an infuriating Australian book conservator is called in to do some work on the recently rescued (from the Bosnian War) manuscript. She happens to find several interesting things hidden within the pages (an insect wing, a wine stain, crystalized salt and a white hair). Each of these things is a catalyst for an ever more intriguing history of the book that continues to reach backward in time to its earliest days.

Brooks' fictionalized history of the book is interesting and a wonderful insight into the life of Jews and Muslims in Christian Europe during the late Medieval period, through the Renaissance and into the Modern Era. The contemporary story ties the histories together (that of the grating Australian book conservator and her even more grating mother). It is so painful to read, I found it hard to get to the next bit about the actual book. That's how much I didn't care about Brook' protagonist.

I like the idea of using a modern story to stitch the history together. It has been done well in other books and I suspect will continue to be done well in books in the future. It is, however, very important to make the over-arching story interesting enough to carry the novel. Since the reader will not revisit the characters involved in the history of the book, it's important to make us care about the contemporary characters.

This is where People of the Book ultimately fails. Hannah Heath is as interesting as warm milk and her globe trotting dramas involving her family history, a slightly swarthy Bosnian lover with a dying child, an auto accident and her relationship with her beast of a mother completely miss the mark. It all plays out like a bad weekday soap opera, which only serves to trivialize the rich history Brooks is trying to illuminate. Her modern day characters do nothing to honor Haggadah and its ability to survive the centuries. Perhaps if Brooks had concentrated on one of these elements rather than trying to accomplish too much, too fast, this could have been a great book. It's a shame, too. The history of the codex is wonderfully rendered and left me doing a bunch of research on the manuscript. If only her modern characters could carry that feeling.

I can see where the comparisons to Dan Brown's book come from, but they don't really stand up. People of the Book is a slow-paced account of a possible history of a single book. there are no conspiracies. No Freemasons. The papacy doesn't get involved. People of the Book actually has a few compelling characters and, unlike The Da Vinci Code, Brooks has the capacity to bring history to life, something Dan Brown only wishes he could do. While I won't go out on the limb and recommend People of the Book, I won't condemn it either. It has its moments and sometimes a few moments is all a book needs.

Flashman

Flashman

By George MacDonald Fraser

I didn't know it when I started this book but if there was going to be one novel to snap me out of my current reading funk (two atrocious books in a row, by God!) it was going to be a book about the legendary reprobate, Harry Paget Flashman.

For those not in the know (and I counted myself among you only one short week ago), Harry Paget Flashman is the bully from Tom Brown's School Days who was expelled from Rugby for public drunkenness. For over a century, this was virtually all anyone knew about Flashman until his papers were supposedly discovered in Ashby, Leicestershire in 1965. Flashman (the novel) is the first in a series of novels that expose the true fate of that famous drunk via his long lost diary.

If Holden Caufield was literature's first true anti-hero then Flashman is anti-heroism personified. A coward, lecher, bully and cheat, Flashman stumbles, bumbles, rapes and fumbles his way from Rugby to the 11th Hussars regiment, through Scotland, then India, Afghanistan and, ultimately home again. In the process he manages to seduce his father's mistress, cheat his way to fame in a dual, dishonor and subsequently marry the daughter of a Scottish industrialist, buy and sell a Hindu slave girl, run afoul of virtually every Pashtu tribesmen in Afghanistan, get tortured, narrowly (and unwittingly) escape death on more than a dozen occasions and finally become an undeserving hero and meet Queen Victoria herself. And he would have sold his grandmother at any point along the way to assure his own success.

What's not to like?

In the tradition of Colonial-ear adventure novels of the 19th and early 20th century, Flashman takes the reader on a wild ride that never lets up even for a second. As he commits one atrocity after another, looking out for absolutely nobody but himself, the reader finds himself mysteriously rooting for him to succeed at every turn. Perhaps it is his status as cowardly underdog in a world of grizzled, well-bearded British military men. Flashman is to the British Empire what Shaggy was to Fred, Velma and Daphne. Even his most heinous crimes afford him success.

But what sets this novel apart from a simple Empire adventure story is the way Fraser places Flashman square in the middle of historical events, especially those surrounding the First Anglo-Afghan War of 1839-1842. Flashman is surrounded at all times by very real historical figures who played very real roles during the war and in the novel. From Robert and Lady Sale, Akbar Khan, William McNaughten and Alexander Burnes. In fact, Burnes' assassination plays a major part in the narrative of the story. Even a young Queen Victoria holds court in Flashman, bringing the circle of relevant historical figures full circle.

Placing a dramatic yarn into the fabric of real history is a difficult proposition. Adding a despicable character as unfathomably likable as Flashman takes a lot of skill. And considering Flashman was published in 1969 I can only wonder where he has been all my life.

Black Ajax

Black Ajax

By George MacDonald Fraser

I have a theory about sports movies. It goes like this: Sport, as a subject for a non-comedic film, rarely works. Sure there are all sorts of comedies about sports that entertain (Caddyshack, Happy Gilmore, Slapshot etc...) but when it comes to making a serious, poignant film about a sport, the pickings become fairly slim.

There are two exceptions to this rule, however: The first exception is boxing. For whatever reason, film has always been about to portray boxing with delicacy and humnity than, say.... bobsledding. Does boxing possess more pathos than bobsled competitors? Well, ok... bad example, but there is no shortage of great films about boxing: Raging Bull, Ali, The Hurricane, Rocky among dozens of others. I guess there is something about pummelling other humans within an inch of their life that makes for human tragedy as well as filmatic consumption.

(The other exception to the sport movie theory is baseball movies starring Kevin Costner. I have no idea why but baseball movies roundly stink and Kevin Costner is an unforgivably awful actor but when baseball and Costner are brought together, it's magic. But I digress).

I am beginning to wonder whether this theory may apply to fiction as well. Surely, there is no shortage of excellent non-fiction about sport. Some recent reads include Our Game by Ken Dryden (Hockey), Invictus by John Carlin (Rugby) and The Luckiest Man by Jonathan Eig (Baseball) all of which reduced me to tears, but the list of good sport non-fiction is longer than I care to type and I'm trying to get somewhere with this post, so lets just agree that sports are well covered in the non-fiction category, shall we?

Finding good fiction about sport is more difficult and usually relegated to the world of Young Adult Fiction. Here's why: The fun-loving loser (or team of losers) winning the championship works only if it's a true story. It comes across as a tired cliche if it is fictionalized. If there is an animal or alien or magician or magical alien animals involved in the winning of said championship all the more reason to not read it. With all due respect to the genre of young adult fiction, I'm not young. I want something a little more nuanced.

Black Ajax is that book.

I must admit, Black Ajax by George MacDonald Fraser is a bit like cheating to get an example of good sport fiction. First, it's historical fiction which immediately makes the story more believable since, you know, it actually happened, more or less. Second, it's about boxing which, as I mentioned above, makes for good human tragedy. Third it is about a particularly misunderstood era of the sport (bare knuckle boxing) and finally it is about Tom Molineaux, a former American slave and the first black man to challenge for the title of Champion of England. You simply can't make up a story that interesting.

George MacDonald Fraser is a scholar of Victorian England, its culture as well as its language and does a stunning job of chronicling the events of Molineaux's life leading up to his title fights with Tom Cribb through the voices of witnesses (trainers, former boxers, fellow slaves, sportswriters, his opponents and even the Prince of Wales) all written in painstakingly realisitic Victorian and pugilistic vernacular. A glossary is provided to translate the vast repitoire of slang used by the witnesses.

Black Ajax gives a stark and often grotesque account of the world of bare-knuckle boxing during the years of the Napoleonic Wars and the hold Tom Molineaux had over the sport for the year of two in which he was the talk of the Fancy (world of English Boxing). Fraser harsh narrative is in accordance with the views and prejudices of the time and the leading characters of the brutal sport. Reality is what a reader should look for in a work of historical fiction. In Black Ajax, the reader is provided with a wonderful example of how it should be written.

Highly recommended.

Pillars of the Earth

Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett

Transitioning from one book to another is never an easy exercise. Some people let a few days go by between books. Let it stew. Ruminate on it a little. I don't. I insist on starting a new book on the same day I finish my previous book (and I never, ever read two books at the same time). Some people think that's crazy. Sometimes I agree, but it's what I've done for so long, there's no real way for me to break the habit.

Transitions can often be quite smooth, especially if the previous book was simply terrible. Moving from The Shack by William P. Young to Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen, for example, was a slice of heaven. I'm was so happy to be back in a good book that I began devouring it. As well, it could be a book that I have been anticipating for quite some time (like Keith Richard's Life) and I'm just in a hurry to get things started. These transtitions are easy.

But sometimes transtitions are difficult, especially after having read an extremely good book. Leaving behind a great read such as Replay by Ken Grimwood and starting up something entirely unknown is heart-wrenching. You're leaving behind characters you have come to love and understand. Like any break-up, you're not entirely sure you can go on without them right away. Perhaps you need a little time on your own to rest, meditate and catch up on some television. You just couldn't possibly care about any other characters right now. I have to ease into books slowly when this occurs.

This happened to me last year while making my way through The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo series. I was determined not to read all three in succession, so I broke the series up with two books in between. When I finished the first book, it took all my energy to stick to my austere program. As luck would have it, I picked up Azincourt by Bernard Cornwell and enjoyed it immensely ( I love me some medieval history). It was the proverbial slice of cheddar between sips of red at a wine tasting. With my pallette cleansed, I dove into The Girl Who Played With Fire. No problem.

It was between The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest that I made a critical error. Cheekily, I picked up G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday. I should have taken this selection far more seriously. Chesterton is torturous reading when you know you have the finale of something you care about sitting on the shelf 10 feet away. I crept through the book. The only thing pushing me on was the promise of a better book at the end. Not the best attitude to have while reading. I have promised myself to give G.K. Chesterton another chance.

This is not exactly what happened with Pillars of the Earth. I had just come out of The Unbearable Lightness of Being and I had had just about enough of that one, so I was ready for something new. But there is a little of the 10 year-old reader in me and when I saw the 983 page opus sitting on the shelf, I got intimidated. That's a lot of pages to slog through if I don't like it. And I haven't given up on a book in four years. My first few days in Pillars of the Earth were very tentative. I wasn't really ready to settle into such a large book and I wasn't giving it much of a chance. I usually get a kick out of watching my bookmark move its way through a novel, but with Ken Follett it doesn't ever seem to move! I waited and waited for Follett to make me care.

I had this same problem with Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, but for slightly different reasons. I was given Cloud Atlas by two people within a month and told to drop all other books and read it immediately, which I did. Two people who seprated by the Pacific who don't know each other insisting I read something is a fairly ringing endorsement. The first two chapters (before I realized what Mitchell was doing and subsequently fell head over heels in love with the book) made me feel like I was being cheated. I read the bare minimum (25 pages a day) for days and grumbled how both a friend and a relative could be so terribly wrong about a book. I was never going to finish this brick.

But there comes a point in these sorts of books when it begins to click. The characters seep into your subconcious and you need to get back in there, see how things progress. In Cloud Atlas, it was the third chapter. In Pillars of the Earth it was the burning of the church. From that point on, you know things are going to be ok. It doesn't matter if the book is 183 pages or 1183 pages, you're hooked. The bookmark makes steady progress and by the time you finish, you agonize about your next book.

Can it possibly compare to this one?