Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall

When Wolf Hall won the Booker Prize in 2009, I was slightly disappointed. It was one of those books on both, the longlist and the shortlist, that I didn't want to read. I can't quite put my finger on what it was, but there was zero motivation to read the book. A couple of weeks back though, I pulled it out from my Chunksters shelf, and decided to give it a go, prepared to abandon it midway. But, from the minute I started it till the time I turned the last page, I was totally mesmerised, and was kicking myself (not literally) for not pulling it down sooner.

Wolf Hall, at 650 pages, has Thomas Cromwell, 1st Earl of Essex, as the central character. While it's set before and during the English Reformation, the focus is not King Henry VIII or Anne Boleyn; instead, it's the man who was the King's right-hand man.

But - how does a boy, a blacksmith's son, who doesn't even know his own birthday - get to be the King's favourite, and play such an instrumental role in the events that shaped British history? That's the angle Mantel has approached this book from. Fictionalising some of Cromwell's life, while following the actual historical events of the 1500s, she casts Cromwell as a sympathetic loyal family man and not the devil that everyone thinks he is. What is actually incredible is though, while portraying him as the hero (and not the anti-hero), Mantel does share what everyone around Cromwell thinks of him, and some of the things said are far from flattering. The high opinion the reader has of Cromwell though - it never changes. It doesn't even waver. Haunted by personal tragedies, his father's wrath, experiences abroad after running away from home post being victimised by his father's drunken beating once again, Cromwell's rich character shines through.

The Reformation is essentially about King Henry VIII wanting to divorce Katharine the princess of Aragon to marry Anne Boleyn. To do this, the Church of England is forced to break away from the authority of the Pope and the Roman Catholic Church, as the Pope would never void a legitimate marriage. King Henry VIII insists that Katharine was not a virgin when he married her, thereby meaning the marriage was never actually legit.

"Some say the Tudors transcend this history, bloody and demonic as it is: that they descend from Brutus through the line of Constantine, son of St Helena, who was a Briton. Arthur, High King of Britain, was Constantine's grandson. He married up to three women, all called Guinevere, and his tomb is at Glastonbury, but you must understand that he is not really dead, only waiting his time to come again.

His blessed descendant, Prince Arthur of England, was born in the year 1486, eldest son of Henry, the first Tudor king. This Arthur married Katharine the princess of Aragon, died at fifteen and was buried in Worcester Cathedral. If he were alive now, he would be King of England. His younger brother Henry would likely be Archbishop of Canterbury, and would not (at least, we devoutly hope not) be in pursuit of a woman of whom the cardinal hears nothing good: a woman to whom, several years before the dukes walk in to despoil him, he will need to turn his attention; whose history, before ruin seizes him, he will need to comprehend.

Beneath every history, another history."

Real-world events of historical significance, the wars and economic concerns and a rich cast of characters all come together in Wolf Hall. The significance of the title is not lost on the readers as well. As Mantel says in an interview:

Wolf Hall, the Seymour House in Wiltshire, is where we're going at the end of this book. But of course, I chose it primarily for its metaphorical resonance: who could resist it? The whole of Henry's court is Wolf Hall.

Cromwell makes everything his business, his loyalty, first to the disgraced Cardinal and then to the King unequivocal. His occasional thoughts about Anne, who he doesn't really seem to like, are hilarious though.

A little later he hears that Anne has taken wardship of her sister's son, Henry Carey. He wonders if she intends to poison him. Or eat him.

Anne really doesn't come across as a likeable character or Queen though. Instead, the Princess of Aragon seems to have a lot more character, and subsequently, a lot more respect from Cromwell. His interactions with both are delicate, as he tries to make peace and do what is right by the King - not questioning him - which might, in fact, be his biggest failing. It's almost a case of the Henry saying "Jump" and Cromwell replying with "How high?"

Even when Thomas More is in the Tower, awaiting his punishment for not condoning the divorce or the split from Rome, he tries to prompt him to ask for forgiveness, saying Henry's a compassionate monarch. And it's parts like this that makes Cromwell come across as a nicer person than history might indicate. Obviously, certain chunks are fictional, but to take a hated character from history and to turn him into - well, Cromwell in Wolf Hall does take serious talent.

The power struggles, the jealousy, the humour and the emotional baggage that everyone's carrying - it all comes across, so stark, so clear, that every character is ambiguous. There's no black and white. There's no sinner, there's no saint. It's a lot like the real world today - everyone has their place, and everyone has their endgame. To manage that with such a myriad of characters (we actually do meet practically anyone and everyone who was involved in the Reformation, or had a part in Henry's Court or knew Cromwell) is incredibly commendable, and I found it quite difficult to judge the characters or find out if I liked them or not. Cromwell and his family though - loved them to bits. And the Cardinal.

My only gripe with this book was the way Mantel referred to Cromwell - always in the third person pronoun: He. Occasionally, paragraphs and pages had to be re-read, but that's a small gripe compared to just how fantastic I thought the rest of this book was. There is meant to be a sequel in the pipelines, and I can't wait to read that. Off we go to Wolf Hall, and see what transpires next...

Alice Munro - Too Much Happiness

Too Much Happiness is a collection of short stories by internationally-acclaimed writer, Alice Munro. Not being a big fan of short stories, I always start a collection tentatively, not really expecting to enjoy it, but hoping to be pleasantly surprised. Munro's Runaway, for example, was fantastic. Too Much Happiness is a bit of an ironic name for this collection. While reading the first few stories, it felt like the stories kicked off right about the time the "happiness" ended in the protagonist's lives... when everything seemed to be hunky-dory, and then the world came crashing down. The stories, in their simplicity and their profundity, explored how the protagonists reacted, and gave a tremendous insight into the workings of a human mind.

Like I've said before, it's this simplicity that makes Munro's work absolutely breathtaking. There's no cliffhangers. There's no incredible twists. It's about the brittleness of human relationships - nothing out of ordinary, nothing spectacular, but just... something that's so universal that it touches the reader, and makes the reader root for the protagonists; empathise with them and sympathise with them. Reading Munro isn't an escape from reality. It's facing reality head-on.

She had always been such a reader – that was one reason, Rich had said, that she was the right woman for him; she could sit and let him alone[...]. She hadn’t been just a once-through reader, either. The Brothers Karamazov, The Mill on the Floss, The Wings of the Dove, The Magic Mountain, over and over. She would pick one up, planning to read that one special passage, and find herself unable to stop until the whole thing was redigested. She read modern fiction, too. Always fiction. She hated to hear the word “escape” used about fiction. She once might have argued, not just playfully, that it was real life that was the escape.

All that said though, I did find this collection a tad inferior to Runaway. A couple of the stories just didn't resonate with me, and I was left thinking, this is a tad pointless; or, I really don't get this... It seemed to unrealistic in the oh-so-realistic web of fiction that Munro spins. Fiction and Free Radicals are two of the stories. Even Dimensions, the first story, had me confused. It was tragic, but... I just couldn't relate to the main character.

On the other hand, stories like Face and Child's Play were mind-blowing though, and if nothing else, I can't recommend those two stories enough. It's stories like these that keep me going back to the world of short stories, and as soon as I had finished this anthology, I picked up yet another one of her books, simply because they are meant to be read, treasured and then re-read, just for the odd glimpses they give us into life, reality and everything else.

Jussi Adler-Olsen - Mercy

It's been a fantastic weekend, with Sunday seeing me curled up in bed for the better half of the day, with this fantastic thriller, and a big bag of M&Ms. For me, it's kind-of hard to imagine that Scandinavia has a dark underbelly. What with the strong economy, the idyllic fjords and the breathtaking mountains, it's almost like a slice of heaven. Even the events in Oslo on July 22 seem so surreal... so un-Scandinavian, so wrong...

Steig Larsson's Millennium trilogy put Scandinavian crime-fiction on the literary map, and since then, there seems to be a sudden emerge of crime fiction from the Nordic countries. Jussi Adler-Olsen's Denmark-based thriller is the latest, and while it hasn't won any accolades yet, it has spent over a year on the Danish charts, and the English translation seems to have gotten rave reviews. So, I just had to read it.

And I loved it. Finishing the five-hundred page thriller in a day - that should say it all, really. In fact, I would say it was superior to Larsson's Millennium trilogy; if for nothing else, the book actually seems to be edited! And there is no product placement. Always a bonus.

Department Q is a newly opened department within Homicide for cold cases, and it's headed by the lazy quirky detective, Carl Mørck. Mørck's recovering from a hellish previous case, where one of his colleagues was killed and the other is still hospitalised, paralysed neck-down. Mørck is a difficult character to deal with - good at what he does, but non-conformist, brusque and slightly eccentric. So, when he's relegated to this new department, with the help of his new assistant, Syrian immigrant, Assad, after much procrastination, Mørck starts tackling the cases sent down to his basement office. The fact of the matter remains that his colleagues want him out of their hair, and in no one really cares as to what happens down in Department Q. Oh, the politics at the workplace.

On the top of the pile is the case of Merete, a young beautiful politician who vanishes on a ship some five years earlier, without a trace. No one knows of her whereabouts, and there are no suspects. In a parallel narrative, we meet Merete, only to discover that she is still alive, and being held captive. She doesn't know who the kidnappers are... but they keep asking her just the one question: to figure out why she's being held. Merete's narrative goes back in time, to a few weeks before the kidnapping, and it's up to the reader to start figuring out the whodunnit.

Interleaving chapters explore Merete's life - her reflections while being in a dark chamber of sorts, and the struggle to retain her sanity - and the investigation launched by the two members of Department Q. Merete's a strong female protagonist, not a "wimpy heroine" which is refreshing. She's not submissive, she's not subservient, at any point, and she rationalises her way through the hell she is going through.

A multi-layered narrative, fast-paced chapters, a tinge of humour, interesting characters and a fantastic plot make this book absolutely unputdownable. As the mystery unravels, it is not incredibly challenging to put the pieces together, but there are enough twists and turns to keep the reader guessing and biting her nails while reading the book.

So, if you're a fan of crime-thrillers, I recommend this extremely highly. I'm already looking forward to the next book in this series. Where will Department Q go next?

Philippe Claudel - Brodeck's Report

If there was ever a book that just made you feel slightly uneasy, a tad queasy, very uncomfortable, but still had you hooked, this would be it. You have Brodeck, who survived being treated like a dog - literally - in a prisoner-of-war camp, in France, during an unnamed war, albeit implicitly it suggests that the war is World War II. He returns to his village, a changed man, and as he goes through the motions of ordinary life, he is still haunted by the past. The growing xenophobia and animosity in the village doesn't really help either.

We had to go down on all fours, like the dogs, and eat our food without using anything but our mouths, like the dogs.

Most of my fellow prisoners refused to do it. They are dead. As for me, I ate like the dogs, on all fours and using only my mouth. And I am alive.

Sometimes when the guards were drunk or had nothing else to do, they amused themselves by putting a collar and leash on me. I had to crawl around like that on all fours. [...] I had to strut and turn round in circles and bark and hang my tongue out and lick their boots.

The book has two parallel narratives (jumping from one to the other): one of Brodeck's present, and one of his past. In the present-day, Brodeck has been requested by his fellow villagers to write a report on the Ereigniës (i.e. "the thing that happened") with Anderer, the Other. Anderer was a stranger that arrived in the village, in colourful robes, on a donkey and a horse, with artistic skills. His name remains an unknown, and the initial friendliness of the villagers soon descends to animosity, so much so that he is murdered. The unmentioned refrain is, it had to be done. At the outset of his report, Brodeck states that he had nothing to do with it, and left to him, he'd never speak of it again.

As he recounts the events that transpired since the day the Other arrived in the village, he takes various unpleasant trips down memory lane, remembering the horrors of his past, and the choices he made to survive. Survival of the fittest mutates to survival of the ones willing to do anything to survive, no matter how degrading or self-abasing it is; and the thing - the only thing - that encourages this complete submission from Brodeck is his adoptive mother, and his lover, and to return to them, safe and sound.

"Those were two years of total darkness. I look upon that time as a void in my life - very black and very deep - and therefore I call it the Kazerskwir, the crater. Often, at night, I still venture out on to its rim."

The writing, the metaphors, the imagery is both, beautiful and poignant. And of course, heartbreaking. The mind boggles, that people can be so cruel, and on reading about some of the events, my stomach churned, and I had to remind myself that this was fiction. To quote Wordsworth, have I not reason to lament what man has made of man?

If you have an interest in WWII literature, I really can't recommend this book enough. I don't know if Claudel has written anything else or not, but I would be curious to read some of his other works, to see how they hold in comparison. Any ideas?

This was read for Paris in July, hosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at ThymeForTea. It's not a cheery happy summer book, but it was a fantastic read, and most of the times, that's all that matters.

Jeff Lindsay - Dexter By Design

...And yes, Dexter’s back on my blog, after what seems like absolute ages. I’ve had the fourth of the Dexter books on my shelf for over a year, and that in itself surprises me, as I lapped up the first three books in the series in about a week. Yes, I did enjoy them that much. The fourth book doesn’t disappoint, although, it starts getting a lot more.... what’s the word... melodramatic. You have your protagonist: blood spatter analyst by day, and serial killer by night, and now - now, he’s hitched, enjoying married life and being a father to two adorable children.

He’s back in Miami post a fantastic honeymoon in Paris, and he’s back at work. First day back, and Dexter and his “Dark Passenger” are in for a treat : dead corpses being artfully displayed, for one and all to see. One woman is turned into a fruit basket, and one man’s insides holds beer! No clues, no violence, no blood on the scene of crime. As Dexter and his sister, Deborah, try to get to the bottom of what’s going on, drama unfolds.

Deborah is still trying to deal with Dexter’s Dark Revelation, and she’s grumpy for the most part. Justifiable, to an extent, but on occasion, I did feel like giving her a slap, and saying get over it. After an altercation with her brother while on duty, she is stabbed and typically, her life is in grave danger. They rush her to the hospital, and as she battles for her life, Dexter’s dealing with his own battles: emotions. He’s unsure as to how to feel, and he’s accustomed to being this emotionless outlaw, so what’s the deal with the thoughts running through his head, and all the worse-case scenarios he is conjuring up?

Impulsively, i.e. very unlike him, Dexter seeks revenge on the person who was responsible for this heinous crime against his sister, and in the process, finds himself violating The Harry Code. Harry was Dexter’s foster father, who was aware of Dexter’s darker side, and encouraged him to channel his inner demons into doing good - killing the bad guys, getting rid of the scum on the planet.  His impulsiveness, though, leads him to making mistakes, and things get incredibly complicated... and to right a wrong, it almost looks like many more wrongs are going to be done.

This was interesting in the sense, it’s the first time we see Dexter acting on raw emotions, despite continuously insisting that he’s unemotional and detached. When he first realizes the implications of his sister’s attack, he goes down memory lane... and this book does focus on the past a lot - Dexter and Deborah growing up, Harry’s mentoring, and his initial battles.

The book is also quite humorous, and Dexter, despite everything, is highly intelligent. He alliterates his name all the time, with his current state of mind, if that makes sense? So, for example, while referring to himself, he says things like:   It did not belong in the prime time drama of Dexter’s Dim Days; Dexter the Drastically Deferred; Dark Dexter’s Dance etc. I love alliterations.

Other bits that I thought were tongue-in-cheek and worth re-quoting:

First things first has always been my motto, mostly because it makes absolutely no sense - after all, if first things were second or third, they wouldn't be first things, would they? Still, cliches exist to comfort the feeble minded, not to provide any actual meaning.

I don't know where the boyfriend is, really," I said. And it was true, considering tide, current, and the habits of marine scavengers.

However, all that said, I do think this is the weakest of Dexter’s books so far. It wasn’t as engrossing as the first two, and it became mildly more... soapy. When one is reading about a serial killer, they don’t quite want it to come with the baggage of a soap opera.

Anita Brookner - Hotel Du Lac

Belated birthday wishes to Anita Brookner, and a day late, but a happy International Anita Brookner Day to the rest of you. Some time back, I decided to re-read Anita Brookner's Booker-winning Hotel du Lac a few months back, as part of Sarah's Not A Rat's Chance In Hell, and last week seemed to be the right time to read it (what with 16th July being IABD, hosted by Thomas at my Porch and Savidge Reads).

I enjoyed Hotel du Lac the first time I read it, when I was still in my teens - the pathos, the despair, the richness of characters and the fact that it is set in Switzerland. Switzerland is, by far, my favourite country in the world, and I intend to live there at some point in my life. It just feels like... home.

The re-read, however, wasn't quite the same experience. I felt myself getting slightly more frustrated with Edith's character, and her complete lack of proactivity. It was almost like she was resigned to her fate, and was letting life pass her by; letting other people pull her strings.

Edith, an established writer, has been exiled to a hotel by Lake Geneva. Her friends have advised her to “disappear for a decent length of time and come back older, wiser and properly sorry,” for an act that she has committed, albeit it isn't quite clear what that act is, in the opening pages of the book. In the hotel, she meets a myriad of characters, each seeking a break from reality, and as she gets to know them better, we (as readers) get to know our protagonist better as well.

What it had to offer was a mild form of sanctuary, an assurance of privacy, and the protection and the discretion that attach themselves to blamelessness.

Edith is in love with David, a married man, but her affair with him is not the reason behind this exile. And, it's not her absolution. She writes letters to David regularly, and yearns for his presence, which doesn't seem forthcoming. She attempts to return to her writing in the hotel, but the characters that surround her distract her - mostly, the women, but there is the one man who catches her eye? Or, does she catch his eye?

The women in the hotel, which is indeed very selective of its guests, include the extravagant superficial Puseys whose interests most involve shopping and living an expensive lifestyle; Monica, who seems enviously condescending of the Puseys, as she spends her days sharing coffee, ice-cream and cakes with her dog; and Madame De Bonneuil, an old lady, who's been abandoned by her son after his marriage. Then there's Mr. Neville, a self-proclaimed romantic who thinks he's good for Edith...

A lot of the book focuses on women, and how their stature evolves with age and marriage; the importance of marriage and of having the significant other. Of course, this is predominantly due to the time in which the book was set - possibly the 70s - but subjecting all women to such... banality... was what got me slightly annoyed. A woman's place in society should be incidental to her marriage, not a result of it - that's my verdict, but then again, I live in the twenty-first century, so it is easy for me to say that.

The company of their own sex, Edith reflected, was what drove many women into marriage.

Brookner does pull out a couple of good twists though, which almost saves Edith's character, for she does come across as a passenger in her own life, not an active participant - definitely not the driver. It was well-written and slightly humorous, but, despite being under two hundred pages, oh-so-slow, that it almost feels like a book you want to curl up with, a glass of red wine in one hand, and the Moonlight Sonata playing on the stereo.

Thought I'd share some gorgeous pictures of places that have been mentioned in this book as well... it really is a place I would recommend to go to, to get some respite from the world.

Oh, and do let me know which Brookner should I read next? Just go chronologically, or... which are your favourites?

Colum McCann - Let The Great World Spin

New York, 1974. The magnificent twin towers are unveiled to the world, and the consensus is that they are ugly compared to the splendid sky-scrapers that grace the New York skyline (the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Centre etc). But, a marvelous feat from an athlete, Philippe Petit, almost changes the perception. Petit walked across a tightrope between the towers - he danced, he entertained, he wowed, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly, as the New Yorkers below looked up in awe, wondering if the man dancing with the clouds was suicidal, crazy, or if he had some perfectly legitimate reason to be doing what he was. After all, it’s not often, you see someone dancing with the clouds.

Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief.

In McCann’s award-winning Let The Great World Spin, on the day Petit takes on the skyline, lives of various New Yorkers intersect. Almost a six-degrees-of-separation kind-of premise, the chapters tell the stories - some in first person, some in third person - of these New Yorkers. Amidst other things, love and loss bring them together. Some live in South Bronx, others in Park Avenue; some are prostitutes, others judges; some have lost one son to the ‘Nam war, some three; some are escaping their drug-addled past only to confront yet another battle, and some are looking for a new future. But - the nameless figure in the sky (in McCann’s book, Petit remains an un-named person; his performance a mere backdrop.), and grief bring them together.

The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.

The book starts slowly with an introduction to two Irish brothers, who have immigrated to New York as adults - Corrigan, a radical monk living amidst the prostitutes and pimps in the Bronx, and Ciaran, aimlessly trying to find his place in life. The next chapter cuts to Claire, living in Park Avenue, mourning the loss of her son in Vietnam. A group of other mothers who lost their sons will be arriving at her penthouse apartment later in the day, so as to find comfort in each other... but, when people come from totally different walks of life, there is more that divides them than what brings them closer. And then there’s the next story: an artist in her twenties, with a history of drug abuse (now cleaned up), is in the passenger seat during a fatal hit-and-run accident - an incident that is bound to ensure that her life will change forever. And then - then we go back to the beginning, where Tillie, a thirty-eight year old prostitute recounts her life’s story, while at court: slightly hackneyed, quite unsurprising, marginally apologetic. Jazz, her daughter, is a prostitute as well, and while Tillie doesn’t make any excuses, there is a tinge of contriteness to her recap. All this against the historical event of the man on the wire.

It was America, after all. The sort of place where you should be allowed to walk as high as you wanted.

The emotional aspect of this book is what makes it so riveting. Claire’s hesitance and tentativeness, Ciaran being overtly protective of his magnanimous brother, Tillie’s raw honesty... how different people cope with grief, and how they try to fathom the crazy world around them. It’s a novel of massive scope, heartbreaking but not depressing... hinting that there is light at the end of the tunnel, and eventually, hope is not in vain.
The diversity of characters is incredible, and one can’t help but cheer on all the primary characters, although... some of the backup characters (including some of the mothers in Claire’s support group) - the less said, the better. It’s so real, so... non-fictional. The irony, of course, is, the one event that seems fictional (i.e. the grand walk across the towers) is what is non-fictional.

In the wake of 9/11, the significance of this walk seems so much greater. Everyone stood up and took notice of this marvelous feat, and in spite of all the grief in the world, on that fateful day, Petit’s act was what was on everyone’s mind, and they all came together to witness that... and then there was 9/11, which, for completely different reasons, brought the city together again, and showed just how resilient, brave, strong and heroic the people are - in spite of the horrors that life brings in its wake.

Erin @ ErinReads has scheduled this as her Reading Buddies read for the month of July. Pop over to see more thoughts and discussions on this book, for I really don't think my post has done an incredible book much justice.

Colette - Claudine at School

Written at the turn of the century (i.e. first published in 1900), this delightful and entertaining novel is an intimate diary of fifteen year old Claudine who attends school in Montigny in France. It's scandalous, it's humorous, and it's feel-good. Largely autobiographical (and the first book of a four-part series), this book covers the last year of Claudine's (Colette's) school life, in an all-girls school. Claudine is precocious - flirtatious even - but charming; so full of life, but a bully; accustomed to getting her own way, but still being at odds with the dreaded Headmistress.

It was so long since I had hit one of my companions that people were beginning to believe that I had become rational. (In the old days, I had the annoying habit of settling my quarrels on my own, with kicks and blows, without thinking it necessary to tell tales like the others).

The frank unabashed narrative was quite endearing. Despite some exceedingly scandalising bits, the innocence was a breath of fresh air (specially if you compare it to the school series of today...). You had Claudine involved in a homosexual love triangle, where the other two involved were the Headmistress and her assistant, and I did wonder... when this book was first published, just how controversial was it?

The mannerisms, the way the girls spoke, the freedom, the mannerisms and the ambience - it was all very French (referring to the teachers as Mademoiselle obviously added to it) - and the protagonist did remind me of the title character in Claudine at St. Clares at some points. The way she was used to getting her own way, how people couldn't help being amused by her pranks, her  impulsiveness, how she easily befriended and influenced people, and how she was naturally gifted, with an incredible lust for life.

I am immediately curious to read the rest of the books in this series (published between 1900-1904), and I suspect they will find their way to my shelf before the month is out. The edition of the book I have is age-old though, first published in 1979, and the price at the back of the book is all of £1.25.

I've been saving this book for Paris in July hosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at ThymeForTea. Do pop over and have a look. So many French authors, so little time... I have another Colette and Irène Némirovsky's Suite Francaise on my shelf, both of which I'll hopefully read before the month is out.

Which other French authors would you recommend? Or, thoroughly captivating school stories? There's something about a good school story, which takes you back in time, and makes you recall, with much nostalgia, the stationery shopping, the smell of new exercise books, the exam stress, the good times.

JG Ballard - Empire of the Sun

World War II literature is a genre that interests me tremendously. It would be wrong to say that I find it enjoyable, but the fact remains that I actively seek out books on WWII. So far though, most of the WWII fiction (and non-fiction) I've perused has taken place in Europe, so Ballard's much acclaimed Empire of the Sun intrigued me immensely.

The book is a personal not-completely-accurate-and-somewhat-romanticised account of Ballard's childhood where he was living the war, in a war-ravaged Shanghai (which was occupied by the Japanese at the time). The account begins in 1941, and continues till the horrific bombing at Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and the subsequent devastation in Nagasaki three days later. Jamie, the protagonist, is eleven years old at the start of the story, and we see the War unfold in Shanghai through his innocent eyes. Occasionally child-like, occasionally grown-up, somewhat disoriented, predominantly emotive.

Jamie gets separated from his well-to-do expat parents during one of the Japanese strikes, and eventually, after scrounging around for food at various houses, looking for his parents, or in fact, any Briton, all alone, finds himself at a prison camp, living the survival of the fittest adage. He befriends those who will protect him, continues his schooling thanks to some of the adults at the prison camp, and tries to make the best of the awful situation by finding comfort in the smallest of things, be it having the biggest sweet potato or pocketing one slyly, just in case he needs it in the future, when the paucity of food may become a real issue.

His views are slightly skewed (maybe this is just retrospection talking), as he advocates the Japanese, and in fact, at one point, states that he would like to pilot one of the Japanese aircrafts. A little tentative of change, he gets nervous when the war is drawing to a close, and just wants some kind of stability in the turbulence.

He ate every scrap of food he could find, aware of the rising number of deaths from beri beri and malaria. Jim admired the Mustangs and the Superfortresses, but sometimes he wished that the Americans would return to Hawaii and content themselves with raising their battleships at Pearl Harbour. Then Lunghua Camp would once again be the happy place he had known in 1943.

It's really sad; the rationalisation and the innocence. The prison camps didn't sound as horrific as the concentration camps in Europe, but irrespective, for anyone to live through that is shocking... and for a child, even more so. What... is the point? What was achieved?

But a flash of light filled the stadium, flaring over the stands in the southwest corner of the football field, as if an immense American bomb had exploded somewhere to the northeast of Shanghai. [...] Jim smiled at the Japanese, wishing that he could tell him that the light was premonition of his death, the sight of his small soul joining the larger soul of the dying world.

"Kid, they dropped atomic bombs. Uncle Sam threw a piece of the sun at Nagasaki and Hiroshima, killed a million people. One great flash..."

"I saw it."

All said and done, this book was quite harrowing. What made it a bit of a strange experience, though, was how, at times, it almost read as a documentary - stating facts, narrating events - almost as though the writer was an observer, not an actor. Perhaps that is completely valid, if one thinks about it. Why focus on emotions when the story is powerful enough to evoke extremely strong reactions to the war, its perversity, and the trepidation, monstrosity and futility of it all. It really does fill me with immense despondence and sadness... and even those words feel extremely trite.

Do you recommend any other books set in Asia during the second World War? Or, any other books set during WWII? What is it about that genre that just.... beckons? I almost feel masochistic. Sadistic would be equally apt.

Toni Morrison - Sula

Spanning almost forty-five years (1921-1965), Sula revolves around two best friends: Sula and Nel, and how their friendship evolves and implodes over the years. Growing up in a poverty-stricken black town in Ohio called Bottom, Sula is accustomed to men coming and going, as they please. Her mother and grandmother are fiercely independent women, and after her father died, her mother (Hannah) is keen for companionship, and doesn't really care if the man is married or not. Still, Hannah is well-liked, despite sleeping with half the married men in the town... That stands testimony to the richness of the characters - that Morrison can make someone quite despicable come across as a lovely person.

Sula is a complex character though. Straight after Nel's wedding, she leaves Bottom, and goes off to college and to enjoy the city life. She returns some ten years later, and carries on where her mother left off - sleeping with the men in the village and living a purely hedonist life.

The town-folk treat her as a pariah - the yardstick against which they measure good and evil. The truly godawful people in the town turn over a new leaf, and Sula continues to do as she pleases.

"When you gone to get married? You need to have some babies. It’ll settle you.'

'I don’t want to make somebody else. I want to make myself."

The glimpses into the lives of the villagers, through the years is not pleasant. Accidentally killing people, murders, a mother setting her own son on fire, and a daughter watching her mother burn with indifference, infidelity, broken promises and Suicide Day - this book really doesn't make for comfortable reading, but then again, that's not what Morrison's aim was, with this book.

Instead, it's a glimpse into the trials and tribulations of the African-American society in America in the early 1900s, where they are left to themselves and their own superstitions, trying to figure out where they belong. It's a world where racism is rampant, and even the proudest African-American is subservient to the white people, when they are forced to interact.

The richness of the characters, and the depth of the story, despite it being a short book (174 pages) is incredible and it does show why Morrison is considered to be one of the most talented authors out there. While my first experience with Morrison wasn't exactly amazing (I hated it), with time, I am slowly beginning to love her writing as much as some of the other bloggers out there, and I reckon with time, I will read her entire backlist. Love is next for me. And for you? Which is your favourite book by the Nobel Laureate?

Ryu Murakami - 69

The vibrant cover of this book caught my attention while I was drifting through eighteen miles of books in New York a couple of months ago, and I ended up purchasing it. In The Miso Soup and Piercing have been on my radar for a few months, but considering that this is semi-autobiographical, I thought that it's a good place to start.

This coming-of-age story starts in 1969 when the narrator, Ken, is a lazy selfish self-satisfied adolescent living in a small town in Japan (in westerrn Kyushu), with just one objective in life: getting attention from the fairer sex, and he is ready to go to some pretty extreme lengths, dragging his friends with him.

Inspired by the political movements around him, the Beatles and the Stones, Rimbauld and Camus, Hendrix and Simon & Garfunkel (god, don't you love the sixties?), Kensuke "Ken" Yazaki, aspires to be a rebel, to stand out, and win the affections of his Lady Jane.

This is a light-hearted fun book, filled with moments of hilarity, and occasional moments of utter disbelief. Much like the song (Summer of '69), the book does seem to recount some of the "best days" of Ken's life. One of those people who manages to influence those around him very easily, in the span of a year, Ken organises a rock festival to blow away the minds of the girls, barricades the school under the pretext of political ideals and communism (when he doesn't really care either way), gets suspended from school for over a hundred days, films a movie for the festival on an 8mm camera, and manages to get on the wrong side of the yakuzas. All to impress Lady Jane.

Adama and I looked at each other. I can't stand myself. That was one line a seventeen-year-old must never, ever let himself say -- unless he was trying to make it with some chick. [...] But certain phrases were taboo, and you cast a shadow on the rest of your life if you uttered them.

So while I thoroughly enjoyed this book, I couldn't help but dislike the narrator. Yes, I know he's a seventeen year old, who probably doesn't know better, but he just came across as a pretentious selfish jerk, who probably deserved a tight slap. Quoting books he hadn't read, sitting in a cafe sipping tomato juice just for effects, stereotyping those around him, and using his influential skills to get up to no good, dragging others down with him... those are just some of the issues I had with him. The blurb likened this book to Catcher in the Rye, and unsurprisingly, I disagree. Holden Caulfield was a hypocrite, but he was not pretentious nor was he affected. One empathised and sympathised with Caulfield. Can't say the same about Kensuke.

That said, I look forward to reading more books by Ryu Murakami (and yes, by Haruki Murakami - no relation - as well). His other books are meant to be dark and surreal. How can one back away from that?! Which would you recommend?

I read this as part of Japanese Literature Challenge V hosted by the lovely Belleza. Pop over to read more reviews on books by Japanese authors, and do join in! The more Japanese authors I read, the more I want to read, so... this is great! Also, obviously, if you have any recommendations, please do let me know. I feel some Ogawa and Mishima coming up...

Téa Obreht - The Tiger's Wife

Téa Obreht, at the age of twenty-five, won the Orange Prize for her debut novel, The Tiger's Wife, which was given to me as a birthday present on my twenty-sixth birthday. In the blogging universe, the opinions on the book were widely divided, and I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

Almost immediately, I was struck by how direct and wonderful the writing is - it's emotive without being sensational, and it's beautiful without being hyperbolic.

Set against the backdrop of the Balkan civil wars, Natalia, the narrator traces back to her childhood and recalls the stories her grandfather told her, after she finds out about his death in a strange city from her grandmother. He had told the family that he was going to visit Natalia, but... that was not the case.

As Natalia embarks on a journey to figure out who her grandfather was, she realises that there are two stories - two legends, if you like - which sum up her grandfather's life.

Everything necessary to understand my grandfather lies between two stories: the story of the tiger’s wife, and the story of the deathless man. These stories run like secret rivers through all the other stories of his life – of my grandfather’s days in the army; his great love for my grandmother; the years he spent as a surgeon and a tyrant of the University. One, which I learned after his death, is the story of how my grandfather became a man; the other, which he told to me, is of how he became a child again.

Her grandfather was an avid animal lover, with a special place in his heart for tigers, and he oft' took Natalia to see the tigers at the local zoo, before war erupted and the zoo was forced to shut down, resulting in a strain in the relationship between the two - a strain that they conquered with time. I found myself completely floored by some of the thoughts put forward by Natalia's grandfather, who, despite being the secondary character, took centerstage.

"You must understand, this is one of those moments."

"What moments?"

"One of those moments you keep to yourself," he said.

"What do you mean?" I said. "Why?"

"We're in a war," he said. "The story of this war -- dates, names, who started it, why -- that belongs to everyone. Not just the people involved in it, but the people who write newspapers, politicians thousands of miles away, people who've never even been here or heard of it before . But something like this -- this is yours. It belongs only to you. And me. Only to us."

The multiple narratives that transpire - the story of the deathless man, the story of the tiger's wife, the present-day mission that Natalia is on (to help young children at an orphanage across the border) and the story of her grandfather's life - on her quest are handled effortlessly and had me gripped throughout. Perhaps some of the stories were fictional fables, perhaps some were plain superstitions. Indeed, some were not even believable, but all of that took a backseat while I read the legends and tried to work out how they all fit together.

While the relationship between the grandfather and granddaughter was the essence of the book, what had me captivated was the awe and reverence that the scenes about the tiger invoked. Tigers are one of my favourite animals - they are definitely the most regal, and command all the respect in the world. However, to be completely honest, I've never once spared a thought to how wars affect animals.

The tiger did not know that they were bombs. He did not know anything beyond the hiss and screech of the fighters passing overhead, missiles falling, the sound of bears bellowing in another part of the fortress, the sudden silence of birds. There was smoke and terrible warmth, a gray sun rising and falling in what seemed like a matter of minutes, and the tiger, frenzied, dry-tongued, ran back and forth across the span of the rusted bars, lowing like an ox. He was alone and hungry, and that hunger, coupled with the thunderous noise of bombardment, had burned in him a kind of awareness of his own death, an imminent and innate knowledge he could neither dismiss nor succumb to. He did not know what to do with it. His water had dried up, and he rolled and rolled in the stone bed of his trough, in the uneaten bones lying in a corner of the cage, making that long sad sound that tigers make.

I loved this book, and would recommend it greatly... and I look forward to Obreht's next book.