Betty Smith – A Tree Grows In Brooklyn

Oh, where do I begin? Remember Cassandra from I Capture The Castle? She is one of my favourite narrators and I believe you'd be hard pressed to find a character as charming as her. Betty Smith's Francie comes close. She doesn't have the pleasure of living in a dilapidated-yet-romantic castle as Cassandra did – instead, she's over the sea and far away in the Williamsburg slums of Brooklyn from 1912-1919. At the outset, Francie is eleven years old and she's a reader. That's all I need to get that instant connection to a protagonist.

Francie thought that all the books in the world were in that library and she had a plan about reading all the books in the world. She was reading a book a day in alphabetical order and not skipping the dry ones.

She lives with her parents and her younger brother, and despite being a family of slender means, they are cheerful and grateful. Her mother, Katie, desperately wants a better future for her children, and she leans heavily on the two pieces of advice her own mother gives her: ensure that her children are educated ("Everyday you must read one page of some good book to your child.") and save every penny possible in order to purchase land which can be handed down to the children. In addition, this piece of advice from Katie's mother – a first generation immigrant –  is priceless as she insists that the children must believe in ghosts, fairies, and Santa:

"[T]he child must have a valuable thing called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out by believing things not of this  world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination." 

However, while Katie tries her level best to ensure a better life for her kids, her husband – a happy-go-lucky drunk – is a singing waiter whose priorities differ from Katie's. He's the good cop to Katie's bad cop, as he looks out for their feelings and tries to ensure they're happy. For example, while Katie's focused on ensuring her children get educated at the local school where they're treated like second class citizens, he acknowledges Francie's desire to go to a school slightly further away where the quality of education is superior and makes it happen much to Francie's delight.

It's such incidents that make the book a treat. There's heartbreak, grief, and loss, but still, there's always a light shining at the end of the tunnel – a glimmer of hope, if you will. No matter how dire circumstances get, Francie and Katie do their level best to not get completely down and out. It's almost like Pope addresses them in his poem:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast, Man never is but always to be blessed. 

However, there are parts of the book that are bleak and  reflective of the times. One of their neighbours – a young, attractive woman with a child, sans a husband – is mocked relentlessly by her neighbours for having the gall to take her child out during the day. Yes, it's rage-inducing, but then one has to remember that this was a century ago – and, sadly, there are parts of the world today where this is still the case.

Or, how Francie is the one who has to temporarily drop out of school to earn money while her younger brother carries on studying, despite she being the one more academically inclined and he being more than willing to take up a job.

But – I digress.

You'll be hard pressed to find a more likeable child in fiction, and you'll be glad that you embarked on her journey with her as she finds her feet in the world and figures out the best course of action no matter what the situation.

Donna Tartt - The Goldfinch

880 pages. All consumed on the beaches of Ko Samui, greedily, and when the book ended, I was sad. After all, wasn't it Jane Austen who said, "If a book is well written, I always find it too short." So, I guess that makes Donna Tartt's Pulitzer winning novel "too short."

The book is titled after the famous Dutch painting by Carel Fabritius – which exists – and yet, the tale is fictional. If you're curious, the painting is displayed at Mauritshuis in The Hague, Netherlands. However, it takes a fictitious life of its own here – a journey so action-packed and unbelievable that it's almost plausible.

The opening line of the book draws you in, reminiscent of Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. 

“While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years.”

An adult Theo Decker reflects on the series of unfortunate, coincidental events that have led him to the hotel room in Amsterdam. Early in his reminiscences, he concedes that "Things would have turned out better if she had lived," and then the raconteur tells us about how his mother died: a terrorist attack at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York when he was thirteen. The pair had entered the museum together to take shelter from the inclement weather, and had split up in the museum. Theo was captivated by a young girl who was visiting the museum with her grandfather, and decided to follow them while his mother wanted one final look at one of her favourite paintings which she hadn't managed to see up close.

When the explosives hit, the grandfather lay bleeding but encouraged Theo to take The Goldfinch and run. He also handed over his heavy gold ring to the teenager, who, in all his naiveté, took both home not considering the ramifications. As he drifted through his adolescence, the painting became his cross to bear – a cross he bore alone. After all, there was no one he could turn to – he did consider his options but disregarded each for different reasons.

After his mother's passing, he ended up living with one of his friends who had rich parents and lived in a rococo apartment in Park Lane. He found what can only be termed "the old curiosity shop" – the antique store run by the old man who gave him the ring and his business partner, Hobie. There, he discovered that the young girl that had captured his attention lay recovering and that her grandfather hadn't survived the attack. He befriended both, and gradually dealt with his grief, almost forgetting the painting that still lay at his old apartment.

However, when his father and the father's girlfriend finally make an appearance to whisk Theo to Las Vegas just as he's settled into life in New York without his mother, he grapples with the dilemma of the oil painting – which makes the trip with him, wrapped in newspapers. I just sensed an entire group or artists, curators, and art restorers cringe at the thought. His existence in Vegas veers towards surreal – even by Vegas standards. In school, he's an outsider and as outsiders are prone to do, he befriends the one other outsider: the worldly Boris.

It occurred to me that despite his faults, which were numerous and spectacular, the reason I’d liked Boris and felt happy around him from almost the moment I’d met him was that he was never afraid. You didn’t meet many people who moved freely through the world with such a vigorous contempt for it and at the same time such oddball and unthwartable faith in what, in childhood, he had liked to call “the Planet of Earth.”

As his father racks up gambling debts and the girlfriend indulges her junkie habits of snorting coke and popping pills, Theo is left to his own devices, which results in Boris and him drinking, experimenting with drugs, eating copious amounts of pizza, and talking about anything and everything – as drunken, neglected, philosophising teenagers who don't know better do.

Well - think about this. What if all your actions and choices, good or bad, made no difference to God? What if the pattern is pre-set? No no - hang on - this is a question worth struggling with. What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can't get there any other way?

It is this friendship and the stolen painting that sets the tone of the rest of the narrative, and eventually leads Theo to Fabritius's country – all for the sake of the goldfinch; the painting almost being allegorical to Theo's situation: a bird that's chained and can't fly away, can't be free. And, one can hardly blame the bird. Likewise, one can hardly blame Theo.

That said, as an adult reading this book, I audibly protested as some events took place, urging Theo not to make the choices he did; there was no way some of those choices would end well. To be fair, Theo probably made a lot of those choices against his better judgement, but by that point, it's too late.

So what makes this novel remarkable? Theo, I think. Yes, he's flawed, but the candidness of the narrative makes him extremely likeable. Without making lame excuses, one can sympathise with his situation – how do you expect a child, orphaned for all practical purposes, do the right thing while he remains unsure as to the consequences? And, who's trying to figure out who he is.

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.

Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart."

Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?” 

J.D. Salinger - Catcher In The Rye

As some of you might already know, The Catcher In The Rye is one of my favourite books of all times. I've read it, and re-read it, and then read it again. At the age of fourteen, the first time I read it, I fell in love with Holden Caulfield. A decade later, I still love Holden Caulfield, and all his quirks, but I sympathise with him, and my heart goes out to him. At one point, I was reading this book every year - sometimes, even more often. When I started working, my ancient edition found a permanent spot on my desk, and it was just there for me to flip through, on days when things didn't make sense. Eventually, the book found its way back to my bookshelf, and I picked it out the other day, to find some solidarity, and to fall in love with the book and the author all over again.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

That's the kind of author Mr. Salinger is to me - I wish he was a terrific friend of mine, for, despite the hypocrisy and despite the narcissism, I can just relate to his protagonist... and, despite popular opinion, that fans of the book are likely to be homicidal maniacs (John Lennon's assassin and Reagan's sniper were both obsessed with the book), well... I've never really felt the need to load up a shot gun, and go around shooting people who annoy me.

The thing about Holden Caulfield is, he's just trying to find his place in the world, where he's surrounded by phonies and pretentious folks. He's been expelled from school, for failing everything but English, and he doesn't really regret his expulsion. Instead, he leaves his school before his last date, and heads to New York, to spend a couple of days on his own, before he goes home to face the music, i.e. his parents. He rambles about life at the school, and then, the book continues with his adventures in New York, as he meets old friends and girlfriends, and reflects and introspects on his life.

He's surrounded by people who talk for the sake of talking, and who have the whole holier-than-thou attitude, which infuriates the living daylights out of him. God knows, I can relate.

He started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down on his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God - talk to Him and all - whenever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving in his car. That killed me. I can just see the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs.

While reading the book this time 'round, Caulfield came across as someone struggling to deal with the real world, and he seemed to be quite bipolar - with his emotions wildly swinging from ecstasy to despondence in seconds.

Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

There's an element of hypocrisy, as he rambles on and digresses excessively, but there's so much innocence and idealism and impulsiveness, that he still comes across as someone you'd want to know in real life. He seems to have no regard social protocol, and finds it tiresome, to the extent that he's compelled to make things up, as and when he feels like... some of which is quite politically incorrect.

Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.

I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.

But what really gets me - like, really gets me - about this book is his relationship with his sister, Phoebe; and of course, his sentiments about Allie, his dead brother. When he's asked by his roommate to write a descriptive essay for him on any subject, he chooses to write about Allie's baseball mitt, which has poems scribbled all over.

So what I did, I wrote about my brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him. He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at anybody. […] God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair.

How can something like that not choke you up? Or make you melt? Or not make you love the protagonist unconditionally? It's so simple, yet so profound. So plain, yet so beautiful. And then - how can you blame Caulfield for treating the world with such utter disdain, when the world has really not been good to him, and taken his younger brother away from him? I think it's easy to say, "get over it" or feel like slapping him to knock him into his senses, but when one feels like the world is unjust, they need time to grieve and come to terms with things at their own pace. Everyone handles things differently. Everyone's way of rationalising things vary.

And when eventually, the title of the book is explained, it's just... perfect.

"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like — "

"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."

She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn't know it then, though.

"I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around — nobody big, I mean — except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff — I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.

There's something metaphoric about the above quote; it's not literal. It's an element of having the urge to save people before they go down the slippery slope - much like Holden's done, but there's been no one to catch him, or save him. And the vulnerability and utopian fantasy that comes to light here is just gut-wrenching really.

I can read this book over and over again, and it's one of those books I always turn to when things aren't looking up, or I'm ruing the state of affairs around me. And it always makes me feel better. And it always restores my faith in people, ironically enough. I don't think I can read this book too many times, for with each read, it just gets better and better.

Sarah Winman - When God Was A Rabbit

What an amazing name for a book! That was the first thought that came to me when I saw this book at Waterstones. The gist sounded promising enough, and you've got to give a book with such a title a chance. And so I did. The initial chapters are indeed promising. However, as you keep turning the pages, it just keeps going downhill. And then you force yourself to finish it, and are left wondering.... why?!

Or well, that was my experience. The book spans about forty years, from 1968 when Elly (the narrator) was born in Essex to 9/11 and beyond. We meet Elly's brother, Joe; her parents; her lesbian aunt; Jenny Penny, her best friend and finally, Charlie - Joe's lover. And so the drama starts.

By the age of ten, Elly's been sexually abused (or it was so indicated, but never outright said), she's seen her brother in a gay relationship, her father's sister talks openly of her sexuality, her father nearing a mental breakdown, moved to Cornwall far away from her best friend, and... well, she's still perfectly fine with everything and carries on as though everything's hunky dory.

So many of the themes needed to be explored in greater detail, but... nothing. It was shallow and the characters one-dimensional. Even the brother-sister relationship, which started so encouragingly just... faded into nothing. The rabbit that her brother gifted her on one of her birthdays, and they decided to call god (much to her teacher's chagrin and horror) was a redeeming part of the book, specially when Elly believed he was anthropomorphic. However, even that storyline just drifted into nothing.

Yet, so many events were covered: the death of Princess Diana, the assassination of Lennon, the assassination of JFK, 9/11, cancer, a friend in prison, a Getty-like kidnapping. So much, and yet so little. So much promise, and yet such little delivery.

I was honestly disappointed after finishing this book. At only 330 odd pages, it's not really a chunkster or anything, but after about p280, I just couldn't be bothered anymore. Didn't care about the characters, didn't want to care about them either. I forced myself to finish the book, and well... I did.

Have you read this book? Am I judging it way too harshly?

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.

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...

Paul Murray - Skippy Dies

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

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

I digress again - back to Skippy Dies:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

David Mitchell - Black Swan Green

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh! To be thirteen again...

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

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

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

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

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

Rachel Ferguson - The Brontës Went To Woolworths

The Brontës Went to Woolworths is one of those utterly bizarre books, with quirky characters and a story which makes the mind boggle. The thin line between fact and fiction is erased by the Carne sisters - the protagonists of this book - as they let their imaginations run away with them, and create a wondrous warm world of friendship, happiness and make-believe. A dog who used to be Pope, a doll who used to live in Paris and friends in high places, including Judge Toddington ("Toddy"). You also have their mother, who indulges them and the prudish governess, Miss Martin, who judges them, as she can't quite fathom what's going on inside the bubble the family has created for themselves, probably to cope with grief and sadness after their father's unfortunate demise. To be fair, one can't really blame Miss Martin for being confused about what's going on in this 1930s household - I was utterly baffled by what was going on for the first fifty odd pages, and I kind-of had an inkling of a clue. However, once I figured out the line that the Carnes had erased, things suddenly became much clearer...

...and while they became clear in my head, things got slightly more complicated for the Carnes, when Deirdre (the eldest sister) met Lady Mildred (Toddy's wife) at a charity bazaar, and ended up befriending the older lady and subsequently, her husband - the father figure that Deirdre had created for herself. The "Saga" the Carnes had created for themselves was suddenly moving closer towards reality, and the emotions that ran through the book were both, endearing and heart-rending. Shiel, the youngest daughter, practically had no grip on reality, and her older sisters were extremely protective of her - not only that, but, they themselves spent most of their time in the nursery, escaping their own reality.

The other thing I loved about this book was the irony and humour present throughout. There were a fair few chunks that had be laughing out loud. For instance, the opening paragraph, as narrated by Deirdre, reads:

How I loathe that kind of novel which is about a lot of sisters. It is usually called They Were Seven, or Three-Not Out, and one spends one’s entire time trying to sort them all, and muttering, ‘Was it Isobel who drank, or Gertie? And which was it who ran away with the gigolo, Amy or Pauline? And which of their separate husbands was Lionel, Isobel’s or Amy’s?

How can you not love the irony, when this book is about the three sisters, for the most part?

Another bit that absolutely had me in splits was when Deirdre talks about a proposal she received:

I couldn't accept the man, much as I liked him, because I was in love with Sherlock Holmes. For Holmes and his personality and brain I had a force of feeling which, for the time, converted living men to shadows.

I did enjoy this book thoroughly, and would recommend it highly. It's not very twenty-first century, though, so it's almost like a fairytale. The cynic in me did kick in from time to time, but, I just brushed it aside, for I couldn't help but hope for a "happy ending" for the kooky family, that resorted to escapism to find their solace.

Monica Dickens - Mariana

I bought this book back in January, simply because the blurb likened it to I Capture The Castle, and ended up "saving" it for the Persephone Reading Week (hosted by Verity and Claire). I had great expectations from this book (if you may excuse the totally unnecessary pun), not only because of the blurb comparing it to one of my favourite books from last year, but also because the writer is Charles Dickens' great-granddaugher, and I wasn't disappointed. The title of this book is inspired by Tennyson's Mariana:

She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary; I would that I were dead!"

and it's the story of a young girl, Mary, reflecting on her life as a child, teenager and finally, an adult. In the opening chapter itself, Mary hears the news that a British Destroyer has sunk, and the next-of-kin of those departed have been informed. There are some survivors. There's a storm outdoors, the telephone lines are down, and there's nothing she can do in that point in time to find out whether she's going to be the recipient of good news, or bad; whether her dearest has survived or not.

While she restlessly awaits the morning to go into town, she reflects on her life - from the time she was eight years old until now. The idyllic visits to her grandparents' estate in Chabury during the vacations, the stress of school, her hilarious experience at a school for drama, her fantastic year in Paris (being courted by the romantic Pierre) and of course, the "happily ever after" before now.

I don't know what it is about the name "Mary," but the characters are oft' quite contrary (as in the nursery rhyme). The protagonist of the Dickens' novel is no different. She's spoilt, wants her own way most of the time, and her mother normally gives in.

"You're so utterly wrapped up in yourself that you have no interests outside your own egotism. You've obviously been accustomed to having your own way all your life - someone to do this and that for you, to listen to your complaints and pander to your moods -"

Despite that, I found myself rooting for Mary through the book - her naivety coupled with her innocence and idealism make her quite a charming character. There were times she was annoying, and deserved to be put in place, though, and at some points she just seemed very weak-minded and self-pitying. Was it the childhood romance gone wrong? Or, the indulgent Uncle who lived with her and her mother? Or, just a part of growing up, struggling with identity and desiring independence?

The writing is humorous, and the book an easy, "fun" read. It's not like one giant reflection on her life. Instead, it's like numerous continuous flashbacks, with no nod to the present.

I thoroughly enjoyed the book, and half-wish I'd read it when I was still a teenager. While I had no trouble relating to Mary now, I think I'd've loved her much much more when I was sixteen.

Have you read any other Monica Dickens? Would you recommend them?

And how's your Persephone Reading Week coming along?

Jeffrey Eugenides - Middlesex

I was born twice: first as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974. So opens Eugenides' epic novel, Middlesex. Calliope "Cal" Stephanides was declared a girl when she came into this world, against the odds. Her grandmother's spoon (which had successfully predicted the sex of previous unborn children) had swung indicating a son would be born, but, Calliope's father begged to differ saying, "it's science" - well, maybe so, but, fourteen years later (despite being raised as a girl), the Stephanides family learnt that "Cal" had a 5-alpha reductase deficiency, which resulted in the doctor figuring a girl had been born, not a boy.

Narrated by Calliope (and then Cal), this novel isn't just about the experience as a hermaphrodite. In fact, the narrator goes back three generations, where the ancestors were fleeing Greece during the Greek-Turk wars in the 1920s. Time moves on to World War II, the Depression, the race riots in Detroit, Detroit and the assembly line and finally, the present. The story adapts and evolves with each historical event, and its significance in the life of Cal and his ancestors.

This book is quite a chunkster at over 520 pages long, and while the gist seems to suggest its predominant focus is Cal's identity crisis, more than half the book focuses on the history and how the relationships through time have resulted in the present. There are incestuous relationships, the whole talk of what is acceptable and what should be avoidable, the "woman's" role vs. the "man's" and the filial and parental devotion that runs through the book, making it interesting and captivating.

The writing style is slightly bizarre, switching between third and first person, almost as though there's two streams of consciousness. But then again, that's one of the things I do love about Eugenides' writing (think The Virgin Suicides and the collective "we" narrator). The book is interesting, and despite being fairly long, it doesn't drag on or feel as though it's missed the final edit. It's humorous, witty and perceptive, with the scope of its narrative being ambitious, and in my opinion, Eugenides does a wonderful job of pulling it off.

This is the first book that I've read, where the central character is a hermaphrodite. It's also the first book I've read which deals with the Greek-Turk wars. However, I have read a fair few books around the whole immigration malarky, and this does manage to not be stereotypical.

Are there any other books you'd recommend which talks of the Greek-Turk history? How about books belonging to the "LGBT" category?

Maya Angelou - I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

I've wanted to read this book for ages, simply for the title, which is one of the most beautiful titles I've ever come across. So, I finally picked it up, and it's probably one of the most beautiful autobiographies I've ever read. On reading the blurb, I thought it would be similar to the Pulitzer Prize winning The Color Purple. While both books have a prominent thread of racism running through, the similarities end there. I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings is the coming-of-age story of Maya Angelou, born Marguerite Ann Johnson, set in Stamps (Arkansas), St. Louis and San Francisco. Initially, she lives in Stamps with her brother, Bailey, her grandmother who she calls Momma, and her Uncle Willie. Momma, a no-nonsense unemotional religious Christian, owns the only store around, and is respected and well-liked by all - whites and blacks. While their parents are in California (doing goodness knows what), Momma brings the two children up, with proper morals and values. In fact, when Maya uses the phrase "by the way" passingly, she is admonished for using the Lord's name in vain. And she cannot admit to liking Shakespeare, as he was white.

If growing up is painful for the Southern Black girl, being aware of displacement is the rust on the razor that threatens the throat.

It is an unnecessary insult.

When Maya was eight, she went to live with her mother at St. Louis, and was subsequently raped by her mother's then boyfriend. The boyfriend was later killed by her uncles, after the court sentenced him to just about a year in prison, but he was released immediately. This incident casted a shadow over the next few years of her youth, as she was convinced that she had blood on her hands.

However, this wasn't the only thing that cast a shadow in her life: there was the white dentist who Momma had lent money to during the Depression, but when Maya needed her teeth looked at, the dentist refused saying he'd rather put his hand in a dog's mouth. When she graduated eighth grade, and thought she had the whole world in her hands, a speech given by one of the "visitors" served a reminder that the students having ambitions higher than being maids, farmers, handymen and washerwomen were being farcical and presumptuous.

There was the world of the "whitefolk" and the "powhitefolk," both of which were prejudiced against the blacks, despite some of the powhitefolk not having as much as some of the blacks did. There was the emotional upheaval when their father picked them up from Stamps to take them to St. Louis. And of course, the confusion when they returned to Stamps, back to the safe and righteous Momma.

Yet, this book isn't written from the point of view of a "victim" - instead, it' a young girl willing to achieve what she wants against all odds, and her profound insights into the world she lives in - the only world she knows. She talks openly about how her brother is her world, her admiration for one of Momma's customers, the conflicting feelings on meeting her mother - a stranger - again. There's no beating around the bush, no meanderings - just calling a spade a spade. It's innocent and beautifully written. Each chapter can be read as a stand alone story, which, when put together forms a thought-provoking read.

People whose history and future were threatened each day by extinction considered that it was only by divine intervention that they were able to live at all. I find it interesting that the meanest life, the poorest existence, is attributed to God's will, but as human beings become more affluent, as their living standard and style begin to ascend the material scale, God descends the scale of responsibility at a commensurate speed.

I absolutely loved this book, and can't recommend it highly enough. This book is the first of the six autobiographies she wrote, and I'll try picking up the next in the volume, as the ending of the first book does make you wonder about how it all ties in, eventually.