I've been starting too many books lately with only a faint commitment to finishing, or even reading much of them. This has been born from completing but only enjoying two thirds of my book before last (Emma Donoghue's rightly acclaimed 'Room' – doesn't it essentially end two-thirds of the way through? Isn’t the rest filler?) And only around a third of my last book (Catherine O’Flynn’s ‘The News Where You Are’ – quite saggy, scant momentum). Both of these were Christmas gifts bought for me at my request, so there was an obligation to finish them. Another request, Paul Auster’s latest, ‘Sunset Park,’ is now waiting. I’m nervous after hearing mixed reviews.
Wanting a short break from feeling obliged to finish everything, I frivolously binged from the library – albeit not successfully. A Costa shortlisted book of poetry, a serious looking Emile Zola novel I’m unlikely to get too far into but felt like a worthy idea at the time, a Graham Swift novel I’d never heard of, and an Alan Sillitoe book of short stories entitled and containing “The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner” – partly selected after loving the film, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, which Sillitoe wrote.
Our excellent new library sits squarely on the quickest route from my flat into the city centre, so I often fail to resist a quick scan of their New Books or Quick Picks sections.
Today, neither needing nor wanting new material, yet knowing I wasn’t being grabbed by anything I had, my feet wandered in there again. My hand selected a book called “Travel Writing – A Story,” by Peter Ferry. My brain was attracted by the simplicity of the title and cover, and was won by a cover quote from Dave Eggers and a compelling inside sleeve.
I spent an hour or so with the book and a coffee, and a band called Pepper Rabbit playing in my headphones, occasionally glancing out onto a high street bulging with Saturday afternoon shoppers. I grew more committed to this book than I had to anything else I’d read in a while. I particularly enjoyed the following.
“…I became interested in what we do and where we go to give our lives meaning when we don’t or can’t find it at home, when life there becomes too staid and certain and we have to create challenges – even dilemmas – for ourselves because problems are interesting and important and life without them is neither. It is the reason that people join the circus, I think, drink too much, drive too fast, jump off things, jump into things, climb things, run away from home, and paddle into the wilderness. It is also the reason they tell stories.”
Peter Ferry – Travel Writing: Chatto & Winduss 2008
I thought this was quite neat. Of course, there’s no guarantee I’ll finish it.
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Saturday, 15 January 2011
Monday, 13 September 2010
Minor grievances / Galgutted
Scanning the library shelves I kept repeating the names of the three authors in my head: Dunmore, Galgut, Chalkas (?) – if that’s how you say / spell it. I held little hope for any of them, given their contemporariness and likely popularity. However, as I reversed through the Gs, then spun around to face the GAs, I saw the Galgut.
The day before I’d taken a long, scenic, glorious walk through rolling countryside and listened to many podcasts along the way, mostly cultural reviews of film, music and books. One had passingly discussed this booker shortlisted title, In A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut. I had heard it discussed in podcasts before. It appealed: a dreamy sounding semi-autobiographical tale of three separate but interconnected journeys, a slim book of the kind I might stupidly aspire to write.
There it was. I took a sharp intake of breath and pulled it from the shelf – brand new but with that uncomfortable protective seal which all library books wear, like a disagreeable plastic sheet on an infant’s bed. As if conscious that the book could easily be spotted in my grasp and confiscated from me, I held it low to my thigh and made for one of the large windows across the large open space, then flopped down on a comfortable armchair, already sated by my smug glory.
Shit, I thought, not quite as eloquently as the book. This was good. I suddenly felt compelled to devour the whole book in one sitting, however long it took, then I quickly realised I couldn’t. Guilt, inboxes and paying duties would call.
I read 33 pages, saw another book en route to the automated machine – DBC Pierre’s latest – then tried to take them out. The machine rejected the books and ordered me to take them to a manned desk. My gut squirmed with irrationally strong fear that the book would be wrenched from me. “No, can’t let you have this one," the bald, blank man told me, indicating the Galgut. "It’s been reserved by someone else.”
It shouldn’t have been on the bloody shelf in the first place then, SHOULD IT? – I didn’t say. Because what was the point? Just take it. Accept another slap.
These things have been snowballing of late: minor grievances which in and of themselves are just that: small irritations. Some are marginally larger than others irritations, but all are essentially inconsequential. The second DVD rental in a short space of time which was faulty, ruining an long-anticipated pleasure; a bicycle too broken to justify the expense of fixing; a temperamental iPod; confusingly unclear directions during the walk; a weak handbrake which made hill parking unwise; slow drying laundry; the biting misery of the lonely which must be concealed for the sake of coolness and self-pride, but which never gets easier.
You have to be realistic and rational in the face of these things, however minor, significant or stupidly allegorical they can appear: this route doesn’t make any bloody sense! Woah, deep man. Fuck off, brain. And there are no direct correlations here. Finding the freezer door open can invoke preposterous anger. Be strong, keep going, take on the next week, see if anything different happens.
I sulked out of the library and walked a short distance up the road to purchase the book from the nearest Waterstones book shop. I wanted to read all of it now I’d bitten a decent chunk off. I hadn’t wanted to buy or own it, but now I’d started, I would. Fuck the library bastards.
Taking it from the new shelf I found my deeply programmed frugality offended at paying full price for such a thin book, the small thrill of its newness and the lack of a protective plastic cover almost non-existent. (Another thing). I paid a smiley young shop assistant with a grudging smile, instantly regretting paying by card as soon as I'd entered it in the machine. I had enough cash on me. (Another thing).
Why was I being such a miserable bitter dick? I was my father again. Like the day before when I was mentally composing the letter of complaint to the author of those terrible directions. I hated it when that happened.
I left the bookshop and walked past a church, a lone woman crying under its arch. She could’ve lost a loved one or received bad news about her health. What were my problems compared to these grown up ones; serious ones which could form plot-lines in hospital dramas and Eastenders? Nothing at all. Comedic ones which might make Adrian Mole or The Inbetweeners.
Queuing in Starbucks I made a silly face at an infant who was staring at me from a nearby table, then I made that pu-pu sound which tots in their teen months seem to be engaged by. A toddler equivalent of the kissing noise which alerts cats. This one smiled even more widely at the noise and his two female guardians laughed along. Three seconds was enough of that. I smiled weakly at the adults, didn’t remove my headphones and faced ahead again, remembering I was supposed to be annoyed and embattled and a dick. I shuffled forwards, looked gravely at a smug plump banana muffin, all full of itself, and waited.
The day before I’d taken a long, scenic, glorious walk through rolling countryside and listened to many podcasts along the way, mostly cultural reviews of film, music and books. One had passingly discussed this booker shortlisted title, In A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut. I had heard it discussed in podcasts before. It appealed: a dreamy sounding semi-autobiographical tale of three separate but interconnected journeys, a slim book of the kind I might stupidly aspire to write.
There it was. I took a sharp intake of breath and pulled it from the shelf – brand new but with that uncomfortable protective seal which all library books wear, like a disagreeable plastic sheet on an infant’s bed. As if conscious that the book could easily be spotted in my grasp and confiscated from me, I held it low to my thigh and made for one of the large windows across the large open space, then flopped down on a comfortable armchair, already sated by my smug glory.
“Memories come back of other places he has waited in, departure halls of airports, bus-stations, lonely kerbsides in the heat, and in all of them there is an identical strain of melancholy summed up in a few transitory details… From this particular place he will retain the vision of a cracked brick wall growing hotter and hotter in the sun.”
“…a sort of primal nervousness descends. But this is also one of the most compelling elements in travel, the feeling of dread underneath everything, it makes sensations heightened and acute, the world is charged with a power it doesn’t have in ordinary life.”
Damon Galgut, In A Strange Room
Shit, I thought, not quite as eloquently as the book. This was good. I suddenly felt compelled to devour the whole book in one sitting, however long it took, then I quickly realised I couldn’t. Guilt, inboxes and paying duties would call.
I read 33 pages, saw another book en route to the automated machine – DBC Pierre’s latest – then tried to take them out. The machine rejected the books and ordered me to take them to a manned desk. My gut squirmed with irrationally strong fear that the book would be wrenched from me. “No, can’t let you have this one," the bald, blank man told me, indicating the Galgut. "It’s been reserved by someone else.”
It shouldn’t have been on the bloody shelf in the first place then, SHOULD IT? – I didn’t say. Because what was the point? Just take it. Accept another slap.
These things have been snowballing of late: minor grievances which in and of themselves are just that: small irritations. Some are marginally larger than others irritations, but all are essentially inconsequential. The second DVD rental in a short space of time which was faulty, ruining an long-anticipated pleasure; a bicycle too broken to justify the expense of fixing; a temperamental iPod; confusingly unclear directions during the walk; a weak handbrake which made hill parking unwise; slow drying laundry; the biting misery of the lonely which must be concealed for the sake of coolness and self-pride, but which never gets easier.
You have to be realistic and rational in the face of these things, however minor, significant or stupidly allegorical they can appear: this route doesn’t make any bloody sense! Woah, deep man. Fuck off, brain. And there are no direct correlations here. Finding the freezer door open can invoke preposterous anger. Be strong, keep going, take on the next week, see if anything different happens.
I sulked out of the library and walked a short distance up the road to purchase the book from the nearest Waterstones book shop. I wanted to read all of it now I’d bitten a decent chunk off. I hadn’t wanted to buy or own it, but now I’d started, I would. Fuck the library bastards.
Taking it from the new shelf I found my deeply programmed frugality offended at paying full price for such a thin book, the small thrill of its newness and the lack of a protective plastic cover almost non-existent. (Another thing). I paid a smiley young shop assistant with a grudging smile, instantly regretting paying by card as soon as I'd entered it in the machine. I had enough cash on me. (Another thing).
Why was I being such a miserable bitter dick? I was my father again. Like the day before when I was mentally composing the letter of complaint to the author of those terrible directions. I hated it when that happened.
I left the bookshop and walked past a church, a lone woman crying under its arch. She could’ve lost a loved one or received bad news about her health. What were my problems compared to these grown up ones; serious ones which could form plot-lines in hospital dramas and Eastenders? Nothing at all. Comedic ones which might make Adrian Mole or The Inbetweeners.
Queuing in Starbucks I made a silly face at an infant who was staring at me from a nearby table, then I made that pu-pu sound which tots in their teen months seem to be engaged by. A toddler equivalent of the kissing noise which alerts cats. This one smiled even more widely at the noise and his two female guardians laughed along. Three seconds was enough of that. I smiled weakly at the adults, didn’t remove my headphones and faced ahead again, remembering I was supposed to be annoyed and embattled and a dick. I shuffled forwards, looked gravely at a smug plump banana muffin, all full of itself, and waited.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
February sustenance
Reading
Paul Auster – Invisible
I began fairly hopeful given strong reviews, but still feared about Auster’s latest due to a recent dip in form, an erring towards sameyness in subject. (Dark rooms, illusions, psychological trauma, or is he?-ness). Even though Auster sameyness is still sameyness of an impressively high standard. I needn’t have worried, and thoroughly enjoyed this from start to finish. Utterly compelling and quite possible to read in a single sitting if you had a day spare, its plot and characters are intricately woven in typically mysterious style so all is never quite as it seems – which you kind’ve expect anyway. The turns of the plot and style almost deceive the length of the novel: not very long. But rewards in its sparsity, deft touch and sheer readability are plentiful.
I often remember how good art makes me feel, the sensations it evokes, rather than the subject and what it directly contains. Particularly so with good fiction. I’ll remember ravenously devouring Invisible over the course of a few days, feeling excited by the pace and effortlessly graceful measure of the writing, occasionally breathtaken by the craft and confidence to masterfully execute understated yet profound scenes.
Paul Auster – Invisible
I began fairly hopeful given strong reviews, but still feared about Auster’s latest due to a recent dip in form, an erring towards sameyness in subject. (Dark rooms, illusions, psychological trauma, or is he?-ness). Even though Auster sameyness is still sameyness of an impressively high standard. I needn’t have worried, and thoroughly enjoyed this from start to finish. Utterly compelling and quite possible to read in a single sitting if you had a day spare, its plot and characters are intricately woven in typically mysterious style so all is never quite as it seems – which you kind’ve expect anyway. The turns of the plot and style almost deceive the length of the novel: not very long. But rewards in its sparsity, deft touch and sheer readability are plentiful.
I often remember how good art makes me feel, the sensations it evokes, rather than the subject and what it directly contains. Particularly so with good fiction. I’ll remember ravenously devouring Invisible over the course of a few days, feeling excited by the pace and effortlessly graceful measure of the writing, occasionally breathtaken by the craft and confidence to masterfully execute understated yet profound scenes.
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
2009 arty consumption
A selfish attempted record of some pop lit books wot I've read this year, lest I forget.
In no particular order
Tom Perrotta - Abstinence Teacher (4/5)
Tom Perrotta - Little Children (3/5)
Nick Hornby - Juliet, Naked (4/5)
JM Coetzee - Summertime (4/5)
Evie Wyld - After The Fire A Still Small Voice (4/5)
Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit Of Happiness (4/5)
Douglas Kennedy - State Of The Union (3/5)
John Boyne - The House Of Special Purpose* (2/5)
Charles Eton - Mr Toppit (2/5)
Julian Barnes - Nothing To Be Frightened Of (5/5)
Sebastian Faulks - A Week In December (3/5)
Richard Milward - Ten Storey Love Song (4/5)
Irvine Welsh - Crime (3/5)
Irvine Welsh Reheated Cabbage (3/5)
Zoe Heller - The Believers (3/5)
Zoe Heller - Notes On A Scandal (4/5)
Xialou Guo - UFO In Her Eyes (2/5)
Steven Hall - Raw Shark Texts (4/5)
Emile Zola - Germinal (4/5)
Peter Manseau - Songs For The Butcher's Daughter (4/5)
David Mitchell - One Day (3/5)
*still reading so should probably reserve judgement
Presuming one reader for a moment.. Frankly can't be bothered to find / post links to any of this stuff, but there's a thing called Google which can probably help out with further details.
And while I'm regurgitating media consumption, why not? New musical discoveries I've rather loved this year:
Florence & The Machine - Lungs (sad that it'll rightly become very popular but become horribly overexposed)
Mumford & Sons - Cry No More
The XX - XX
Alberta Cross - Broken Side Of Time
Gaslight Anthem - The '59 Sound
Jamie T - Kings & Queens
Biffy Clyro - Only Revolutions
Jay-Z - The Blueprint 3
Way too many films to regale, but my last seen is the best for a long time and up there with anything I've seen all year. Can't gush enough about Swedish film, the English title translation of which is, Let The Right One In.
In no particular order
Tom Perrotta - Abstinence Teacher (4/5)
Tom Perrotta - Little Children (3/5)
Nick Hornby - Juliet, Naked (4/5)
JM Coetzee - Summertime (4/5)
Evie Wyld - After The Fire A Still Small Voice (4/5)
Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit Of Happiness (4/5)
Douglas Kennedy - State Of The Union (3/5)
John Boyne - The House Of Special Purpose* (2/5)
Charles Eton - Mr Toppit (2/5)
Julian Barnes - Nothing To Be Frightened Of (5/5)
Sebastian Faulks - A Week In December (3/5)
Richard Milward - Ten Storey Love Song (4/5)
Irvine Welsh - Crime (3/5)
Irvine Welsh Reheated Cabbage (3/5)
Zoe Heller - The Believers (3/5)
Zoe Heller - Notes On A Scandal (4/5)
Xialou Guo - UFO In Her Eyes (2/5)
Steven Hall - Raw Shark Texts (4/5)
Emile Zola - Germinal (4/5)
Peter Manseau - Songs For The Butcher's Daughter (4/5)
David Mitchell - One Day (3/5)
*still reading so should probably reserve judgement
Presuming one reader for a moment.. Frankly can't be bothered to find / post links to any of this stuff, but there's a thing called Google which can probably help out with further details.
And while I'm regurgitating media consumption, why not? New musical discoveries I've rather loved this year:
Florence & The Machine - Lungs (sad that it'll rightly become very popular but become horribly overexposed)
Mumford & Sons - Cry No More
The XX - XX
Alberta Cross - Broken Side Of Time
Gaslight Anthem - The '59 Sound
Jamie T - Kings & Queens
Biffy Clyro - Only Revolutions
Jay-Z - The Blueprint 3
Way too many films to regale, but my last seen is the best for a long time and up there with anything I've seen all year. Can't gush enough about Swedish film, the English title translation of which is, Let The Right One In.
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