I haven;t always been kind to Iain Banks, but now he's gone and died, grumbles about the quality of individual books tend to fade in comparison to his achievement over all.
True, a lot of the books were either pretentious student twaddle (Espedaire Street, The Bridge, Walking on Glass) or tired an bloated (Crow Road, Dead Air, Whit). Maybe three or four of them were truly brilliant (Player of Games, Against A Dark Background, Complicity). Which is more than you can say for most writers.
So what if he never managed to repeat the brilliance of Use of Weapons? What matters, of course, is that he did it once. And (at least sometimes) tried to emulate its scale.
Here is Iain Banks' final interview, shortly before his death. Definitely worth a read, for those who have not already found there way to it.
Really drives home that while he probably wrote too much, too quickly, now that he's gone you wouldn't really have had it any other way; and what a rounded, passionate, honest human being he was, beyond the (rather variable, but all now treasurable) books.
Sunday 16 June 2013
Wednesday 12 June 2013
A book with a title that I will not reveal for now
Some books really are asking for it. Take the one I'm talking about now. No, I'm not going to tell you the title, not yet. Not until you're ready. But to explain. I picked up a novel, by 'Best selling' auther JA Jance, at my local library the other day. Two things struck me as soon as I looked at the cover. Yes, I know. Never judge a ... but just bear with me, okay. Cliches are sometimes true. This book's cover was asking for it.
The first thing wrong with it was the title. Yes, I know, I still haven't told you what it is yet. I'm a tease. The second thing wrong with it was the strapline below the title, which proclaimed this book to be 'A Novel of Suspense', a high falutin' wording that vaguely echoed Conrad's line in titles (Nostromo: a Tale of the Seaboard). Old Joe could do it of course; but here, proclaiming the book to be 'A Novel of Suspense' only managed to sound both pompous and wistful at the same time. This wasn't a quote from some gushing hack, mind you. It was a claim advanced by the novel itself. Any book promoting itself in such a way is setting expectations that it damn well better live up to. Paradise Lost, however, does not.
Paradise Lost? Yes, indeed. I kid you not. She called her book that. Barging fearlessly where angels fear to treat, or something like that, and appropriating a title that might - just might - have a bit of history.
And the funny thing is, it is totally irrelevant. There's no reason for anything to be called Paradise Lost. I guess Jance just thought it sounded kinda cool.
The story stumbles along the predictable road of far too many 'series' novels - the tiresome set ups and rehashings of previous entries in the series, the irritating supporting entourage of characters you know you are supposed to love and don't, but which the writer is too enamoured with (or arrogantly thinks her readers are) and the annoying intrusions of the character's personal life into the narrative. Because, ya know, this ain't a detective story, it's a story about a detective and that means we have to know all about Tough-But-Sensitive Joanna Brady's romantic tribulations and her uneasy relationship with her daughter and ... and, ye gods, if I wanted a family saga I'd read one.
Plot wise, the novel is very predictable. The killer becomes immediately obvious applying the standard 'least important character rule'. This may have been intentional - I'd identified the killer as a prime suspect just because of his prominent placement, then decided he was too obviously a red herring, and devised a somewhat - to my mind - alternative. Which might be a testament to Jance's powers of misdirection, if it weren't for the crashing sense of disappointment when the killer is revealed. Scooby Doo did this sort of thing better.
So, no. Something was lost. The plot? My interest? But not paradise. It was a long, long way a way from where I was at.
The first thing wrong with it was the title. Yes, I know, I still haven't told you what it is yet. I'm a tease. The second thing wrong with it was the strapline below the title, which proclaimed this book to be 'A Novel of Suspense', a high falutin' wording that vaguely echoed Conrad's line in titles (Nostromo: a Tale of the Seaboard). Old Joe could do it of course; but here, proclaiming the book to be 'A Novel of Suspense' only managed to sound both pompous and wistful at the same time. This wasn't a quote from some gushing hack, mind you. It was a claim advanced by the novel itself. Any book promoting itself in such a way is setting expectations that it damn well better live up to. Paradise Lost, however, does not.
Paradise Lost? Yes, indeed. I kid you not. She called her book that. Barging fearlessly where angels fear to treat, or something like that, and appropriating a title that might - just might - have a bit of history.
And the funny thing is, it is totally irrelevant. There's no reason for anything to be called Paradise Lost. I guess Jance just thought it sounded kinda cool.
The story stumbles along the predictable road of far too many 'series' novels - the tiresome set ups and rehashings of previous entries in the series, the irritating supporting entourage of characters you know you are supposed to love and don't, but which the writer is too enamoured with (or arrogantly thinks her readers are) and the annoying intrusions of the character's personal life into the narrative. Because, ya know, this ain't a detective story, it's a story about a detective and that means we have to know all about Tough-But-Sensitive Joanna Brady's romantic tribulations and her uneasy relationship with her daughter and ... and, ye gods, if I wanted a family saga I'd read one.
Plot wise, the novel is very predictable. The killer becomes immediately obvious applying the standard 'least important character rule'. This may have been intentional - I'd identified the killer as a prime suspect just because of his prominent placement, then decided he was too obviously a red herring, and devised a somewhat - to my mind - alternative. Which might be a testament to Jance's powers of misdirection, if it weren't for the crashing sense of disappointment when the killer is revealed. Scooby Doo did this sort of thing better.
So, no. Something was lost. The plot? My interest? But not paradise. It was a long, long way a way from where I was at.
How Mumbo Jumbo Conquered The World, by Francis Wheen
I've just read this book for the second time, which might sound like a good thing but 'm not really sure it is. You see, I was at a second hand book sale and saw How Mumbo Jumbo Conquered The World and thought, "That Wheen chap is supposed to be quite clever; and I enjoyed (while not necessarily agreeing with vital bits of) his biography of Karl Marx a few years ago. So let's add this one to the stack." So I did, and I read it, and it was only after thirty or so pages that I realised with an uneasy sensation of unease that I had read the damn thing before. But completely blanked the experience from my memory. Which is not good, and something I never do. Usually.
What's even odder is that HMJCTW is quite a memorable book - even if you might struggle to remember the detail, the fact that you've spent several days in Wheen's bracing presence should be something that stick. The tone or texture of the book is good - affecting the scornful rage at crap of Robert Hughes's Culture of Complaint and the hard headed progressive stance of Tom Franks's One Market Under God (which Wheen acknowledges a couple of times, in close enough juxtaposition and in similar enough terms to suggest proof reading wasn't really a priority or inappropriate starry eyed fanboyishness on Wheen's part). It's good, though not brilliant, and better when Wheen is flaying dragons closer to home, such as faux-lefties like Blair or Mandelson, or assailing the reliable hydra of Margaret Thatcher, than when delving into the Hellish netherworld of Post-Structuralist lunacies. That, of course, may be more to do with my personal prejudices and preferences.
Al Gore - another pseudo-leftie who is always given an easy ride because he made a film once about something or other and was robbed of his rightful inheritance, rather like Esau duped by Jacob - receives a roasting, his mealy mouthed defence of the tobacco industry cruelly but appropriately juxtaposed with his elegy for his dead sister, killed by lung cancer after smoking since she was a teen.
It seems to flag a little bit in the final chapter, where you can almost sense Wheen deliberately aiming a few blows at leftwing commentators, with a slightly self conscious air to ward off claims of bias - but it feels a bit half hearted. If you are going to do a take down of Noam Chomsky - and there is a man in need of a thorough taking down - then do it properly, not over a couple of pages. Chomsky's attempts to dismiss eyewitness testimony about the massacres in Cambodia is mentioned, for example - but the obvious link back to the Post-Structuralist attempts to deny reality, and the similarities between Chomsky's tactics and those of Holocaust Deniers is not made. Perhaps Wheen felt anyone who had ploughed through 300 pages of his book would have been sufficiently improved to make the connection without his prompting; and perhaps my chiding is the proof he was right. But I still feel that the final chapter needed to more ferocious than it was.
As with most books of this type, it is easy to read and easy to forget - most of the rage is forgotten after you put it down, and you slide back into a catatonic state of vague satisfaction. Most of the arguments, examples and anger have already faded from my mind - but hopeful, this time I'll at least remember that I have read it.
What's even odder is that HMJCTW is quite a memorable book - even if you might struggle to remember the detail, the fact that you've spent several days in Wheen's bracing presence should be something that stick. The tone or texture of the book is good - affecting the scornful rage at crap of Robert Hughes's Culture of Complaint and the hard headed progressive stance of Tom Franks's One Market Under God (which Wheen acknowledges a couple of times, in close enough juxtaposition and in similar enough terms to suggest proof reading wasn't really a priority or inappropriate starry eyed fanboyishness on Wheen's part). It's good, though not brilliant, and better when Wheen is flaying dragons closer to home, such as faux-lefties like Blair or Mandelson, or assailing the reliable hydra of Margaret Thatcher, than when delving into the Hellish netherworld of Post-Structuralist lunacies. That, of course, may be more to do with my personal prejudices and preferences.
Al Gore - another pseudo-leftie who is always given an easy ride because he made a film once about something or other and was robbed of his rightful inheritance, rather like Esau duped by Jacob - receives a roasting, his mealy mouthed defence of the tobacco industry cruelly but appropriately juxtaposed with his elegy for his dead sister, killed by lung cancer after smoking since she was a teen.
It seems to flag a little bit in the final chapter, where you can almost sense Wheen deliberately aiming a few blows at leftwing commentators, with a slightly self conscious air to ward off claims of bias - but it feels a bit half hearted. If you are going to do a take down of Noam Chomsky - and there is a man in need of a thorough taking down - then do it properly, not over a couple of pages. Chomsky's attempts to dismiss eyewitness testimony about the massacres in Cambodia is mentioned, for example - but the obvious link back to the Post-Structuralist attempts to deny reality, and the similarities between Chomsky's tactics and those of Holocaust Deniers is not made. Perhaps Wheen felt anyone who had ploughed through 300 pages of his book would have been sufficiently improved to make the connection without his prompting; and perhaps my chiding is the proof he was right. But I still feel that the final chapter needed to more ferocious than it was.
As with most books of this type, it is easy to read and easy to forget - most of the rage is forgotten after you put it down, and you slide back into a catatonic state of vague satisfaction. Most of the arguments, examples and anger have already faded from my mind - but hopeful, this time I'll at least remember that I have read it.
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