This has been doing the rounds on facebook. Here are my answers.
1) What author do you own the most books by?
Depends on if you include embarrassing stuff from my past, in which case probably Alaistair MacLean or Sven Hassell. If I'm allowed to exclude such horrors, probably Joseph Conrad. Because I'm like that.
2) What book do you own the most copies of?
Hmmm. Two copies of Nostromo (Conrad, of course), can't think of any others.
3) Did it bother you that both those questions ended with prepositions?
Only a little bit. To enthused by the thrill of this quiz to be pedantic. Might even drop an apostrophe or mis-spell something, I'm so excited. My life is very sad.
4) What fictional character are you secretly in love with?
Marina from Shakespeare's Pericles, because it is such a lovely name. I'd love anyone called Marina, even if they looked like Fungus the Bogeyman. Unless they voted Tory, of course. Some things are Not Acceptable.
5) What book have you read the most times in your life (excluding picture books read to children; i.e., Goodnight Moon does not count)?
Probably Nostromo again, Sorry to be so dull.
6) What was your favourite book when you were ten years old?
Crikey, you don't ask for much, do you? Only 15 years ... um, I remember reading a book called Grimble a lot while I was in primary 5 or 6. A quick internet blast reveals it was written by Clement Freud, who died just the other day. Oh, the humanity!
7) What is the worst book you've read in the past year?
Oh, now you're asking for it. The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova. Or Of Human Bondage by Somerset Maughan. Or Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens. Or An AMerican Tragedy, by Threodore Dreiser. Which, unfortunately, happens to be the book I'm reading just now, and I still have about 600 pages to go.
8) What is the best book you've read in the past year?
I had a shit year for books in 2008, absolutely shit. The Death of a President, by William Manchester, abotuthe shooting of JFK, or The North West Passage by George Malcolm Thompson, are the stand outs in an otherwise mediocre selection.
9) If you could force everyone you tagged to read one book, what would it be?
Summer Lightening, by PG Wodehouse, because every needs to be a little bit happier.
10) Who deserves to win the next Nobel Prize for Literature?
Oh, blimey, you expect me to be able to make a sensible recommendation? I buy books from library sales and second hand stores, I don't know nuffink about modern living writers. Gore Vidal, maybe. Is he still alive? That would piss off the shade of Norman Mailer.
11) What book would you most like to see made into a movie?
I'd love to see John Sayles film Nostromo, because he's one of the few directors that might do it properly. Of course, he'd need a budget of a trillion dollars (Hey, Barak, can you sling some of that stimulus package in Sayles's direction?) and he'd probably rather make a film about Guatemalan lesbian basket weavers, anyway. Oh, or something with lots of lurid sex in it. Because I'm that venal.
12) What book would you least like to see made into a movie?
Nostromo, because it would probably be hopelessly ruined. Yes, I'm aware of the BBC adaptation from a few years back. Lets not talk about it.
13) Describe your weirdest dream involving a writer, book, or literary character.
I really want to think of an amusing answer to this, but can't.
14) What is the most lowbrow book you've read as an adult?
The Seventh Scroll by Wilbur Smith. My brain still hasn't forgiven me.
15) What is the most difficult book you've ever read?
Translated Accounts by James Kelman. My brain still hasn't forgiven me for that, either.
16) What is the most obscure Shakespeare play you've seen?
Pericles.
17) Do you prefer the French or the Russians?
The French by a nose. The Russians might have sneaked it, but for the samovars. They are forever doing things with Samovars, and I'm not entirely sure what one is. I imagine a furry animal, similar to a small domesticated bear, though they appear to produce tea, so maybe it is a species of useful insect, like the honey-bee.
18) Roth or Updike?
Who are these upstarts? One of them has a pulse, and the other one did until recently. I want not truck with such things.
Which - reading between the lines - means I haven't read enough enough to form an opinion. Which, reading even further between the lines, means I haven't read anything, by either. Oh, the guilty pleasures of public literary humiliation.
19) David Sedaris or Dave Eggers?
Haven't read either, due to them costing money and stuff.
20) Shakespeare, Milton, or Chaucer?
Shakespeare of course. And Milton.
21) Austen or Eliot?
Humph. See below.
22) What is the biggest or most embarrassing gap in your reading?
Austen and Eliot. Only did Pride and Prejudice last year. Almost read Silas Marner as well, but my courage failed me.
23) What is your favourite novel?
Nostromo. Or The Brothers Karamazov. Or Sentimental Education. Or The Weirdstone of Brisingamen.
24) Play?
Julius Ceasar. Or Amadeus, if only to stop me sounding like such a bloody Conrad-Shakespeare-Conrad-Shakespeare bore.
25) Poem?
MacPherson's Rant by James MacPherson.
26) Essay?
Inside The Whale, by George Orwell. Or On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth by William Hazlitt.
27) Short story?
Oh, bloody Hell, you've only gone and given me another chance to mention Conrad again. "Youth,' probably. Or 'Falk,' because it has cannibalism. You can't go wrong with cannibalism.
28) Work of nonfiction?
Probably Trotsky's autobiography. I am serious.
29) Who is your favourite writer?
Are you thick or something? Joe Conrad. Or Bill Shakespeare
30) Who is the most overrated writer alive today?
Noam Chomsky. I try to read his stuff, and I think I probably agree with most of it, but I can't abide the way he has to include the phrase 'the racist discourse of American imperialism' in every third sentence he writes.
31) What is your desert island book?
An Act of Terror by Andre Brink. Not because I want to read it, but because I could throw it in the ocean and walk across it to the mainland.
32) And... what are you reading right now?
An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser.
The Marxists by C. Wright Mills.
Becoming Madame Mao by Anchee Min
Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes (officially - though I haven't even looked at it in about four months)
The Bible (KJV) - (The poor brute is envying the comparative attention lavished on Don Quixote)
Saturday, 18 April 2009
Monday, 13 April 2009
The Sea by John Banville
The Sea is a curious little book.
This might seem a peculiar statement to anyone who has read it, for on the surface, it is very simple. An elderly man, one Max Morden (morbid, moribund - geddit?), revisits the dingy little town where he grew up, recalling his relationship with an odd family that holidayed there, and the recent death of his wife.
On my first reading, I found the novel disappointing. I am a Banville fan. I've read several of his books, and this has given me a sense for what he is about. Compared to his past work The Sea seemed weak at first encounter. I imagine that readers drawn to him for the first time, perhaps seduced by the MAN Booker prize award, will be deeply perplexed as to what is going on.
Banville's books seem to be connected in a loose sequence, and this is the latest installment. Though the main characters all have different names, they are all very similar, progressively aging males. They share an interest in art criticism, though not as creators themselves. This is significant, I feel. These people are all fascinated by the creation of artifice. They are not to be taken at face value. Also, there is always something dark and terrible lurking int he past, usually not identified or explained. In Banville's novels, the gaps and silences are often more important than the words.
And while we're talking about the words, all these protagonists speak with very similar voices. Some people find Banville's dense language off-putting. I've read enough of his work to say - I THINK - that this stuffy, affected tone is a deliberate ploy on his part, not merely him being monotonous. His characters use language as a shield or a disguise - often shielding themselves as much from themselves as from the outside. But when Max faces up to his grief in The Sea, he expresses it in short and brutally obscene spurts of grief. It is shocking and effective, and a few short sentences leave the preceeding pages of finally wrought words hollow and artifical, just as - again, I THINK - banville intended.
So, what of the book itself? On my first reading, I fell for Max's - or Banville's - trick. The whole novel is an exercise in misdirection, as Max tries to focus our attention, and his, on the long dead past. Don't be fooled by him. His grief is raw and deeply felt, but hidden under a miasma of postures and fine words.
Overall, a very effective, subtle novel. It may not be rewarding on a first reading, or to those unfamiliar with Banville's work, but it is worth getting to know.
This might seem a peculiar statement to anyone who has read it, for on the surface, it is very simple. An elderly man, one Max Morden (morbid, moribund - geddit?), revisits the dingy little town where he grew up, recalling his relationship with an odd family that holidayed there, and the recent death of his wife.
On my first reading, I found the novel disappointing. I am a Banville fan. I've read several of his books, and this has given me a sense for what he is about. Compared to his past work The Sea seemed weak at first encounter. I imagine that readers drawn to him for the first time, perhaps seduced by the MAN Booker prize award, will be deeply perplexed as to what is going on.
Banville's books seem to be connected in a loose sequence, and this is the latest installment. Though the main characters all have different names, they are all very similar, progressively aging males. They share an interest in art criticism, though not as creators themselves. This is significant, I feel. These people are all fascinated by the creation of artifice. They are not to be taken at face value. Also, there is always something dark and terrible lurking int he past, usually not identified or explained. In Banville's novels, the gaps and silences are often more important than the words.
And while we're talking about the words, all these protagonists speak with very similar voices. Some people find Banville's dense language off-putting. I've read enough of his work to say - I THINK - that this stuffy, affected tone is a deliberate ploy on his part, not merely him being monotonous. His characters use language as a shield or a disguise - often shielding themselves as much from themselves as from the outside. But when Max faces up to his grief in The Sea, he expresses it in short and brutally obscene spurts of grief. It is shocking and effective, and a few short sentences leave the preceeding pages of finally wrought words hollow and artifical, just as - again, I THINK - banville intended.
So, what of the book itself? On my first reading, I fell for Max's - or Banville's - trick. The whole novel is an exercise in misdirection, as Max tries to focus our attention, and his, on the long dead past. Don't be fooled by him. His grief is raw and deeply felt, but hidden under a miasma of postures and fine words.
Overall, a very effective, subtle novel. It may not be rewarding on a first reading, or to those unfamiliar with Banville's work, but it is worth getting to know.
**
The Daughters of Cain by Colin Dexter
The Daughters of Cain, by Colin Dexter, is one of the Inspector Morse series. Now, I've always had a liking for Morse, without actually having read any of the books. This was, I suspect, because the much-missed John Thaw played Morse in the TV adaptations, and John Thaw was fantastic.
Stretching that logic a bit too far for my own good, I reasoned that because Thaw played Morse, and Thaw was fantastic, there must be something inherently worthy about the books. After all, on the TV screen, Morse seemed interesting. Surely the books would prove, if not as good, at least not bad?
Not so. The Daughters of Cain is a dull, unconvincing book. It doesn't really count as a murder mystery as there is very little mystery around the murder - the title is a bit of a give away for a start. It is rather stupid, I think, to indicate the identity of the killers in the title. If Conan Doyle had named The Hound of the Baskervilles something like Stapleton's Murderous Scheme Involving a Phosperescent Hound, a similar effect would have been achieved.
Random bits of information are thrown about - one character alludes to a rape or attempted rape, but nothing more is made of it. It looks like Dexter forgot about it. There is a somewhat clever bit of 'how it was done'-ery, but as the 'who done it' and the 'why done it' had ceased to be mysterious long before that, this isn't enough to save the book. And it was only somewhat clever, as I said.
The biggest disappointment, however, was the handling of Morse. Morse, without John Thaw's brooding avuncularity, is simply an old fart. He lacks charm or charisma. Worse, Dexter seems convinced he has created a fascinating character, and makes another character fall wildly in love with Morse - even though she is a twenty something whore and he is a rather pathetic old sod. Yes, she falls in love with him, not the other way around. Sad, and unconvincing, and it blows away whatever final scraps of credibilty the story might have had.
Stretching that logic a bit too far for my own good, I reasoned that because Thaw played Morse, and Thaw was fantastic, there must be something inherently worthy about the books. After all, on the TV screen, Morse seemed interesting. Surely the books would prove, if not as good, at least not bad?
Not so. The Daughters of Cain is a dull, unconvincing book. It doesn't really count as a murder mystery as there is very little mystery around the murder - the title is a bit of a give away for a start. It is rather stupid, I think, to indicate the identity of the killers in the title. If Conan Doyle had named The Hound of the Baskervilles something like Stapleton's Murderous Scheme Involving a Phosperescent Hound, a similar effect would have been achieved.
Random bits of information are thrown about - one character alludes to a rape or attempted rape, but nothing more is made of it. It looks like Dexter forgot about it. There is a somewhat clever bit of 'how it was done'-ery, but as the 'who done it' and the 'why done it' had ceased to be mysterious long before that, this isn't enough to save the book. And it was only somewhat clever, as I said.
The biggest disappointment, however, was the handling of Morse. Morse, without John Thaw's brooding avuncularity, is simply an old fart. He lacks charm or charisma. Worse, Dexter seems convinced he has created a fascinating character, and makes another character fall wildly in love with Morse - even though she is a twenty something whore and he is a rather pathetic old sod. Yes, she falls in love with him, not the other way around. Sad, and unconvincing, and it blows away whatever final scraps of credibilty the story might have had.
NO STARS
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Double Whammy
Knocked a thousand words out of both Traces and Scratches tonight, which makes me feel very pleased with myslef. That puts the word count for Traces at 15,500 words, and Scratches at 6,400 words.
Which means I'm still well behind on my word count for the month, but there was always heaps of 'holiday' time scheduled. I just didn't plan on using it all up at the start of the month, with mooning about in Taupo and writhing about in agony from my festering tooth.
I'm finding writing two narratives very helpful, as it spurs me on to try to meet my targets. I usually find that I can write one story pretty easily (usually Scratches) and this gives me the impetus to try to hit the target on the other story as well. There's nothing worse than lookingat the dreaded blank page and thinking, "What the hell am I going to write?" when you're struggling with a yarn ... but by giving myself a choice of what to write about, I can either build up some momentum by writing the one I'm finding easier first, which means I can carry on with the next one, or I can dangle the carrot in front of me as I plod through the 'difficult' one first of all, thinking, "If only I can get through this, I'll get to have fuuuuun again ..."
Working so far, at any rate. I imagine it'll backfire at some point, but until then, it's going well.
Which means I'm still well behind on my word count for the month, but there was always heaps of 'holiday' time scheduled. I just didn't plan on using it all up at the start of the month, with mooning about in Taupo and writhing about in agony from my festering tooth.
I'm finding writing two narratives very helpful, as it spurs me on to try to meet my targets. I usually find that I can write one story pretty easily (usually Scratches) and this gives me the impetus to try to hit the target on the other story as well. There's nothing worse than lookingat the dreaded blank page and thinking, "What the hell am I going to write?" when you're struggling with a yarn ... but by giving myself a choice of what to write about, I can either build up some momentum by writing the one I'm finding easier first, which means I can carry on with the next one, or I can dangle the carrot in front of me as I plod through the 'difficult' one first of all, thinking, "If only I can get through this, I'll get to have fuuuuun again ..."
Working so far, at any rate. I imagine it'll backfire at some point, but until then, it's going well.
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