Screw it. Despite Banks's evident skill as a writer (already demonstrated in this, his first novel), I am not going to give this nasty little story moScrew it. Despite Banks's evident skill as a writer (already demonstrated in this, his first novel), I am not going to give this nasty little story more than two stars. The creepy dysfunction of 16-year old Frankie, the narrator, is skillfully evoked, as is the rising sense of tension as his brother (escaped from the psychiatric ward) gets closer and closer to home. But the climactic scene, with the BIG REVEAL of the DARK FAMILY SECRET, against a backdrop of Satanic thunderstorms and sheepy fireballs, is just rubbish.
In particular, it is not a plausible explanation for Frankie's disturbing behavior throughout (though Banks seems to offer it as one).
So we spend 200 pages inside the head of this creepy little animal-torturer and killer. And then we're done. Mercifully. Asking ourselves what the point was.
I did not enjoy this book. At all.
"The Crow Road", in contrast, was terrific....more
I was underwhelmed. It amazes me that this book has been universally acclaimed as hilarious. "So funny you might lose an eye". Really, Vanity Fair revI was underwhelmed. It amazes me that this book has been universally acclaimed as hilarious. "So funny you might lose an eye". Really, Vanity Fair reviewer? What does that even mean?
If the shrill bludgeoning of obvious targets that is this book's stock in trade is considered as genuine wit, then God help us all. Personally, if there were an immediate moratorium on the publication of whining, self-pitying tirades by narcissistic, obnoxious, self-hating losers, I would not be particularly upset.
The only modest amusement I managed to derive from reading this book was trying to decide which obnoxious loser was more annoying - Milo in this book, or the idiot in "The Financial Lives of the Poets". I think Milo was the clear winner.
This is a shrill, ugly, vastly overhyped, book. I don't know why I bothered to finish it, but it was a relief to be done with it....more
Emotionally stunted males feature prominently in Julian Barnes's fiction. The narrator/protagonist in this story is such a passive creature that one iEmotionally stunted males feature prominently in Julian Barnes's fiction. The narrator/protagonist in this story is such a passive creature that one is hard put to give a damn what happens to him. He barely seems to care; the author doesn't seem to either, so why should the reader? As one follows his ruminations on his emotionally bankrupt life, the obvious parallel is to "The Remains of the Day". Except that Ishiguro's story unfolds with grace and subtlety, and engages the reader's sympathy. Something that Barnes fails utterly to do. I gave it a second star, because even in the service of an emotionally dead story like this one, Barnes's writing is always well above average. But I hated every page of this annoying book....more
This was embarrassingly bad, and the news that it has met with broad critical acclaim is infinitely depressing. Take two "damaged" stick figures, defiThis was embarrassingly bad, and the news that it has met with broad critical acclaim is infinitely depressing. Take two "damaged" stick figures, define each only in terms of their 'abnormality', surround them with the standard tableau of distant parents, cruel classmates. Make liberal use of facile, offensive stereotypes, for instance that the only conceivable career option for the emotionally retarded male basket case is to become a mathematician. Because this will allow you to sprinkle in some mumbo-jumbo about prime numbers which will then be taken for some kind of hugely deep meaningful symbolism.
Really, people? This write-by-numbers dreck actually appeals to you? Or did you just give it stars because the author is young and cute? That, at least, I could understand.
This book is formulaic pretentious drivel. My actual rating is closer to zero stars....more
The bookshelves constitute the review. Though I paid only $2.98 for this smug little nugget of crap, I'm tempted to sue the estate of Muriel Spark jusThe bookshelves constitute the review. Though I paid only $2.98 for this smug little nugget of crap, I'm tempted to sue the estate of Muriel Spark just on principle. The characters don't even rise to the level of caricature; they are stick figures that Dame Muriel pushes around her chessboard for a while. Until she can't be bothered anymore. The mystery is why she bothered at all. Surely she didn't need the money, and why would she choose to have this piece of mincingly clever dreck be her last "novel"?
I appear to be in a minority of one on this book. So be it. But this is really nothing more than a case of a talented author phoning it in. Muriel Spark's conversion to Catholicism and its effect on her writing are well documented. Somewhere during that conversion process she should have learned the meaning of shame. Because this is a book to be ashamed of.
I could allow my righteous indignation to sputter on for several more paragraphs, but I think I've made my point. There is nothing in this book that merits your attention. ...more
I have nothing particularly original to say about the publishing phenomenon that is TGWTDT. The first 50 pages dragged somewhat; then it took off likeI have nothing particularly original to say about the publishing phenomenon that is TGWTDT. The first 50 pages dragged somewhat; then it took off like a rocket and kept me riveted for the remaining 500 pages. The book's particular strengths are tight plotting and skillful pacing; the prose/translation is serviceable at best, though Larsson is quite effective in creating a mounting sense of dread as the story progresses. Characterization is less convincing - in particular, neither of the two main protagonists seems particularly interesting to me. Yes, each is "damaged", but it all seems kind of formulaic. I'm really not sure I want to invest another full day of my life reading more of the trilogy just to find out what deep dark horror lies in Lisbeth's past. (Hmmmm. Might it involve unspeakably sadistic acts of violence against women, described in graphic detail? More Chianti, Dr. Lecter?)
But the grand guignol aspect is a minor quibble. This was a terrific story, expertly told. An excellent choice for a rainy Sunday in January....more
Normally I'm not beguiled by first-person narratives, especially when the voice is that of an obnoxious boorish narcissist. Mykle Hansen's HELP! A BeNormally I'm not beguiled by first-person narratives, especially when the voice is that of an obnoxious boorish narcissist. Mykle Hansen's HELP! A Bear is Eating Me! is an honorable exception. Despite having a protagonist of unparalleled loathsomeness, unblemished by even a hint of concern for others or a scintilla of self-awareness, this book charmed the pants off me. The title is sheer genius, and completely accurate. As the story opens, its truly despicable antihero, Marv Pushkin lies pinned under his all-terrain vehicle somewhere off-road in Alaska. The rest of the 120-page story is structured as an ongoing monolog from Marv to the reader.
If you think about it for a second, you realise that Mykle Hansen set himself a nearly impossible challenge. A first-person narrative in the voice of a complete jerk that still manages to engage the reader is a pretty tall order. I'm happy to report that the author rises to the occasion, magnificently. I read H! ABiEM! in a single afternoon. It was hilarious. And written so smoothly that you ask yourself "how did he do that?"
Lying trapped and helpless isn't the only trial Marv has to survive. There's that angry bear whose cub he ran over with his Rover who takes revenge by gnawing off his extremities. He also suffers several hallucinatory visitations, both human and ursine, as he self-medicates to counter the mounting pain. This makes him the quintessential unreliable narrator.
The character of Marv works as a (hilarious) caricature, but the thought does occur that Hansen may have sacrificed the potential for greater emotional impact by making him so relentlessly loathsome. Most readers will be ambivalent on whether to root for the bear or for Marv. Scrooge's four ghostly visitors ultimately cause him to undergo a change of heart. Lear's misadventures in the storm teach him compassion and effect a reconciliation with Cordelia before he dies; Gloucester learns to see more clearly as a result of his blinding. HELP! A Bear is Eating Me! is not a story of growth and redemption. But so what? It's brilliantly realised and genuinely funny.
This piece of pig manure is a good illustration of the dangers of following recommendations found on amazon.com. Described as a "comic novel" set in mThis piece of pig manure is a good illustration of the dangers of following recommendations found on amazon.com. Described as a "comic novel" set in my homeland, it has about as much wit as a lobotomized goldfish and lards on the blarney factor to nauseating excess. Other defects include lack of a discernible plot, grievously bloviated prose, and characters that don't even achieve the status of caricature. The following paragraph exemplifies its glaring inanity:
Remember the day he saved the four sons of Maggie Kerwin and the two sons of Sally Fitzgibbon, with their boat going down in the storm sent from the north. ... Lost in the waves and found and lost again, with the mountains falling right on top of him. Remember the seething water hissing at his valor, raging that he should defy them all -- the waves, the rocks, and all the nibbling fishes below. This was the day he dived down and brought up the four sons of Maggie Kerwin and the two sons of Sally Fitzgibbon, and only him still able to holler. And remember the rescue of Hanrahan's goat with the barn burning, and Kate's cat plucked from the high branches of the oak, and his clothes ripped open for all to see. Forget that his words were made of the night air and that he had the gift of transport like none other before him or since, that his closed eyes and open mouth were the surrender of all this world.... Remember what's there to remember and forget what's there to be forgot.
Kitty's face had turned from flesh to stone.
And so on, regrettably, until the reader throws up in his own mouth at the unmitigated dreadfulness of it all.
This style of writing might reasonably be termed "Blarney quaint". In my experience, most native Irish people find it ridiculous, borderline offensive, and incredibly annoying, while a surprisingly high proportion of non-Irish readers react positively (the word "charming" is often invoked).
This book was a "Washington Post Book World Best Book of 2008", and is the first volume in a so-called "pig trilogy". The mind actively boggles.
..... and all the nibbling fishes below. dear god....more
The evidence that I am a complete Philistine continues to accumulate, as yet another acknowledged classic sails right over my head. I did not like "ThThe evidence that I am a complete Philistine continues to accumulate, as yet another acknowledged classic sails right over my head. I did not like "The Good Soldier", for various reasons. Here are a few:
# The plot was an awkward mixture of implausible contrivance and overwrought melodrama, and seemed fundamentally not credible, from start to finish. The basic setup (Serial philanderer Edward cheats on controlling Leonora and cavorts with Florence, the slutty wife of the book's narrator John) was OK - this kind of love quadrangle is hardly unusual. But the way the plot unfolds from the basic premise seemed ludicrous, even allowing for the fact that the account of events is being delivered as the recollections of possibly one of the most unreliable narrators in all of 20th century fiction. The plot was little more than a series of random, largely implausible events, lurching from one improbable crisis to the next. Prussic acid capsules in the vanity case? Suicide by penknife? Telegram-induced catatonia? Give me a break.
# The silliness of the plot had a lot to do with the complete lack of depth of the protagonists. You never get the feeling that any of these characters are real people, so their weird antics never seem like anything other than the jerky behavior of cartoonish puppets. Though most puppets have more character than these annoying stick figures. The most annoying of the stick figures being, hands down, the idiot narrator, John Dowell. A man allegedly so stupid that he doesn't notice his wife is cuckolding him with his best friend and hero for 8 years . Or that her "heart condition" is pure invention and that she's healthy as a horse. Who is apparently the only person on the planet unaware that she committed suicide by ingesting prussic acid. There was an enormous sense of relief upon finishing the book, because at least one didn't have to suffer the idiocies of the obtuse narrator any longer. (Dowell wasn't just idiotic; he was also completely without charm, probably a virgin, and likely a closet case)
# My final objection to the book was the profusion of passages like this one:
And, proud and happy in the thought that Edward loved her, and that she loved him, she did not even listen to what Leonora said. It appeared to her that it was Leonora's business to save her husband's body; she, Nancy, possessed his soul--a precious thing that she would shield and bear away up in her arms--as if Leonora were a hungry dog, trying to spring up at a lamb that she was carrying. Yes, she felt as if Edward's love were a precious lamb that she were bearing away from a cruel and predatory beast. For, at that time, Leonora appeared to her as a cruel and predatory beast. Leonora, Leonora with her hunger, with her cruelty had driven Edward to madness. He must be sheltered by his love for her and by her love--her love from a great distance and unspoken, enveloping him, surrounding him, upholding him; by her voice speaking from Glasgow, saying that she loved, that she adored, that she passed no moment without longing, loving, quivering at the thought of him.
Between this book and "Mr Peanut", it's been a bad month for marriage. But at least "Mr Peanut" was interesting. For me, "The Good Soldier" was kind of a snooze.
Nobel Laureate in Physics Michael Beard is a truly revolting piece of work: a slave to his appetites, whose progress through the novel is just one orgNobel Laureate in Physics Michael Beard is a truly revolting piece of work: a slave to his appetites, whose progress through the novel is just one orgiastic frenzy of wenching, gourmandizing self-indulgence because, after all, curbing his sybaritic excess would just be too .... inconvenient. If you think it's a stroke of genius by Ian McEwan to use this troglodyte as a heavy-handed symbol of the kind of behavior that's causing global warming, then good for you. Let me know if you still feel that way after 300 pages spent with your nose forced into every appalling detail of Beard's ghastly descent. Personally, it felt like torment to me.
Don't get me wrong. McEwan's got the writing chops. There are whole paragraphs that are hilarious, or exquisitely written, or both. But my guess is that when you turn the page that begins the final section, you'll just wish the whole damned thing was over already.
I was really pissed off that McEwan pulls a Don Giovanni at the end, denying the reader the emotional catharsis of describing the gory details of Beard's downfall.
Two other aspects that bothered me:
Though McEwan has obviously done his homework to the extent of crafting sections about physics that are entirely plausible, I'm not sure to what end. It all seems a little pointless.
The notion that Beard is some kind of irresistible babe magnet is just too ludicrous to swallow. He's a pig. I sincerely doubt that Nobel prize is going to overcome his swinishness.
This book is another example where McEwan's talent seems to have been mischanneled. This is an intermittently amusing, but ultimately repulsive story which showcases McEwan's cleverness, but seems empty at its core.
ADDENDUM: When I think about it, this book was never going to work for me, as I detest books where the reader gets stuck in the mind of a particularly obnoxious character. I should probably develop some kind of brief coding for reviews of books like this, as I know other readers are not necessarily bothered as much by loathsome protagonists as I am....more
I've read somewhere that the main thing a novelist needs to accomplish in the first 10% of a story is to convince the reader to keep reading. John BanI've read somewhere that the main thing a novelist needs to accomplish in the first 10% of a story is to convince the reader to keep reading. John Banville obviously does not feel bound by this advice. Hell, no, with a kind of oblivious arrogance that might almost be admirable, if it weren't so irritating, he launches this grotesquely overwritten galley of pretentious claptrap, and let the reader be damned!
The domineering patriarch lies dying in the upper chamber. Assorted members of the family he's mistreated over the years are fluttering around ineffectively. Also fluttering around is the omniscient narrator to beat all omniscient narrators, Hermes, whose pappy Zeus may or may not be ravishing the in-laws, while Pan ......
Oh, never mind. Who can be bothered? Reading the reviews of other goodreaders, I notice that there is a certain type of reader that Banfield spurs on to a kind of semi-ecstatic, hagiographic logorrhea. I suggest you read their reviews, which are among the funniest things I've read in months.
Life is too short. I gave it 60 pages. That's enough.
Upon winning the Booker Prize in 2005, John Banville commented that "it was nice to see a work of art win.... There are plenty of other rewards for middle-brow fiction. There should be one decent prize for real books."
This pretentious git* is president of his own fan club. The fact that I think his writing is ridiculous bloviation aspiring to be high culture won't worry him a bit. But don't say you weren't warned.
*: the fact that he's a countryman of mine seems to make it worse, somehow....more
The self-involved, self-destructive, tortured creative soul appears to have an unbounded appeal for certain authors. Apparently (sigh), Robert Stone iThe self-involved, self-destructive, tortured creative soul appears to have an unbounded appeal for certain authors. Apparently (sigh), Robert Stone is one of those authors. In this very slim collection of seven stories, he presents us with an assortment of characters, most of whom are living fucked-up lives. Some are interesting, some are utterly devoid of interest. As Stone is a competent writer (though he hardly merits the L.A. Times' hysterical acclamation as "one of our greatest living writers"), the success of any given story is largely dependent on the strength of the narrative and the characterization.
Given the huge variation in the quality of the stories, the only sensible strategy is to assign individual grades:
Fun with Problems. 2/5 Honeymoon. 4/5 Charm City. 3/5 The Wine-Dark Sea. 2/5 From the Lowlands. 3/5 High Wire. 0/5 The Archer. 4/5
Which works out to 2.5 stars on average. However, since the worst stories tended to be longer ("High Wire", a meandering, rambling account of the relationship between two addicted narcissists - it goes from barely alive to diseased to moribund, taking 50 pages and some non-negligible portion of your life - is simply unforgivable) I choose to round this down to a two-star rating overall.
The collection is somewhat redeemed by the stories "Honeymoon" (3 pages) and the final story, "The Archer". This review may be colored by my general difficulty in warming to stories involving unlikeable characters - so sue me! ...more
Yea! For once I actually agree with the Booker jury selection. This is an extraordinary book.
We all carry in our heads a certain view of Tudor EnglandYea! For once I actually agree with the Booker jury selection. This is an extraordinary book.
We all carry in our heads a certain view of Tudor England, and of the events that happened in the time span of this book (1528-1536). Before reading "Wolf Hall", my mental picture of this particularly tumultuous period was, I suspect, largely an amalgamation of different films and television miniseries, together with whatever I had retained from high school history (I had, perhaps fortunately, never been exposed to the vulgar charms of "The Tudors"). In particular, there was the lingering legacy of "A Man For All Seasons", and the inherent Irish antipathy to the name Cromwell. There was a tendency to think of this, one of the most important decades in English history, in cartoon terms: Thomas More as the universally loved hero-martyr, Thomas Cromwell his vile, conniving nemesis, Henry VIII an appetite-driven caricature.
Hilary Mantel's account of the period in question is brilliant, subtle, and so utterly convincing that one is forced to jettison that cartoon version of events. Her decision to present the story from Cromwell's point of view is an inspired choice. The changes that rocked England in the 1530s were seismic, and were fundamental in shaping the country's subsequent history. Mantel reminds us that, though the will of the king may have been a key driver of change, its actual implementation was hugely complicated, defying any reductionist identification of good guys and bad guys. Her rehabilitation of Cromwell as someone of great intelligence, drive, subtlety, pragmatism, and enormous political skill is entirely convincing. Only someone with this combination of talents could have managed to accomplish as much as he did. Thomas More fares less well in Mantel's account; the halo awarded by Bolt in "A Man For All Seasons" doesn't hold up under her scrutiny.
The writing is terrific, though her occasional lapses into contemporary business speak are jarring (fortunately, these are rare). One would be hard put to pick a more tumultuous, or decisive, decade in English history. The characters are driven, complex, subtle, larger than life. It all makes for fascinating reading. One longs for the sequel, and the inevitable TV miniseries. I hope they do justice to this extraordinary book. ...more
This is the second collection of "short stories" by Lydia Davis that I've tried, and it will be my last. The other collection, "Samuel Johnson is IndiThis is the second collection of "short stories" by Lydia Davis that I've tried, and it will be my last. The other collection, "Samuel Johnson is Indignant" had enough flashes of genuine wit to make it almost tolerable, despite Ms Davis's predilection for microscopically short "stories" (sometimes no more than a sentence long) and a preternaturally detached prose style. The kind of writing that garners raves from the usual suspects - "The best prose stylist in America" (Rick Moody), "one of most precise and economical writers we have" (Dave Eggers), "few writers now working make the words on the page matter more" (Jonathan Franzen).
Well, allow me to differ, Herr Franzen. "Break it Down" is as dismal a collection of bleak, emotionally constipated, tales of misery as I've had the misfortune to read in the last ten years. And let's be clear, Ms Davis's trademarks - "dexterity, brevity, understatement" - are not necessarily virtues. Not when they lead to passages like these, which are ubiquitous
"She stands over a fish, thinking about certain irrevocable mistakes she has made today" "My husband is married to a different woman now, shorter than I am, about five feet tall, solidly built. Next to her I feel bony and awkward .." "I moved into the city just before Christmas. I was alone, and this was a new thing for me. Where had my husband gone? He was living in a small room across the river, in a district of warehouses." "He said there were things about me that he hadn't liked from the very beginning." "Though everyone wishes it would not happen, and though it would be far better if it did not happen, it does sometimes happen that a second daughter is born and there are two sisters. Of course any daughter, crying in the hour of her birth, is only a failure, and is greeted with a heavy heart by her father.." "She can't say to herself that it is really over, even though anyone else would say it was over, since he has moved to another city, hasn't been in touch with her in more than a year, and is married to another woman." "The fact that he does not tell me the truth all the time makes me not sure of his truth at certain times, and then I work to figure out for myself if what he is telling me is the truth or not, and sometimes i can figure out that it's not the truth and sometimes I don't know and never know, and sometimes just because...."
Oh Christ, why don't I just slit my fucking wrists right now? It would surely beat reading this kind of drivel. At a guess, at least half of the 34 'stories' in this book consist of a 3rd person or 1st person narrative, centring on a clinically depressed doormat of a woman either in, or trying to recover from, a toxic relationship with a man who psychologically abuses here. None of these women has a name - they are all just "she". And Davis writes about them with a detachment that borders on the clinical.
In contrast to Jonathan Franzen, I can't imagine how a writer could make the words on the page matter less. The dreary 'stories' in this volume adhere to the dismal prevailing conventions of the late 1980s - tales of narcissistic or bipolar protagonists in which nothing much ever happens, served up in a kind of minimalist prose with that knowing ironic detachment. The kind of tripe that drives me up the wall, in other words.
(on edit, after posting this review: I notice that many of my good friends here on GR don't share my opinion - well, bring it on, Jessicas!)
I just found out that she was at one time married to Paul Auster. Why am I not surprised? ...more
This is another one for the "What were they thinking?!?" shelf. Doubly so, in fact. It's not just another lapse by the Booker selection committee, whoThis is another one for the "What were they thinking?!?" shelf. Doubly so, in fact. It's not just another lapse by the Booker selection committee, whose judgements we already know to take with a large grain of salt. But to be let down so abominably by Dame Iris, someone we know is capable of writing interestingly, though sometimes at the expense of prolixity. Regrettably, in "The Sea, The Sea" we see her giving free rein to her multiple vices, with little of the compensatory acuity that is there in some of her earlier books.
Poor writing choices all around. Or at least none that favors the hapless reader. So we are treated to the first person narrative of a monomaniacal narcissist. One who is delusional (sea-serpents haunt him when he swims) and who seems intent on tormenting us with the weird details of every bizarre meal he fixes for himself in his crumbling 'squalid to a degree only an English person would tolerate' surroundings. This kind of thing:
"Felt a little depressed but was cheered up by supper: spaghetti with a little butter and dried basil. (Basil is of course the king of herbs.) Then spring cabbage cooked slowly with dill. Boiled onions served with bran, herbs, soya oil and tomatoes, with one egg beaten in. With these a slice or two of cold tinned corned beef. (Meat is really just an excuse for eating vegetables.) I drank a bottle of retsina in honour of the undeserving rope."
i don't know about you, but a few paragraphs of this kind of drivel brings me to the end of my rope. Even if I could forgive Dame Iris and her editors for the astonishingly boring catalog of the dietary whims of a narcissist, those parenthetical comments ("basil is of course ...) are quite simply unpardonable.
Forty pages in. Not another character in sight? Righty-ho, then! Time to bale. Or bail.
In the words of a more talented reviewer than I: "This is not a book to be put aside lightly. It should be thrust aside with great force. "
In some hideous corner of the library of the damned, a doomed subcommittee is being forced to weigh the question: "The sea, The sea" represents a more shameless crime against innocent readers than "The infinities"; discuss.
Iris, Iris, Iris.... How the mighty are fallen....more
This fine, darkly funny, collection by Roald Dahl contains all the stories previously published in the two volumes "Tales of the Unexpected" and "MoreThis fine, darkly funny, collection by Roald Dahl contains all the stories previously published in the two volumes "Tales of the Unexpected" and "More Tales of the Unexpected". The back cover of my edition describes it as a "superb compendium of vengeance, surprise, and dark delight" and that's as good a characterization as any I can come up with. Continuing with my shameless plagiarization of the cover blurb, it describes the recipe for a typical Dahl tale:
Take a pinch of unease. Stir in a large dollop of the macabre, add a generous helping of dark and stylish wit, and garnish with the bizarre
Again, that gives you a pretty good sense of what you will find in this terrific collection of 25 stories. Though it perhaps fails to convey just how funny they are. Not to mention well-constructed and well-written. Dahl has a particular knack for knowing just which detail to include - and just as important - knowing what to leave out. Many of the best stories in tbis book stop just on the threshold of the truly dark, because the author knows that it's far more effective to leave the details unfold and reverberate in the reader's imagination.
These tales may remind some readers of the stories of Patricia Highsmith. My sense is that they are not as dark as Highsmith's, nor meant to be, because where one feels that Highsmith's misanthropism ran through to the bone, Dahl's is worn lighter. You can almost feel him winking to the reader, as one nasty character after another meets a suitably macabre fate "it's only a yarn, chum". I suspect Dahl actually liked other people quite a bit more than Highsmith. Upon reflection, a better comparison for these tales might be the stories of Saki (H.H. Munro).
Either way, it's a hugely enjoyable, often hilarious collection, which I consider the best of Dahl's work. (I may be one of the few people on the planet who doesn't "get" Charlie and the Chocolate Factory , which I find excessively weird, both the book and - pace, Gene Wilder and Johnny Depp fans - both film versions. And some of Dahl's other work, e.g. the frankly misogynistic "My Uncle Oswald", doesn't do it for me either. Though you gotta love "Matilda", and I've never read the story on which the "Fantastic Mr Fox" movie is based).
Almost all of these stories have been adapted for TV, by directors ranging from Hitchcock to Tarantino. Even if you've seen the series "Tales of the Unexpected", the stories themselves are well worth reading. My personal favorite is probably the little old lady taxidermy story, though the one about Liszt reincarnated as a kitty has to be a close runner-up. Or "Royal Jelly". Or "Lamb to the Slaughter". or "Parson's Pleasure". But this way madness lies, because really, there's not a dud in the bunch. ...more
Not completely dreadful, but not particularly worthwhile either. The characters that form the tawdry little love triangle at the center of this story Not completely dreadful, but not particularly worthwhile either. The characters that form the tawdry little love triangle at the center of this story are malevolent narcissists. Nick Laird writes well enough to keep one reading, but ultimately it's hard to care much about the poseurs in this book. Other reviewers have praised the deftness of Laird's satire - it seemed fairly heavy-handed to me.
Although this particular story seemed like a miss to me, Laird did strike me as being smart and talented, so I am interested in reading more of his work. ...more
"Moon Tiger", for which the author won the Booker prize, is a book that I could admire, but not like. The main protagonist, Claudia Hampton, an accomp"Moon Tiger", for which the author won the Booker prize, is a book that I could admire, but not like. The main protagonist, Claudia Hampton, an accomplished historian, lies dying in a London hospital bed and looks back upon her life. The resulting series of first-person flashbacks, interspersed with third-person accounts of the same episodes, coalesce into a tightly constructed kaleidoscopic view of Claudia's life which is impressive for the skill with which it is achieved, but ultimately left me unmoved.
My fundamental problem with the book is that Claudia is such a self-satisfied narcissist that the reader ultimately tires of the recital of her various accomplishments and the smug superiority with which lesser characters in her history (her unfortunate sister-in-law, her disappointingly conventional daughter) are dismissed. Lively is no fool, and attempts to mitigate Claudia's unrelenting smugness with a brief episode of vulnerability and genuine emotion during a doomed World War II romance with a British tank commander who is subsequently killed in battle. The jacket cover inflates this episode by describing it as "the still point of her turning world", but the problem is that it fails to ring true. Ultimately, the version of Claudia that dominates the narrative is that of the smug, superior harpie. To whom my reaction was - why should anyone possibly care?
So, while I can admire the skill with which this book was written, the emotional vacuum at its core ultimately leaves me cold. ...more
Bret Easton Ellis is an author who makes the (otherwise inexplicable to me) concept of the Finnish sauna appealing. After reading his vile 'brain'-droBret Easton Ellis is an author who makes the (otherwise inexplicable to me) concept of the Finnish sauna appealing. After reading his vile 'brain'-droppings, I wanted to spend hours in an intolerably hot humid cabin, there to sweat and be beaten with birch twigs until all of the vileness I had absorbed from contact with this dreck had been purged from my system.
I truly have a hard time understanding how anyone could consider this book brilliant. But then I also have a hard time understanding why people flock in droves to suffer the latest lientery with which Chuck Palahniuk continues to bescumber his readership.
Sometimes vileness is nothing more than that. There is no pony here - just a heap of stinking album graecum....more
WHY DO YOU LIKE SERIAL KILLERS SO MUCH? You don't know me, but I've been aware of you for years. I knew that you were out there, amassinDear Ms Oates:
WHY DO YOU LIKE SERIAL KILLERS SO MUCH? You don't know me, but I've been aware of you for years. I knew that you were out there, amassing that massive oeuvre of yours. Racking up all that critical acclaim. I'd lose track of you for a few months and, next thing I knew, there you'd be yet again. Plastered across the New York Times book section. With three more books to your credit. The Jenna Jameson of the literary set.
It all just seemed a bit overwhelming to me. For years I was convinced that you were a syndicate, perhaps some combination of
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Anyway, last weekend I stumbled across this collection of “Tales of Mystery and Suspense” that you published in 2007. The price was right (marked down to $5.98). From the dustjacket it seems like this is the fifth such collection that you’ve written.
So, credit where credit is due, Ms Oates. You surely got some mad writing skilz. From a technical point of view, the ten stories in this collection are ridiculously impressive (OK, except for that 60-page boxing story which it’s a safe bet that nobody actually finished). That unreliable narrator in “Suicide Watch”, the creepy atmospherics of “The Museum of Dr. Moses” – brilliant execution, I gotta admit.
But you know what, Ms Oates? I wouldn’t recommend this collection to my worst enemy. These stories were uniformly ugly, brutal and twisted. They disturbed me, but only because I don’t understand what kind of author would feel the need to write so many of them (well, actually, I do – the same kind of author that is fascinated by the ritualized brutality of boxing). I mean, yeah, the first story where you put yourself so convincingly in the mind of the serial killer – sure, that’s impressive. But, over and over again – it has all the entertainment value of watching a 70-year old contorsionist shoot ping-pong balls out of her vagina. I mean, you're nearly 70 years old - and this is what you think is worth writing about? Serial Killers?
“Tales of Mystery and Suspense” is a serious misnomer. There’s no mystery at all about these stories, except perhaps why someone with a writing talent as incandescent as the author’s should use it to write stories that are essentially nothing more than snuff porn. Even Jenna J. wouldn’t stoop this low.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go take a very long shower.
Maybe you should consider going on a nice relaxing cruise, Ms Oates? Or helping out at your local senior center? ...more
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