2012 Reading List: The books that will accompany me through the year

So it goes, according to Kurt Vonnegut, a writer who will not feature in this particular blog post despite holding a very high place in my poorly titled ‘Authors I Really Need To Read More Of’ list. I just thought it made for a better opening than “here we go again”.

Before you ask, I am fully aware we’re nearly at the end of January and I am mildly apologetic for the delay in writing this. For anyone wondering, I have spent 2012 so far with the brilliant I, Partridge, possibly the only book I’ve ever needed to own in both print and audio form. I chose to read it first, and I now relish the prospect of listening to Alan’s dulcet tones on the way to work, especially when he’ll describe FM as being as dead as Chiles’ eyes.

Without further procrastination, here are the books I have selected to be my companions in 2012, in no particular order:

A Question of Upbringing by Anthony Powell. Actually, I suppose there is an element of order here, because this is the book I’m going to read next. The one and only time I encountered A Dance To The Music of Time was about 4 or 5 years ago when I was having a drink with a friend. One of those friends who is acquainted with a whole bunch of unrelated friends and who you normally see  in group situations. In fact, I think this was the only time we’ve ever hung out together, just the two of us. How fitting, therefore, that he would mention in passing that he was working his way through a twelve-novel sequence about a man’s life, wherein characters from the early books pop up, or are fleetingly referred to, later on, just as we all drift in and out of other people’s existences. That’s all I know about this series, and in a way, that’s all I want to know at this stage. I’m mostly fascinated by the investment required to churn through a series of 12 novels. Hopefully it will be an enjoyable one, although I’m not banking on getting through it any time soon; after all, it’s taken me nearly half a decade to pick up part one.

Hackney, That Rose-Red Empire by Iain Sinclair: I remember scorning this lefty-looking book when I read the Guardian’s glowing review of it – despite the fact I was eating organic porridge in an eco-ville area of Bristol at the time – and asking who would want to read a book about this now trendy part of East London apart from people residing there. Well now I do reside there, and spying this book at the ICA last year I was compelled to eat my words (and scorn) and to buy it, not least due to the lovely cover design but also because there’s a section devoted to the street I currently live on. The initial self-indulgence goes a bit deeper, because over the years my tolerance levels have mellowed and I’ve developed a keenness to learn more about the history and cultural and economic shifts in this part of the city, especially considering the events that took place there last year. I am still a big fan of porridge, particularly of the organic variety, proving that some things never change.

Erewhon by Samuel Butler: All I know about this is that many of my favourite authors have cited it as an influential novel, it inspired Aldous Huxley to write Brave New World (citation and confirmation required but you get the picture) and it’s meant to be ‘nowhere’ spelt backwards, not that is actually is. I found an old Penguin copy of it in a second hand shop on one of my favourite streets in London and I am really looking forward to discovering the secrets within. Or wihtin.

I am keen to build on my knowledge and appreciation of Dickens in his bicentenary year, and following the genuine fondness I found for Pickwick Papers in 2011, I’m giving Bleak House a go. Not being a fan of TV period dramas or adaptations, a screen version of this novel has not passed my eyes so I have no idea what the plot entails, but as I read it I will no doubt imagine that all of the older lady characters look like Judi Dench.

There are four books that I’m carrying over from 2011, or possibly even – for shame – 2010 so you can see more information about them in earlier posts: Faith in Fakes by Umberto Eco, one of the coolest and wisest living Italians who celebrated his 80th birthday this month, the gargantuan Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand that almost makes Anthony Powell’s 12-novel sequence seem easy to digest, The Original of Laura by Vladimir Nabokov – this has definitely featured on a couple of reading lists so I need to just get on and read the damn thing – and The Ebony Tower by John Fowles. 2011 was a Fowles-free year and I must have been affected by the absence because I recently found myself drawn to a copy of The Collector at a market to re-read the creepy final few pages.

You may have noticed that I don’t tend to be fully informed about my selected books and the same can be said about The Ginger Man by J.P Donleavy, but you could argue – and I will! – that prior research would remove a lot of the fun of discovery.  My dad’s copy of this novel has been a permanent feature in our bookshelf for as long as I’ve graced the household, and it always used to catch my eye because it has a similar spine – an orange one; basically it’s a Penguin – to Roald Dahl’s brilliant short story collections Kiss Kiss, Someone Like You and Switch Bitch, so I used to accidentally pick this one out in the hope that it was another piece of Dahl that I’d not yet read. My dad must have been there on one of these later occasions because he said The Ginger Man was a favourite of his, and whilst he’s no book critic, that’s enough for me. There is a chance he was being sarcastic – bear in mind I was going out with a ‘strawberry blond’ boy at the time, and knowing dad’s sense of humour he’d have found that hilarious – but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

In 2011 I read Brideshead Revisited and on the basis of that I am keen for More Waugh, so I’m going to read Vile Bodies this year. What a great title; vile is an under-appreciated word. I also recently re-read Catcher in the Rye and felt ashamed of my ignorance about the rest of J.D Salinger’s works, so I aim to rectify that in the form of Franny & Zooey.

In my quest to wade through the classics – I’ve still not yet tackled War and Peace, perhaps I’ll leave that for retirement – I’ve added Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy to the 2012 book pile, and onto more recent publications, I’ve picked A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan as it’s been recommended by not one but two people, plus its presence doubles the reading list’s paltry women author count. I could make myself feel better by pretending that the authors who apply initials instead of first names are actually females, which would raise the scale to 5 out of 15. Still pathetic. Whatever gender I allow myself to believe H.P Lovecraft is,  I’m intrigued by The Call of Cthulhu & Other Weird Tales because I haven’t read any horror (or is this fantasy? I have no idea!) for ages and let’s face it, any book with words like ‘cthulhu’ and ‘weird’ in the title is not going to be boring.

2011 Book List: The April to December Verdict

It’s been so long that even I had forgotten I’d written the Springtime update on my 2011 reading list. Quite frankly I’m relieved, as I’d have been groping around to remember much about Never Let Me Go apart from loving it and Under the Volcano apart from feeling vaguely underwhelmed.

Not wanting to draw excessive attention to my minimalist approach to blogging, but I did actually draft another mid-year post in the Summer. How very spontaneous! It’s punchy title was ‘Sequels: Do you really want to know what happens next?’ – had you answered in the affirmative you would have been waiting for a very long time – and it was incited by The Rotters Club as you’ll discover below.

But first here, or 8th overall, as I like to go through the year’s reading fodder in a chronological fashion, it’s Earthly Powers. Now, I’m so glad I’ve read this book. I can’t confess to enjoying all of it and there were times when I had to motivate myself into picking it up, but it’s that classic case of once you’ve made some headway, you’re there for the long haul. While describing a book as ‘epic’ fills my mouth with bile, this is a delightfully thorough study of a writer’s life and that of his brother-in-law, who happened to be the Pope – but knowingly so, full of asides and nods to biography norms.

Chapters in Kenneth Toomey’s life play out like separate short stories of their own, especially those regarding tribes and cults, and I particularly loved Burgess’ playing with the unreliable narrator with an unreliable memory who happens to be scathing of his trade as a writer yet is also very knowing of what’s expected from memoirs. I definitely want to read more Burgess, as on the strength of this and A Clockwork Orange he has the potential to become one of my favourite British writers. Please send your Burgess recommendations my way.

Reading The Man in the High Castle, a piece of science fiction, felt exactly like watching a science fiction film. I realise this is an idiotic statement; what I mean is, my lasting memories are of images and colours, not of characters or conversations. Or even a plot as such. There was a man in a shop, a Japanese businessman, a divorced couple – lots of fleeting fragmentary scenes that all slotted together but now seems like scraps of a dream. From this blurry recollection, I don’t think I particularly enjoyed this book, although I am really keen to read more science fiction and more Philip K. Dick, especially Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? because I have no idea what it’s about, having never seen Bladerunner. There, I said it. Glad to get that off my chest.

Sequel Debate coming shortly. I loved The Rotters’ Club. I’ve recommended it to friends, lent my copy to my sister, and I’d give it (not my copy, I’d buy another one) as a gift. In fact, it’s my favourite read of 2011 along with Never Let Me Go. It is an effortless read, one that had me laughing out loud and sobbing with sadness on a train journey up to Edinburgh: high praise indeed, for I love a good emotional outburst on public transport. I am in awe of Jonathan Coe for creating such whole, fully-formed characters from a seemingly throwaway description or two. I was fascinated by Ben’s younger brother Paul, would definitely have had a crush on the opinionated Doug if I’d been at that school, and felt slightly uncomfortable throughout that the Trotter parents were noticeable by their comparable absence to the other adults.

The student magazine articles are perfectly pitched and the skillfully delivered blow at the end of part one left me reeling. In particular, I loved how Coe captures adolescence, the friendships that we form during that time in our lives and how little mistakes or events can have such lasting effects. I found it so powerful that I couldn’t shake it off once I’d finished: I was desperate to know what happens to these new friends of mine in their future. There are hints at their eventual careers and relationships but most is left acutely cloudy so the reader closes the book with a delicious hunger, all the more relishable by the fact that it will never be satisfied.

Or so I thought when I looked at the book’s description and reviews on Wikipedia in a post-Rotter comedown and discovered there is a sequel, The Closed Circle! So this is the debate, as such: do I really want to read it? Surely the beauty lies in the not knowing, on paper, what happens. Characters and situations have been thrown up in the air and deliberately left frozen.

I had a similar unbalanced reaction of desperation to get my hands on the book mixed with the urge to shut my eyes and stick my fingers in my ears when I came across The Stars in the Bright Sky, Alan Warner’s sequel to The Sopranos, that had ended at an apparent conclusion of hope, opportunity and acceptance for the gaggle of teenage girls. Can’t we just leave it at that? Do we really want to know that most of their crushes will end in defeat and it’s likely the characters will just settle down and get a bit jowly? Or, in the case of another recent read, Imperial Bedrooms, we might like to think that the teenagers from Less Than Zero have grown a pair of moral compasses and not fancy torturing unrealistically beautiful women, but seeing as Bret Easton Ellis is in charge, that would demonstrate a jaw-dropping level of naivety on our part. My point being – finally! – we want the characters to remain as they are on the last page, suspended forever as they were. Don’t we?

I had no such qualms with Passage to India, whose characters were comparatively thankless and I was more than happy to dispose of them on closing the book. However, I can see what an important book it was and still is, if anything to demonstrate how cultural closed-mindedness prevails today.

In need of a bit of variety – although Alan Partridge isn’t exactly the open-minded sort – I went for Every Ruddy Word. Even though I’ve watched some ‘I’m Alan Partridge’ episodes countless times, this is so much fun to read and a far more joyful experience than with most published scripts from a TV or radio show. I’m doing a valiant job of restraining myself from quoting anything. That would be saa-aaa-aaaad.

The Annotated Alice was interesting not only to re-visit two of my favourite childhood stories and to learn more about their creator, but also because it was printed in 1960 and the annotations are written by a pleasant American chap, so the notes are either dated or unnecessary, due to explaining a British custom or phrase which is pretty obvious to anglo-eyes. However, this gave the text the overall impression of a snapshot in time, and when combined with some genuinely interesting notes, such as the fact that Lewis Carroll created the word ‘chortled’, along with Tenniel’s illustrations, it was a worthwhile read that’s left me with a real urge to learn chess.

Something Leather is one of those books that I’ll never return to, nor will I ever wholeheartedly recommend, but I loved it purely because Alasdair Gray is such as brilliantly unpredictable and uncompromising writer. You have no other option but to step into his world every time you read one of his books. Yet amidst apparent oddness come moments of heartbreaking simplicity, like the little boy who thinks his mum Senga is going to leave him, or Tom’s parents’ silent sadness that the teenage Senga refused their son’s hand in marriage. It can’t compare to Lanark – nor should it be made to – but if you want to read interweaving tales about women, one of whom makes sculptures shaped like bums, culminating in a strange orgy, this is for you! And it wins points for the critics’ reviews on the back cover being divided into columns labelled ‘Very For’ and ‘Not Very For’, the latter referring to it as “a book that shouldn’t have happened”.

The year finished with Pale Fire. As with Earthly Pleasures, I will not deny that this was tough at times –  in fact, I found it quite a useful sleeping aid, as I’d be exhausted after reading a few pages – yet completely rewarding. Nabokov remains a hero, more so perhaps because in this book he’s created a narrator who’s more barmy than Humbert Humbert. I often don’t like reading   forewords because they ruin the plot, but I found the torrent of ideas in the ‘Introductory Essay’ very useful to get into the tone and mindset of the novel, which is, in essence, a long poem written by a recently murdered scholar followed by footnotes on said poem, which happens to be called Pale Fire, by the poet’s colleague and neighbour, who hails from a country called Zembla. Who may or may not be who he says/thinks he is. The footnotes jump around to the point that you have to keep your fingers in about 3 different pages while you’re reading so you can cross-reference things. Mary McCarthy writes in the aforementioned introduction that the poet, John Shade, decided there is ‘a web of sense in creation’, ‘not text but texture, the warp and woof of coincidence’.

The warp and woof of coincidence! If you take anything from this away from you – and if you’re still here I’ll throw in some applause  for free – I hope it’s that phrase.

Book List Update – April 2011

” ‘Ramblings from someone who just won’t go away’? But she’s always away. In fact, she only writes on this goddamn thing at the end of the year and the start of the next….”

Well this’ll show you! A blog post that appears a mere 3 months after the last one! Kapow!

Yes, the finger has been pretty much pulled out – how else would I be typing – and I’ve even got a few ideas about non-book related matters, from foreign films to public transport networks (admittedly, some are more interesting than others) that I intend to write about here before, well, the end of the year.

Back to the task at hand: here are some reviews, thoughts and overall waffle about the books that I’ve read so far in 2011:

And what better way to welcome in the new year than a compelling, heart-breaking story about human clones? Never Let Me Go was at the top of the list due to the imminent film release, as I naturally wanted to read it first so I could go to the cinema and feel frustrated every time the plot veered away from that of the text. I’ve since read lots of reviews about both film and book and the latter in particular seems to have really divided people. Some readers have found it painfully stilted and emotionless, and they struggled to care about the characters; others have been deeply affected by it, partly due to the careful narration. I am well and truly in the latter camp. Harrowing and helpless, this just left me with a big ache, and I love a book that can do that to you. Admittedly, there isn’t one key scene of (I’m paraphrasing from memory here) “and why shouldn’t I admit it? My heart was breaking”, as in The Remains of the Day, but just the very premise of the story brings a shudder. Highly recommended.

Next up was Under The Volcano. This too is full of a lingering sadness. A story of a doomed man, his alcoholism and his dead marriage. I enjoyed the descriptions of Mexico but found his inevitable descent slightly frustrating – why didn’t he just let Yvonne help him? A cynical side of me wonders if this book has garnered praise because Malcolm Lowry – an alumnus of the boys school round the corner from mine (well, I thought it was interesting) – also struggled with the booze and seems to have written and re-written parts of the story several times, before dying and leaving it for his surviving wife to get it published. This is the sort of book that provides lasting visual images of scenes as opposed to any recollection of the plot; whether that’s a good or bad thing is up to you.

Troubles by J.G. Farrell goes one step further and paints a wonderfully vivid portrait of a decrepit hotel full of mangy cats and batty old women. The smell of decay – of the hotel, Ireland and some of the characters’ sanity – lingers throughout, settling awkwardly next to comic caricatures to great effect. Whilst there don’t appear to be any wholly likable characters, and a harsher critic could even describe them as somewhat one-dimensional, you do feel for Major Brendan Archer, who becomes increasingly helpless as everything around him starts to fall apart (sometimes literally), yet he remains the only constant within the ever-changing Majestic, and as such a pillar of strength to many others. I’ve lent the book to my mum and I intend to get my hands on a copy of the Booker prize winning successor, The Siege of Krishnapoor, so I must have liked it a lot, but I’m not really sure why, making this possibly the most useless review ever.

In Cold Blood and Brideshead Revisited came next, and I’m not really sure what I can say about both of these classics that hasn’t been said before. The plot of the former – the real-life murder of a family – is absolutely compelling, and Capote’s writing style is both succinct and lovely, a lot more restrained than in some of his other works. I really think everybody needs to read this book, for the character analysis of the killers and the subsequent moral dilemma of putting them to death, and also just because it is a rightfully important piece of literature, as the original ‘non-fiction novel’. I’m ashamed I’ve waited so long before picking it up.

Brideshead Revisited was a lot more enjoyable than I’d imagined, as I’d assumed it would be pretty stiff, but it was well written and unpredictable, although there were times when I’d have preferred the idolised Sebastian to have taken centre-stage. The narrator, Charles Ryder, is a seemingly attractive but unremarkable man of money, and he reminded me a bit of Richard Papen from The Secret History, as in he’s a bit of a blank canvas waiting to be filled in by other more interesting students. I was impressed by Waugh’s wry observations as they retained a contemporary feel: young Cordelia Flyte’s comments about sponsoring black orphans in Africa – ” ‘I’ve got six black Cordelia’s already. Isn’t it lovely?'” – seem more fitting to a Chris Morris sketch than a 1945 novel. I’ve got Vile Bodies and I’m really looking forward to seeing whether that has more of the same social commentary.

A Fine Balance was next. Is it just me, or are we now a little bit numb to stories about mutilated beggars from India? Is it the Slumdog Millionaire effect? Or is it a watered-down literary form of torture porn, something that we find ourselves strangely intrigued and repelled by? Raise your hands now. Oh, you don’t have any because some horrible man cut them off when you were young. Either way, this weighty novel drowns us in swathes of harrowing tales of torture and suffering, and the whole book is steeped in hopelessness, so much so that you can’t enjoy the happier scenes because you know it’s all going to get a heck of a lot worse. Rohinton Mistry is an admirable storyteller, and the 600-odd pages make for rapid reading, however I must admit that on occasion I didn’t enjoy his writing style: some of the descriptions were crudely drawn, and the language felt too simple or the metaphors too clunky. However, I absolutely loved the character of Beggarman; what an inspired idea to make the man responsible for removing limbs and making money from the resulting deformities both a protector to some of the characters, a comedic figure and actually strangely selfless. The scenes when he speaks to Dina about his feelings towards Shankar are so well executed, I’d recommend the book for them alone.

For light relief, I then moved on to Mark Kermode’s It’s Only A Movie which is a great read. Memoirs are at their best when the writer mocks him or herself. I love the way Kermode takes the reader right to the point when you start to think he’s completely up his own arse, only to then turn around and laugh at his inadequacies. To me, he never reaches the realms of self parody, although I’m sure many would disagree. And he loves Kurt Vonnegut! Another reason to rate him. I read most of this book on a train from Cornwall to London and chuckled loudly on many occasions, especially the bit about the journalist at City Life who kept a list of ‘Top Ten Teas’ – mainly because it’s something I, or some of my friends, would do.

And that’s all so far. Right now I’m at the very beginning of Earthly Pleasures and am yet to settle into it. Do get in touch if you agree or disagree with any of the above. Unlike Mr Kermode, I do not think that I’m always right. Sometimes, but not always.

Review of My 2010 Reading List

Oh, didn’t I do well with my 2010 resolution to write more than one blog a year? I’m sure you were all dazzled by my detailed descriptions of my fortnight training in Kabul, entertained by my account of our house swap to Berlin over the summer, and intrigued by my fascinating comments on the UK radio industry. No, yet again I am the balloon in the inflatable school who lets myself down and lets everyone else down too.

But what’s the point of having resolutions that you actually stick to? Achievable goals, they’re just so do-able. I’m all about the trying.

And it’s that time of year again, the time we’ve all been waiting for with baited breath, but before I reveal my reading list for 2011 in the vain belief that anyone apart from me is interested, let me allow a moment of reflection on the books I chose to accompany me through 2010.

If my memory serves me correctly, I started the year with The Collector by John Fowles and he didn’t disappoint. I’m impressed at how modern the book feels, as I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been written this year instead of nearly half a century ago. The simple device of allowing the story to be told from both the perspectives of the captor and the captive manages to accentuate the feelings of claustrophobia, and the short final section is really chilling. I remember speaking to someone who gave up on the book during Miranda’s part because they found her character too airy-fairy and I think that’s such a waste because this is one story that you really need to stick with until the very last page. Another example is Dorian by Will Self, which I only half-liked until I reached the Epilogue and then it went up a great deal in my estimation. All in all, The Collector was a great way to start the year and yet another reason to love the un-pigeonhole-able Fowles.

Lady Oracle was entertaining and excellent, as all Atwood’s works are, but reminded me yet again that I find her post-Handmaid’s Tale dystopian books far more meaty and substantial that her earlier works about dysfunctional relationships. I read The Year of the Flood while house-bound in Kabul after a bomb explosion and was completely captivated. I love how neatly it fits with Oryx and Crake, and how it doesn’t matter which order you read them in. She also has the coolest, most dry Canadian accent I’ve ever heard, bordering on monotone, as I discovered when Women’s Hour did a feature of the 25th anniversary of The Handmaid’s Tale in the Autumn.

As with most books that have transcended into the upper echelons of cult classic status, Breakfast at Tiffany’s was an interesting read but one that left me feeling a little hollow.

I had a similar experience when re-reading Catcher in the Rye this year for a potential radio programme, although the narration and character of Holden are far more intriguing to me than those in Capote’s novella, but I had the opposite when picking up To Kill A Mockingbird again in preparation to produce ‘To Kill A Mockingbird at 50’ for BBC Radio 2. That book is achingly beautiful and timeless, one of the few that deserves its universal praise.

The Vagrants by Yiyun Li wins the dubiously-titled but much-acclaimed prize of My Most Depressing Read of 2010. Beautifully written but oh so hopeless, the characters and their fates are ones that will stay with me for a long time. Highly recommended. The New York Trilogy is also one of my favourite books of the year, something I’d like to re-read even now as I think I’ll get a lot more from it second time round. I know it’s an over-used tactic but I did find it very exciting when Paul Auster appeared within the stories. It was as entertaining an author inclusion in his own work as Bret Easton Ellis‘ narrative self in Lunar Park; unfortunately, his long-awaited follow-up, Imperial Bedrooms wins Most Disappointing Book of 2010.

I’d even re-read Less Than Zero in preparation, trying and failing to find more (or any) substance or appeal in it than I had the first time, and found its sequel more than dire, lacking any of the smart gloss of Glamorama or American Psycho that makes the inevitable violence more visceral. Reading Imperial Bedrooms, I really felt as though the joke was on us, but having said all that, if a new B.E.E book was released tomorrow I’d still rush out to buy it, and watching Miranda Sawyer interview him at Latitude was one of my festival highlights of the year because he managed to be so slippery and not giving a shit yet so likeable and charming.

My attempt to crowbar in a factual book didn’t fill me with encouragement as whilst Maria Tatar‘s Enchanted Hunters was interesting, it didn’t really tell me anything new about children’s stories and the morality tales within them. I would have preferred more spurious theories, or at least a bit of personality or ownership from the author, than obvious comments about the impact of the Brothers Grimm. Which leads me nicely onto Gunter Grass‘ The Rat, a highly confusing yet intriguing melting pot of styles that threw in the aforementioned brothers and their creations, Grass’ own creation of Oskar Matzerath (do not read this book if you aren’t acquainted with The Tin Drum as it will be even harder to follow), Grass himself, some women on a boat and the eponymous Rat. At times I was very lost, or bored, or both, but somehow I think that’s what Grass wants you to feel.

A personal highlight about this book is that I was reading it while queuing to see Kevin Eldon at The Stand during the Edinburgh Festival and my favourite comedian, Stewart Lee, came along to flyer for his wife’s show. The person in front of me was reading Wolf Hall, so Lee spotted that then The Rat, and as he handed me a flyer he said “Kevin Eldon gets a very well-read crowd at his shows. You’d never see anyone reading Gunter Grass at a Michael McIntyre gig”. With this rare opportunity to embark on a charming conversation with one of my heroes I opted for turning a charmless hue of puce and attempting a smile as I was overwhelmed into silence. The only thing I could think of saying was “well, I’m reading your book next” so I think silence was actually the best option.

Which segues neatly onto another favourite read of the year: How I Escaped My Certain Fate (the Life and Deaths of a Stand-Up Comedian) by Stewart Lee.

Look, even the cover is brilliant! Even though, dare I say it, I haven’t found his recent shows as stop-no-really-I-can’t-breathe funny since his brilliant 2006 routine about vomiting into the gaping anus of Christ, his delivery and train of thought never cease to impress. This book is a fascinating insight into his career and I hadn’t appreciated the joy of reading transcripts from shows I’ve been to until I’d opened this. Thoughtful and honest, it is also very funny. I saw a besuited gentleman reading this at Earl’s Court tube the other day and had to resist the urge to approach him with some inane comment like “that book’s great, you’re in for a treat” because the shock of a stranger offering – albeit banal – friendly chit chat may have caused him to batter me with his briefcase.

What next? Well, between the favourites and the worsties come the ‘hmmmm, they’re OK….’ titles which left me indifferent. Step forward The Island and Daniel Martin, which are disappointing because generally I fly the flag for Huxley and Fowles. The Outsider by Albert Camus also nestles under this umbrella as I just kept thinking ‘right, he doesn’t feel anything, I get it, now what?’ throughout, which I’m sure isn’t the point and probably highlights my lack of subtle literary appreciation.

Two books that exceeded my expectations were The Nice and the Good, which had an air of country romp and bracing family saga, elegantly depicted by Murdoch who didn’t take any of the characters too seriously, a feat which is refreshing in itself, and Nathanael West‘s Collected Works. Some were better than others – I wasn’t too taken with Miss Lonelyhearts, but The Dream Life of Balso Snell is off-the-scale loopy in a brilliant Lewis Carroll way, with weird scenarios merging seamlessly into other  bizarre encounters, all taking place inside a Trojan horse, of course. And The Day of the Locust is well worth reading, not least for it’s bleak depiction of Hollywood – there’s something very Mulholland Drive about it – and it’s even bleaker ending, but for the fact that one of its main characters is a useless bloke called Homer Simpson.

Sun by David Eagleman is a very easy to read yet thought-provoking set of scenarios imagining what happens to us after we die. They’re so short – some just one or two pages – that I found it hard to remember any of them so I think I’ll need to re-visit the book later on, but they did make an impression on me, mainly for the sheer variety of happy and distressing images conjured by Eagleman. And We by Yevgeny Zamyatin is absolutely brilliant and bleak, yet – as I’d feared – I now appreciate 1984 less because Orwell was clearly more than just a little bit influenced by it.

I’ve recently finished Foucault’s Pendulum which was probably my Albatross of 2010 – all 641 pages of it – and all I can say is, yes it’s very clever but I’m glad it’s over. I failed to work my way through The Original of Laura, so that will have to go on my 2011 list, and I’m currently enjoying the adventures of the Pickwick Club, so all in all – Nabokov’s posthumous paperweight notwithstanding – I’ve managed to read all of the books on my 2010 list, realising that some achievable goals are worthwhile.

New Decade, New Booklist

While trying to convince myself that having a blog which is pretty much only ever updated once a year is somehow knowing and superior to those which are frequently added to, I conclude I am a proper loser and need to pull my finger out.

So my mid-January resolution – they tend to be more resolute than the ones made as midnight strikes into the new year and you’re (I’m) sick on your (my) hands – is to write more in here.

This is what I intend to write about:

– Books I’m going to read this year (see below)

– Comments on books I’ve particularly enjoyed reading this year and possibly a review of my preferred reads of 2009

– Bands and artists I may end up interviewing for Clash magazine

– My upcoming trip to Kabul. Didn’t you read in the latest broadsheet ‘top travel destination of 2010’? Yes, that cruise around land-locked Afghanistan is what every self-respecting adventurer is doing this decade. But more on that in another post…

So without further ado, here’s my book list for 2010.

John Fowles – The Collector: I adored the Magus so have bought a stack of his works at the second hand book stall on London’s southbank. I love his sparse writing style.

Margaret Atwood – Lady Oracle: This lady can do no wrong in my eyes. I hope this early novel of hers is as good as The Edible Woman.

Truman Capote – Breakfast at Tiffany’s: I was given Music for Chameleons in recent years by a rather special person and this Penguin version has one of the best book covers ever, a black and white photo of Capote dancing with Marilyn Monroe. He’s short and grabbing her hand in the most awkward manner, she’s looking away, absolutely dazzling. The contents of the book were just as luminous, so I thought I should try out one of his most famous works. Plus, I haven’t seen the film so I have minimal preconceived expectations.

Charles Dickens – The Pickwick Papers: Might as well read at least one book that’s pre-20th century. I have loads of Dickens books at home because I was intended to go to Oxford University and in my anticipation I bought most of the first fortnight’s reading list, which was an orgy of Dickens. I read Great Expectations and Oliver Twist when I was 12, so there is a big Dickens-shaped hole in my reading knowledge. Enough rubbish, crude euphemisms? I think so.

Yiyun Li – The Vagrants: Another gift from said special person. I have no idea what to expect, so I’m excited to read it. I love being given books that you haven’t asked for, by authors you know nothing about. It’s like someone’s handing you an experience to take away and cherish. Unfortunately, I’m pretty awful at giving books. I have two staples, ‘The Confederancy of Dunces’, which was a present to me, and one I adored so much it’s my default book gift setting – or at least it was until one of my giftees told me they hated it and couldn’t finish it. Another is Orwell: I give ‘1984’ if the person is a complete luddite who hasn’t read it already, or ‘Keep the Aspidistra Flying’ if they like pages of well-written depression and bleakness, as I do.

John Fowles – Daniel Martin: see above. This is a mighty tome, it’s almost Magus-like. Perhaps one for the Kabul visit.

Paul Auster – The New York Trilogy: One that’s on my unwritten, semi-conscious ‘Books I Must Read
Before I Die’ list, along with many, many other titles, the most solid one being ‘War and Peace’, which I must tackle soon – perhaps in 2011. Like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I know the title but have no idea what to expect. This is my first Paul Auster as well – double excitement.

Gunter Grass – The Rat: The Tin Drum was one of my favourites of 2009. Definitely the best book I’ve ever read about a midget with a fixation for banging on a children’s toy. Unfortunately I read a ‘spoiler’ – if you can call an event from a book celebrating it’s 50th anniversary that – in the Observer Review so I knew about one of his relationships with a female character before I discovered it in the novel. Ach well. I bought The Rat in a jumble sale for mere pennies and I look forward to seeing what Grass has in store for me.

Yevgeny Zamyatin – We: This is the first of my purchases from a well-known high street bookstore where I’ve been sucker-punched into buying a book I know nothing about, solely on the personally written recommendation from one of the staff members. Yes, they do work. Maybe because it’s so nice to see someone handwritten. Apparently it influenced Orwell and it’s one of the key dystopian texts so I may be in for a treat.

Iris Murdoch – The Nice and the Good: I bought this in a charity shop for about 20p years ago, and it’s been kicking around at home for ages. I’ve never read any of her stuff – our family copy of The Sea, The Sea is covered in mould after a burst water pipe drenched a bookshelf and this was one of the main casualties. Perhaps the title singled it out for a soaking.

Albert Camus – The Outsider: I HATED The Rebel. It was my least-favourite read of 2009, hands down. But then I should have known that rambling political philosophical texts and I are never going to have a happy relationship. I’m giving Al another chance this year with this one.

Aldous Huxley – The Island: In my mind I’m going to have pets – or children, I haven’t figured out yet how much I want to subject my offspring to bullying  – named after my favourite writers. I like the idea of two black labs called Orwell and Huxley.

Umberto Eco – Foucault’s Pendulum: A big fat ginger cat called Umberto would be pretty cool too. I imagine it would look pissed off all the time. I’ve been meaning to tackle this for ages, along with Faith in Fakes, of which I’ve really enjoyed sections but haven’t read it from start to finish yet.

Nathanael West – Collected Works: I bought this while studying English Lit at Edinburgh because The Dream Life of Balso Snell was on a reading list. Due to poor organisational skills I skim-read the story en route to the lecture, so I feel the need, over a decade on, to return to it and read a wedge of West’s works while I’m at it.

Margaret Atwood – The Year of the Flood: See above.

Vladimir Nabokov – The Original of Laura: This is a weighty tome. I wonder when I’ll get the chance to read it, seeing as I don’t normally lug around suitcases to work. Possibly another for Kabul I feel.

Maria Tatar – Enchanted Hunters, The Powers of Stories in Childhood: The one and only factual book in my reading list, which yes I admit is poor show, but I will try harder for next year, how about that? I’d like to get my hands on some modern British history books, that’s a subject that tops a very long list of subjects I’m completely ignorant about. I read about this text in the Guardian and thought it looked interesting, especially as I view some of my favourite books from my childhood – Teddy Robinson, anything by David Henry Wilson, Malory Towers – with a misty-eyed nostalgia that is pathetic.

David Eagleman – Sun: The second of my bookstore purchases on the back of a staff member’s recommendation. It’s about death. Not one for Kabul.

My 2009 Reading List

So here is the list of books which I intend to read in 2009, in no particular order. 

Jeffrey Eugenides: Middlesex

Donna Tartt: The Little Friend

Kurt Vonnegut: Breakfast of Champions – I’m starting with this one

Gunter Grass: The Tin Drum

Alasdair Gray: Lanark – My sister got me the correct book for my birthday – see 2008 reading list

Margaret Atwood: The Tent

Laurence Sterne: The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentlemen

Chuck Palahniuk: Choke

Alan Warner: The Sopranos

J.M.Coetzee: Waiting for the Barbarians

Kurt Vonnegut: A Man Without A Country

Albert Camus: The Rebel

Roald Dahl: Someone Like You – possibly to be followed by another Dahl re-reading, of my favourite: The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and six more

Salman Rushdie: Shame

If previous years are anything to go by, this list is subject to late additions, likely to bump out the least tempting titles. Alas, pauvre Albert has been sidelined for 3 consecutive years, so I probably should give him a go in 2009.

Expect some sort of garbled review or opinion after consumption, probably including the reasons as to why and how the book came to find itself part of the much-coveted 2009 reading list.

My 2008 Reading List

I love reading. I studied English Literature at university, was inspired by few of the lectures, found many of the tutorials tedious as only the same smug souls spoke, but I enjoyed reading at the required quick, thorough pace, gaining knowledge about literary periods and authors that I have mostly forgotten now, as is the way. Some people say that studying one’s passion is tantamount to smothering it, so I am relieved that I still hold the overwhelming excitement when considering the very amount of wonderful and creative books that I hope to read before I tonk it very dear to me.

It is the most natural and inevitable part of the reading process for individuals to develop opinions about the text – plot, characters, narrative, emotions derived from a personal involvement with the story –  and as long as they can back it up with evidence, literal or intuitive, about the book, they should be entitled to value their ideas, whether or not they are deemed correct by the lofty powers that be, or indeed by the author. Ownership of a text is a key part of the reading experience. For this reason I dislike comments about right or wrong interpretations of books, so for the record I do not seek to enforce my opinions onto anyone, but instead I welcome opposing views because they force me to consider my ideas.

I have kept a diary – a notebook in which I document thoughts, fears and events which I believe to be important to my life at the time – since I was 13, and recently I list all of the books that I aim to read in a year at the back of it. Once I’ve read a book I can tick or cross it off with a sense of satisfaction. I also list books I aim to acquire or read in the near future, titles I remember hearing about when I studied English or books that my friends have recommended in passing.

With a new year comes a new list, but first let’s reflect on the books I read in 2008 – in chronological order, no less.

Philip Pullman: The Golden Compass – I had to re-read it after watching the film at the annual family festive cinema trip and feeling as though vital chunks of text and characterisation had been omitted.

Bret Easton Ellis: The Rules of Attraction – Lunar Park was a big favourite of mine in 2007, as was Less Than Zero, though I am still unsure as to the effect of combining empty, graphic sex scenes with pop culture references. His characters are no more than unlikeable vessels, but I suppose that’s the point. Whatever the reason I find his books strangely compelling, as though Ellis is consciously playing and preying on everyone’s innate fascination of the morbid.

Alex Kapranos: Sound Bites – Not only do I have a strange crush on the angular cheekbones and dance moves of Fran Ferdinand’s main man, but as part of my research for a Clash magazine article on The Second Best Scottish Band After Belle & Sebastian (feel free to dispute that), I read this compilation of his food reviews that he used to submit on a weekly basis to Guardian’s G2 supplement. It was a very enjoyable read, all the more so because the bitesize portions were easily digestible during the laughably short 3 minute train journey from Cardiff Queen Street to the Bay.

James Frey: My Friend Leonard – A disappointing follow-up to the much talked about A Million Little Pieces. Disregarding the fact he claimed it was based on truth when it wasn’t, this sequel adds no further depth to the remaining characters, in fact it trivialises them. If you’re going to be sensationalist, you could do a whole lot better than this supposed twist about mafia boss Leonard. I could hear a faint ‘ker-ching’ in my ears as I finished the book, aware that Frey will have been able to buy himself a lovely new house (or drug habit) with the payment received from this let-down.

Donna Tartt: The Secret History – So much praise has been lavished on this book yet with that in mind I was still overwhelmingly impressed by the quality of the writing and plot. Recently I read a Guardian review likening teen vampire romance ‘Twilight’ to this book and I am somewhat baffled by such a benile comparison. Still, I can’t wait to read My Little Friend this year. Go Donna!

William Goldman: The Princess Bride – I was pretty much laughed out of a wedding when I said to a guest next to me at the table ‘Wow! I’ve read two amazing books in succession! The Secret History and The Princess Bride!’ I received a scornful ‘Where have you been the last ten years?’ because it turns out I’m not the only one to shower it with praise. Still, I don’t think it hurts to agree with the critics and the masses when a book is as delightful, fun, joyous and downright entertaining as this. If I wielded any power I would make it mandatory to read The Princess Bride. I’m getting so fired up typing this now that I expect I will dedicate a full post to it in the near future.

Alasdair Gray: The History Maker – I asked my sister for Lanark for a Christmas present in 2007 and due to a slight failure on her or a bookseller’s part, I received this instead. As a result I read it in a somewhat curmudgeonly fashion, as though I begrudged the very text itself. What a twat I am. This lesser-known book of Gray’s is an ambitious, whimsical yet somehow believable tale of a parallel world. To be honest, I can’t really remember the plot, but rather the dream-like images derived from reading it. It’s pretty short and ‘readable’ so I’d definitely recommend taking an afternoon to settle in a comfy chair with a fresh brew and enjoy this story.

Joshua Ferris: Then We Came to an End – Perfect reading while you await your fate at work. With life imitating art, we came to an end too.

F. Scott Fitzgerald: Tender is the Night – Reading this has made me want to re-read The Great Gatsby. There is a genuine ache throughout this book about the hurt that people can cause to each other.

Graham Greene: Brighton Rock – *Spoiler alert!* What an ending. The image of the pathetic, trusting girl listening back to her dead husband’s violent rage, directed at her, is truly harrowing.

Chuck Palahniuk: Diary – Hmmmm. In a slight bastardisation of Paul Weller’s schmaltz-fest song, this did absolutely nothing to me. Though, similar to my feelings for Bret Easton Ellis, something about Palahniuk intrigues me, so I’ve added another of his books to my 2009 reading list.

Doris Lessing: The Golden Notebook – And so begins another spate of great books relished in succession. I love the format of this book, with the various distinctly-themed notebooks within one overriding text. A fascinating exploration of the female self, communism and society, one which I would like to re-visit as I’m sure there’s a lot I didn’t pick up on at the first read.

John Fowles: The Magus – More on this at a later date. All I can say is WOW.

Jonathan Safran Foer: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – Young Oscar is a delightful narrator, and this book has the right balance of giggle-out-loud moments combined with deep sadness. The latter, to me, was not portrayed directly through the loss of his father, but the treatment of Oscar at school, in particular the graphic daydream about beating up his bully when playing Yorick in the production of Hamlet. Easier to read than the author’s debut, Everything is Illuminated, but less fulfilling, especially regarding the depth and reliability of the narrative.

Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama – See above for my overall Ellis views, but this is my second favourite of his books after Lunar Park. I love the jerky twists that the plot takes. Apparently a film’s been in the pipeline for a while, with the scriptwriter of The Rules of Attraction having bought film rights, but so far nothing seems concrete, which doesn’t surprise me as it would be so easy to make this a one-dimensional story for the screen, instead of focusing on the unpredictable, ‘who the hell is controlling all of this’ elements.

Check out http://www.cinematical.com/2005/10/03/bret-easton-ellis-on-glamorama-movie/

The claimed cast list is interesting too, with the likes of Shannen Doherty and Maggie Gyllenhaal and Shannyn Sossamon reprising the role of Lauren from Rules of Attraction, which is effectivly the prequel to Glamorama. Remembering this, I realise that I am a sucker for an author or director who plays around with his characters, re-introducing them unexpectedly – Patrick Bateman, I’m looking at you (but please don’t look at me or fist me or anything).

See full proposed list here:  http://glamorama.iespana.es/crew.html

P.G. Wodehouse: The Inimitable Jeeves – My friend gave me a Jeeves and Wooster book a few years ago, which I found such quality light entertainment that I bought this when I found it in a charity shop. Having spoken to other friends I’ve discovered how popular Wodehouse still is, especially among twenty-something blokes. I look forward to reading more of his works, particularly the adventures of Psmith.

Andy Stanton: You’re A Bad Man, Mr Gum! – I used to be Programme Controller of children’s digital radio station FUN radio, recently re-branded Fun Kids. When I returned as a freelance consultant to work on the re-brand of the station I spoke to Egmont publisher’s publicity department about their key books. My favourite characters in their repertoire are Charlie Bone, hero of Jenny Nimmo’s Harry-Potter-but-more-mystical-than-magical series, and Mr Gum. We arranged an interesting contra-deal which involved Andy Stanton voicing comedy news bulletins about Lamonic Bibber, Mr Gum’s home town.

Andy Stanton won the 2008 Roald Dahl funny prize and rightly so because he has that hard to achieve power to appeal to both parents and children. many people call it the ‘Shrek factor’ but I won’t on this occasion because Stanton is ten times funnier than those films about the pseudo Scottish ogre. I have never before had to walk out of a studio during recording due to laughing too much, as Andy’s scripts, combined with his deadpan news delivery, were hilarious. Reading his Mr Gum books will have a similar effect, and I would heartily recommend you purchase one of the books and keep it by your bed or on your person in case of sudden sadness. After a couple of pages you’ll be fizzy with giddiness.

Vladimir Nabokov: Collected Stories – All 650 pages of them. Tough going at times but ultimately a rewarding experience. A full post’s worth of thoughts about that one are required methinks.

I also got about halfway through William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch but left the book on a plane.