The Slap, Christos Tsiolkas

This was my first Man Booker read, and technically I didn't read it for that purpose. I have loved Tsiolkas' writing for a long time, since losing myself in the gothic darkness of "Dead Europe". Since then, I've read all of Tsiolkas' (often morbidly brutal) novels, and have wallowed in my addiction to his narrative voice, combined with utter loathing for character.

I find it funny when people describe how hard they found "The Slap" to read, on account of the characters having no redeeming features. That always marks the reader as a Tsiolkas virgin to me; "The Slap" characters may be unpleasant in ways, but they are nothing on the unseemliness of, say, the protaganist of "The Jesus Man". Tsiolkas loves to shock. In a way he follows an Australian suburban tradition of writing characters gritty and realistically depraved. Sure, his characters cheat and lie, or at least dream of it; but who hasn't experienced a semblance of such thoughts at some fleeting moment?

"The Slap" is somewhat watered down from Tsiolkas' prior novels, because the narrative voice jumps from character to character, meaning you needn't bathe too long in one character's nastiness. On the other hand, this does ensure that you can't pick a particular character out as the villain; they all have some form of fatal flaw. In other words, they're all human.

The novel's content has been well discussed in public media, particularly with the screening of the ABC mini-series adaptation. A child is slapped by an adult not his parent at a barbecue. The resulting outrage and legal proceedings threaten to shatter a formerly close group of friends and family.

I found the story interesting, but it was the structure which truly grabbed me. Tsiolkas doesn't simply tell the same moment of story from a number of different points of view. Each chapter is from the voice of a new character, yes; but it is also a chronological progression of the storyline, so that Hector's chapter tells a completely different section of the tale to Rosie's chapter.

Importantly, too, each chapter immerses the reader in the life of its narrator. We hear all of their innermost secrets, the kind they don't dare speak aloud. The intimacy with each character via only a single chapter is incredible, and at the same time does not sacrifice our understanding of the narrative as it rolls along. This is truly masterful storytelling, even if the tale told is somewhat confronting. An outstanding read, and certainly should have been shortlisted, in my opinion.

Pigeon English, Stephen Kelman

How exciting to discover, when I checked the 2011 Booker Shortlist, that I had actually read one of the shortlist. Not so far behind, after all! I'd found "Pigeon English" in my local bookstore, and immediately fallen in love.


Things I loved about "Pigeon English" before I even really started reading:


- The cover art. 
The artwork is gorgeous, combining bird silhouettes with a boy's in a way that mimics one of those pysch pictures where you don't know if it's a duck or a rabbit. This really captured the sense of the book, too. While there were 'bad; characters, it was hard to shake the feeling that once they were just like the hero, Harrison. He's a young boy living in the London projects, and his main sources of inspiration are the boys around him, gangsters all.


- The list on the back. 
"
Wars. Kids vs Teachers, Northwell Manor High vs Leabridge High, Dell Farm Crew vs Lewsey Hill Crew, Emos vs Sunshine, Turkey vs Russia, Arsenal vs Chelsea, Black vs White, Police vs Kids, God vs Allah, Chicken Joe’s vs KFC, Cats vs Dogs, Aliens vs Predators." 

The list was so bittersweet. The concept of wars in kid-language is so heartwrenching. Some of these wars are serious wars that strike fear into the heart of adults (God vs Allah). Some are bitingly witty, and sum up the humour of the novel (Emos vs Sunshine). And others, like Chicken Joe's vs KFC, just underline how childish the protaganist is. At the heart of everything, he is a young boy in a cruel, fast paced world. As the reader, you are just hoping against hope that his reputation as the second fastest runner in Year 7 will help him to outrun any danger.

- The voice of Harry. 
Harry is so unmistakably a child. Some of the adventures we follow him through are those of simple adolescence- trying to fit in with the cool crowd, his first girlfriend. Others are sadly adult, such as living through the aftermath of a murder in his community. And yet even the way he deals with this grief (to create a detective duo bent on finding the killer) is so juvenile, it made me ache. "Pigeon English" has been compared to the fabulous "Room", and I can see why. It shares the same gift of telling a story wholeheartdely through the eyes of a child, and both of those stories are sadly not the tale of childhood we would wish for our heroes. 

For me, "Pigeon English" is not just the tale of a childhood though, but of life robbing us of our innocence. The characters of the novel could all have been like Harry once, but life kept beating down on them until they cracked. Harry hasn't cracked yet, but you get the feeling it's only a matter of time before the world wins. A beautiful and often funny novel, but with a nagging twinge of sadness at the world we are creating for our children.

The Sisters Brothers, Patrick deWitt

At first, I thought "The Sisters Brothers" would be some family drama, a la TV show "Brothers & Sisters". Then I started reading, and the brotherly duo of Charlie and Eli reminded me somewhat of another highly enjoyable novel, "The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart"- especially when Charlie and Eli stumbled across a supernatural occurrence or two. But magic proved to be less than the main theme, and "The Sisters Brothers" took on its own voice, and I became engrossed.

Charlie and Eli Sisters are not good men, but Eli wouldn't mind becoming one. He has had enough of the mercenary life; while he gets a thrill from his very name striking fear into the hearts of men, he also experiences moments of darkness and loneliness which make him long for death. He sees where all this is headed, and it is not good. He knows he needs to change his ways. If only he could convince his brother of the same.

The novel meanders along with a distinctly fantastical bent; characters recur for no reason or logic, things fall unexpectedly into place, and events bookend each other in pretty parallels. But "The Sisters Brothers" is also a Western, set in the Californian gold-rush, when men were manly. And thieving. And murderous. As a result the novel feels, well, more dusty than gritty.

"The Sisters Brothers" has been one of my favourite novels in a long time. A great re-entry back into the world of Booker novels, except that I fear it has set the bar too high for some others to match.

Realisations

I had two sudden realisations recently. One was that the 2011 Booker Prize was due soon, and I HAD NOT READ ANYTHING from the shortlist. The other realisation was that the Booker Prize also had a longlist, none of which I had perused. Cue extensive library borrowing, toppling towers of books, overdue notices and fines. However, I have read several excellent books in the last few weeks, and have plans to release a flurry of reviews. Probably quite soon, as I have a great number of other tasks I should, by rights, be prioritising.

Room, by Emma Donoghue

At first, I was a little cranky that there were two books on the Man Booker shortlist with 'Room' in the title (not to mention another on the Cheltenham shortlist). It seemed like an oversight; how can this reflect the best of Commonwealth literature when two have such similar titles. Then the copy of the book I had was a slightly oversized hard cover, which also annoyed me. I put the book off.

I started reading 'Room' on Wednesday night. I had finished it by Friday morning. I found myself reading it when people left the room, while I was walking down the street, staying up until 2am because I JUST COULDN'T STOP.

'Room' is instantly compelling because of the voice of the narrator, Jack. He is five, and there are immediate clues that his world is not a normal one. In fact, it turns out that his world in simply Room. Jack's mother (who we only ever know as Ma), was kidnapped seven years earlier; Jack was born and raised in Room, and has never known more than this eleven by eleven foot space. Items in Room have proper names (after all, if there's is not another Bed in your world, why call it 'the bed' or 'that bed'? There are no other beds from which to distinguish) and genders. Necessities are requested as 'Sundaytreats' and delivered by 'Old Nick', who visits Ma after 9, when Jack is 'switched off' in Wardrobe.

While Jack knows and loves Room and all of her facets, it becomes clear that Ma is distressed and ready to leave. The games they play often have a different meaning for Jack than they do for Ma; while Scream is a fun game they play, allowing them to climb up near the skylight and yell, for Ma it is a desperate ritualistic attempt to gain the attention of someone, anyone. Ma starts to break down the boundaries of Jack's world, advising him that, now he is five, he is old enough to know that there is a world outside of Room; that things on the TV are actually real. Jack struggles with such concepts, and what they mean for him and his world.

Many novels thrive on the 'car-crash' storyline, the type of plot that is so tragic and horrible that our sympathy compels us to keep reading. 'Room' could run the risk of falling into this category, but for one factor; Jack. While at first it is jarring and horrifying to hear a child describe such a limited and warped existence, the reader quickly settles into an understanding that, for Jack, this is normal and safe. Any threats to this normality are dangerous and far more disturbing for him than his own situation could ever be. Jack's voice completely disarms and consumes the reader, allowing them to wholly connect with him; we want simultaneously to keep him safe from fearful newness, but also to gift him the freedom to escape and experience the childhood he ought never to have been denied.

Like 'A Strange Room', I found this novel completely un-put-down-able. While I'm truly a bibliophile, it's very rare that I am so absorbed in a book that I will read it while walking: 'Room' is absolutely brilliant.

The Country Girls, by Edna O'Brien

This book struck me as both so timely, and so dated; as a result, I simply couldn't get enough of this novel, at times reading in a sense of horrified anticipation. The main character, Caithleen, seems intensely naive in her story telling, despite (or perhaps because of) the adult world she is so desperate to enter into. This old-world innocence is juxtaposed with an all too current event of the over-sexualisation of young girls.

Caithleen lives in a world of uncertainty: her father is an abusive drunk, her mother dies suddenly, and she is left to divide her time between the cold convent in which she receives her education, and the dishonest and over-privileged home of her bullying 'best friend', Baba. By comparison, the elegant figure of 'Mr Gentleman' seems an attractive shelter from the storm- despite the fact that he is married and far, far older than her. He starts to cultivate a relationship with Caithleen, still very innocent at first, but clearly masking a distasteful interest on his behalf.

Caithleen is breathtakingly juvenile about the relationship, convinced the pair are in love. And perhaps love does enter the equation; at the very least, Mr Gentleman develops an obsession with Caithleen's youth and sweetness, but it does become unsettlingly apparent that she is not his first youthful prey, and that this relationship must have a termination date, which can only end painfully for Cait.

This storyline sounds abhorrent, but somehow the innocent wishfulness of Cait, as she tells her story (of moving to Dublin and making her own life, of unsatisfactory attempts to find love in the city, of refusals of other older men, of finally standing up to Baba in small ways) paints it all in a rose tinted light. Caithleen is a charming character, and the reader can't help but hope for her happiness. The ending, suprisingly, wraps up very little, but hints at a new path, which could finally lead Caithleen to that joyous life we, as reader, feel she deserves. 

The L-Shaped Room, by Lynne Reid Banks

This novel marked the first of my Cheltenham Shortlist (the books which, had the Man Booker existed 50 years ago, would likely have been shortlisted), other than those I had read at an earlier stage. It is an interesting project to switch from reading the most prized, very-modern literature, to a novel whose style and subject would have been intensely modern in the 1960s. However, through its sheer 60s-ness, it also seems very dated.

The L-Shaped Room deals with the then-controversial subject of an unmarried woman in her late 20s falling pregnant, and the circumstances that occur after her standoffish and conservative father rejects her, and ejects her from the family home. Determined to lead a hermetic life in her new, cheap digs, Jane soon makes connections to new folk, expands her horizons and learns to accept herself, and her baby.

The book traverses some pretty controversial material for the time, but it is unable to completely shake the notion that pre-marital sex is 'wrong', that unmarried motherdom is 'wrong'. Jane may be pregnant, but it was a result of her first sexual experience (and an unenjoyable one, at that). Despite her father's rejection, Jane is constantly supported by other men in her life. Jane is moving towards being a symbol of independence through having a job, and being prepared to 'do it on her own', but this notion is undermined by the fact that the other strong women in the novel are either harridans, prostitutes or doomed to die alone.

While the novel toys with several moments of Jane's ability to choose her path, including abortion and raising a child alone, in the end it ties things up with happy coincidences and twee unions and reunions. The novel is an interesting read, if only for an insight into the mindset of 1960, but in the end felt a bit hollow and unsatisfying.

Parrot and Olivier in America, by Peter Carey

I've read a lot of Peter Carey books; I think he is an amazing writer. I also think he writes the most despicable characters EVER. It is incredibly hard to like a Peter Carey character (that said, I haven't read 'Oscar and Lucinda', who sound less hate-worthy). However, neither Parrot nor Olivier fall into that category, and that shifts this book from one I can recommend to my literary minded friends, to just about anyone.

In some ways, Parrot and Olivier are almost caricatures. They are over the top representations of the French nobility, and the wily lower, servile classes. Olivier is odious, whining, arrogant... and fascinating. Parrot was a young lad who exhibited extraordinary talent, and met very little, if any of his potential due to a weak character- and yet we sympathise, rather than judge.

The novel follows these two unlikely partners through their early years, and then later through their experiences together in the newly independent America. Through flashbacks we learn more of their in-between years. Both characters surge through a series of projects, sideprojects, relationships, siderelationships and personal discoveries about themselves.

At times, Carey broaches Bryce-Courtenay-danger-zone in the sheer unlikeliness of coincidental meetings and links, and the breadth of the world Parrot seems to have traversed in his years. But he gets away with it far better than Courtenay; while it seems odd that Parrot would have, in 50 years, have built homes and careers in England, Australia, France AND America, the fact that he is at least consistent in his trade helps with the credibility factor. Just.

In the end, 'Parrot and Olivier in America' is highly readable, despite its intimidating size. It also has a BEAUTIFUL cover in the hardback, with embossed paper dustjacket and a gorgeous parrot print on the inner sleeves of which its printer-protaganist could be proud. If you've been scared off by Carey before, come back; if you're thinking of trying Carey out, start here. A thoroughly enjoyable jaunt.

A Strange Room, by Damon Galgut

This novel is slim, but jam packed. Once I picked it up, I found it incredibly hard to put down, and finished it in a number of days. It traverses three journeys the protagonist (author?) has experienced, each shared with another person, and each with a disappointing end.

The protagonist, through much of the novel, clearly experiences a sense of displacement and uncertainty. He drifts through life, either through foreign countries, or through the loungerooms of people he knows in various locations of South Africa, his homeland. He seems to have few ties to people or place at home, yet the connection he makes when he travels are prominent and significant. Perhaps this rises out of the thrill of the unfamiliar, perhaps from the distinct possibility of a new relationship. However, he seems unable to achieve what he wants from these relationships, even when he gathers the courage to reach out and act. In the end, there is always a sense of disappointment, either of chances not taken, or of promises of greatness simply not meeting their imagined potential.

Galgut plays with an interesting voice and tense use. He shifts from first person voice, to third person, giving the impression that the events are being narrated from some years afterwards. This at first makes the protagonist a little difficult to connect with, a notion which seems appropriate given the shift in the character by the third journey, which occurs in middle age.

We only have opportunity to witness three journeys in the character's life, yet to me he was entirely easy relate to. The aimlessness of youth, the yearning of later years, and then the resignation and calm of finding your place all resonated as aspects of a life fully lived

C, by Tom McCarthy

Ok. I finished 'C', gruellingly, and then dived headfirst into the fabulousness that is "A Strange Room" by Damon Galgut, which I finished in a matter of addicted days. But first things first.

'C' explores the life of Serge Carrefax, and ponders the notions of communication, perception and design. While the book wanders intriguingly through the unusual events of Serge's early life (including being born (with hearing) into a deaf world, in which his father tries to teach deaf children to talk) and taps into exciting ideas of radio communication and spy codes, for me it became entirely bogged down in the too-detailed consideration of Serge's later life. This made the book seem uneven, and I felt Serge in later life was a dry character steeped in arrogance.

I really enjoyed the interweaving themes of communication and perception. McCarthy's fascination with early communicative technology and its intersection with Serge's development was intriguing, with Serge's father always one step behind. But while Serge is capable of noticing all sorts of intense detail, such as an ability to categorically map out an area in his mind, his perception of other humans is callous and dismissive. On the whole, the intriguing curiosity and precociousness of the young character is sadly undeveloped in the more oblivious, self-centred older character occupying the greater part of the book. A bit of a disappointment for me, in the end.

Uh oh- tipping point

Oh no. School starts tomorrow. I haven't finished the second book in my challenge ("C" by Tom McCarthy). I'm a bit worried I'll go back to work, and become overwhelmed by the need to prepare Year level assemblies, and course outlines, and that speech I'm meant to make at Fy & Ben's engagement party, and the resolution will go under...

So. "C" Fairly readable, although it did all this interesting temporal jumping early in the main characters lifetime, and then plods in fair detail through his middle life. And it spent some time wallowing the war, which always bores me. But I'm so close, about 5/6 of the way through. Better go commit to some pre-bedtime reading. SO CLOSE!

The Long Song, by Andrea Levy

Book #1, done and dusted. I have to say that I expected something quite different from Prize-nominated books. I was expecting weighty, perhaps a little elitist. This is not the case with this very readable book.

The Long Song tells the story of July, a slave girl on a Jamaican plantation. It uses a deliberately aware narrative framework; the blurb itself alerts you to the fact that the narrator is learning the format of a novel as she writes this story. At times, the reader is withdrawn from July's world and into the world of the narrator. These are signalled by a shift in language to the more common conversational language the characters in the 'story' use, and while they're often frivolous little interjections, these moments give a clearer voice to the narrator, and break the tension or stillness of the story at the time.

My favourite part about these interjections, though, is the way the narrator's son will impose his own expectations on his mother's writing, questioning the way she has described something, or omitted a section he deems worthy. It raises questions of the process of writing, and of remembering. This process is also reflected in some parts of the story, where the writer will not only tell the event as she remembers it, but will also fill in the versions known to other memories, urban legend or tall-tall tales.

July's story itself is partly tall-tall tale, partly sad-sad tale. As a child stolen from her mother, she begins a life of servitude to a selfish white woman who changes her name and screeches at her constantly. No white characters are painted in a positive light in this novel, even those who begin with good intentions. It is a harsh judgement on the imposition of a social structure upon another people, but for the most part told in a cheery, joking tone which almost brushes over the severity of the crimes committed.

I really enjoyed this book. It was immensely readable, and the characters were quite easy to connect to and pity, if not always like.  Even though you're aware that the story is being filtered in several ways, by memory or editing, you are still so swept up in the events that you don't mind.

The New Year's Resolution

So this year looks set to be a big one. I'm teaching VCE Drama for only the second time (with a HUGE class), and I'm co-ordinating Year 8s. All this is likely to threaten my relaxation time, so I decided to 'schedule' a minimum by making it my NY Resolution to read the 2010 and 2011 Man Booker Prize Shortlists. If all goes really well, I'll also read the Cheltenham Booker Prize Shortlists, which are awarded retrospectively to books written 50 years ago. I figured, to keep me honest, that I'd blog about the books here, like a mini book club (albeit lonelier).

So here's the 2010 Shortlist, which I am already working my way through.

*Winner* The Finkler Question, by Howard Jacobsen

The Long Song, Andrea Levy

Room, Emma Donoghue

In a Strange Room, Damien Galgut

Parrot and Olivier in America, Peter Carey

C, Tom McCarthy

And the 1960 Cheltenham Shortlist:

*Winner* To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

The L-Shaped Room Lynn Reid Banks The Country Girls Edna O'Brien The Ballad of Peckham Rye Muriel Spark This Sporting Life David Storey