Reading Matters

'A Change in Altitude' by Anita Shreve

 

Fiction - paperback; Abacus; 365 pages; 2010.

Anita Shreve is one of my guilty pleasures. Sadly, she seems to get pigeon-holed into "popular fiction" rather than "literary fiction" which means she rarely garners critical acclaim, and yet I find her body of work -- 15 novels at last count -- immensely impressive. Shreve knows how to pen a fast-moving narrative peopled with believable, usually flawed, characters, but her real strength lies in her ability to reinvent her style anew. She is not a one-trick pony; each book is vastly different to the previous one; and she seems equally adept at writing historical fiction as she does contemporary fiction.

A Change in Altitude, her latest paperback, is no exception. This book is set in the late 1970s and revolves around a newlywed couple, Margaret and Patrick, who move to Kenya from Boston. Patrick is a doctor; Margaret a newspaper photographer. Together they go on a climbing expedition to Mount Kenya, accompanied by an older British couple (their landlords), and a Dutch couple. It's supposed to be an adventure, a chance to experience the "real Africa", but from the outset Margaret is clearly not confident about the trip (she lacks experience and fitness) but agrees to go because she loves her husband.

During the ascent, which is physically and mentally strenuous, a terrible accident occurs, which results in one of the party being killed. The rest of the novel looks at the impact of this death on Margaret and Patrick's marriage, which is put under further strain by a series of robberies (their car is stolen and their house ransacked several times) and their complete inability to adapt to a strange, new culture.

Essentially the story is nothing more than a fairly dull domestic drama that plays out on foreign soil. Admittedly, I found that the second half of the book did not live up to the excitement of the first half in which every step of the mountain climb is spelt out in the manner of a psychological thriller. But after the accident, which occurs about a third of the way in, the narrative seems to lose momentum. Indeed, the book becomes radically different, as Shreve charts Margaret and Patrick's relatively dreary lives in the aftermath of the expedition. The narrative pace only picks up again near the end when the pair decide to commemorate the first anniversary of the trek by climbing the mountain for the second time.

Even though A Change in Altitude is a quick, enjoyable and entertaining read (I particularly liked the section in which Margaret gets herself a job on the local newspaper), the characters are frustratingly unknowable throughout. Despite being written in the third person, Shreve never really reveals anyone's motivations nor provides any inner dialogue. This means that Patrick remains a complete stranger, and Margaret is not much better. If anything, they both seem incredibly naive and immature, which is not helped by the implausible premise (which I won't reveal, because it's a plot spoiler) upon which their marriage flounders.

All up, A Change in Altitude is perfect fodder for those times when you just want a light read that won't tax the brain matter too much. But if you are looking for something more intellectually stimulating with an African setting you might be better tackling Nadine Gordimer's July's People.

For other Anita Shreve books reviewed on Reading Matters visit my Anita Shreve page.

'Living Dolls: The Return of Sexism' by Natasha Walter

 

Non-fiction - paperback; Virago; 273 pages; 2010.

Every time I logged onto the office intranet this week I was greeted by the sight of Lucy Pinder's breasts popping out of a very tiny bikini top. Lucy, an English "glamour model", recently graced the cover of one of the lads magazines published by the company for which I work. This particular cover won an in-house prize ("cover of the month"), which meant Lucy's "assets" got further publicity via our intranet homepage.

Now, I think I'm fairly unshockable and remarkably tolerant, but I was upset at seeing this woman's hugely over-sized bust on my computer screen every day. It wasn't the nudity that made me uncomfortable, it was the objectification of a young woman that offended me. That this happened in my work place, where I'm surrounded largely by men, made me angry, not least because I have a relatively senior position in the company and the last thing I expect to see as I go about my professional business is a scantily clad woman in a provocative pose.

And yet, if I was to complain about this, I'm pretty sure it would not be taken seriously. After all Lucy Pinder's entitled to get her tits out, isn't she? And surely it's empowering, and liberating, for her, as a woman, to have the freedom to do so? She gets paid big bucks after all. 

This is just one example of why I think Natasha Walter's Living Dolls is a hugely important and timely book. I read it a few months ago now, but I've been thinking about it ever since.

Walter's argument is that we've all been conned into thinking that today's woman has achieved economic and sexual equality. She claims that in 21st Century Britain we are experiencing a new wave of sexism, where a woman's passport to success is not her brains, but her looks and, more importantly, her sexual allure.

She divides her book into two parts. The first looks at this "new sexism" in which girls are becoming sexualised at a younger and younger age (Walter dubs this "hypersexualisation"). She visits a nightclub where she witnesses a "Babes on the bed competition"; talks to pole dancers and prostitutes; and interviews teenage girls about their sex lives. From this she is able to argue that the growing commercialisation of sex has provided women with new opportunities to make money, but by the same token those that go down that route often do it, not because it empowers them or liberates them, but because they have no other alternative. 

The second part of her book examines the reasons why this new sexism has occurred. Walter shows that we are increasingly being encouraged to believe that the inequality between men and women is not social but biological, that girls will always prefer pink to blue, and that they like playing with dolls rather than toy cars. She provides a critique of scientific studies that perpetuate the myth that there are innate biological differences between the sexes. These studies are disseminated by a relatively uncritical and lazy media that accepts the results at face value. (This study from last month is but one example.)

What I found particularly alarming was how quickly these studies begin to be accepted as part and parcel of every day life, so that if a woman, or indeed a young girl, bucks the trend she is made to feel as if there is something wrong with her. Walter's argument is that biological determinism not only stifles and limits women's choices, it also impacts on men's choices too.

Living Dolls is a powerful book, one that is thought-provoking and incredibly easy to read. If there is any flaw it is that Walter's hypothesis in the first part is based on a mere handful of interviews with young women, so her sample is not statistically significant. Nevertheless she raises important issues, the most troubling of which are her observations about the ways in which young girls are being raised in modern day Britain. When women are expected to look a certain way, think a certain way and conform to outmoded stereotypes is it any wonder Walter believes we're raising a generation of living dolls "aiming for airbrushed perfection"?

'The Book of Emmett' by Deborah Forster

 

Fiction - paperback; Vintage Books Australia; 304 pages; 2010.

Deborah Forster is a long-time journalist and first-time novelist based in Melbourne, Australia. The Book of Emmett first came to my attention via its long-listing (and subsequent short-listing) for this year's Miles Franklin Award. When I saw a very positive review of it on Lisa Hill's ANZ LitLovers LitBlog I was convinced I needed to read it.

The central figure in the novel is Emmett Brown, an abusive, alcoholic father of four children, whose violent behaviour has long-lasting repercussions on his family. 

Written in the present tense and using a third person narrative, it opens on the day of Emmett's funeral. It's one of those scorching summer days (40.4 degrees) and everyone's fanning the "slow thick air around their hot faces with funeral programs". Emmett's widow, Ann, is there along with her four adult children: Rob, Louisa, Peter and Jessie. From the outset we learn that the loss of their father isn't the devastating blow one might expect:

In the moment of being held by Peter there in the yard at Gilberts [the funeral home], Louisa understands this as the purest relationship she will ever have. Brothers and sisters want nothing from you. They know who you are and they love you anyway. These are the ones who know and in the war against Emmett, they'd been in the trenches with her.

But we also learn that Emmett, while loathed and feared by those closest to him, is a rather complicated character. He never knew his own father, was dumped by his mother and was raised in an orphanage. Despite a lack of education, he nursed a love of the arts, particularly literature and even ballet, and "kept diaries on and off for most of his life", stating at the age of 42 that if he were to die he didn't want "any mealy-mouthed, psalm-singing hypocrite talking bullshit about me".

"I just want my mob and I want them to cry for me. Cry for me, but not too much and, please, I ask you all now to forgive me for doing some of the wrong things I did. Remember me and laugh about the funny times. Laugh about me. Laugh at me. Doesn't matter. Remember, I was nothing but a drunken old bum."

The rest of the book charts the Brown's lives from the late 1960s to the present day. Through a succession of vignettes, it details the brutal and miserable childhoods of Rob, Louisa, Jessie and Peter, including the death of Peter's twin, Daniel. The narrative is quite fast-paced so it doesn't take long before they've grown up and are forging their own Emmett-free lives. And yet despite their luck at emerging physically unscathed from their father's unpredictable heavy-handed temper, their difficult upbringing hangs around their neck like a weight they can never quite escape. It seems particularly telling that Rob proclaims he will never have children because he does not want to turn into his father.

It's also interesting to see how their relationship with Emmett develops and changes over time, how they begin to see him in a different light when he gets old and sick. Forster charts the inner turmoil of each of Emmett's children superbly, showing how their feelings of pity for their father cannot be reconciled with the abuse they suffered at his hands when they were too young to defend themselves.

And while all this might sound like quite an unrelenting misery memoir, for want of a better description, it is never dreary, helped in part by a dry sense of humour. In fact, Forster has such an acute sense of people's inner dialogue that it's difficult not to get caught up in their lives, to feel their pains and fears and little triumphs as if you were experiencing them yourself. What I most admired was the complete lack of sentimentality in the story, and yet I found it a profoundly affecting read. You feel for these characters, every last one of them, including Emmett, which is surprising given how easily he could have been reduced to a mere caricature.

I suspect that I particularly liked this book because of its Australian flavour. Lisa has already pointed out in her review that Forster hasn't shied away from using Australian idioms and peopling it with footy players and politicians no self-respecting Melburnian could fail to identify. But this is not your typical Australian bush setting: this is a rough-and-ready Western suburb of Melbourne, the same one where my father was educated, and there are various references to Footscray High (where he went to school), the Western Oval and Australian Rules football legend Ted Whitten (with whom I share a birthday -- my dad was pretty pleased about that) that made me nod in recognition.

If nothing else The Book of Emmett is a fascinating exploration of what it is to be (an outdated version) of a "fair dinkum Aussie patriarch", wanting to do the best by his family but falling short because of his weakness for booze, gambling and the use of his fists. I'll be intrigued to see how it fares when the Miles Franklin Award is announced next month.

Triple Choice Tuesday: A Work in Progress

Welcome to Triple Choice Tuesday. This is where I ask some of my favourite bloggers and other bookish bods to share the names of three books that mean a lot to them. The idea is that it might raise the profile of certain books and introduce you to new titles and new bloggers.

Today's guest is Nebraska-based Danielle from A Work in Progress.

Danielle, who works in the acquisitions department of a university library, has the dubious honour of being the very first book blog I ever discovered, some time back in 2005. I've been following her ever since and always enjoy reading her insightful posts, which cover everything from cosy mysteries to high-brow classics. What I most admire about Danielle is her constant striving to try new things, to expand her knowledge and not be afraid of reading outside of her comfort zone.

Danielle, who studied journalism at university before switching to art history, attributes her love of books to her mother, who worked as a library assistant in a public elementary school.

"She would take me occasionally, before I was old enough to go to school myself, so I have fond memories of libraries and books," says Danielle. "She was always very good about taking my sisters and me to the public library, and I was allowed to choose at whim. So I've always been around books, though I feel like I somehow missed the guidance of having someone help me make selections -- probably in part now why I feel like my reading is always so haphazard and I choose books based on my mood more than anything else."

Danielle says she missed out on reading classics (as did I) and other books that everyone else read when they were young and has been trying to catch up ever since!

Anyway, without further ado, here's Danielle's Triple Choice Tuesday selections:

A favourite book: Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

I think the first time that I read Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca (when I was a much younger woman) I was taken with the suspenseful nature of the story, the fact that it combined romance and mystery and never failed to surprise me with its twists and turns. Not so long ago I read it again on an entirely different level and appreciated the skill with which du Maurier crafted her Gothic masterpiece with its subtle psychological insights into the minds of the characters, both living and dead.

A young Englishwoman abroad meets and marries Maxim, a dashing, older widower. He brings her home to his family estate, Manderley, where she is to become the lady of the house. She finds herself incapable of succeeding, because Manderley still exudes the presence of Rebecca, Maxim's first wife, whose memory is venerated by her very sinister servant, Mrs. Danvers. This young woman, who remains unnamed throughout the story, is never able to escape the shadow of Rebecca.

The beauty of the story is its subtlety. There are no ghosts knocking about (at least no real ones), yet the reader is haunted by the beautiful, dead, Rebecca whose secrets won't stay buried with her.

Du Maurier never received the serious recognition she yearned for in her lifetime, which is a pity as she was truly a master of inhabiting the minds of her characters and exposing their fears and insecurities. I might also mention that she was also a talented short story writer who had a great ability to create stories filled with atmosphere and just the right amount of tension. She knew exactly how to string a reader along and shock them, and I mean that in a good way.


A book that changed my world: Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

This is a book that readers seem to either love or hate. To be honest I'm not entirely sure on which side of the divide I fall, maybe somewhere in the middle these days -- understanding why some readers don't get on with it very well, but appreciating why many do. I first tried to read it when I was not long out of school, but found I couldn't do it. The story was impenetrable to me. I'm not sure if it was the language or the complexity of the story but I tried and tried again and failed.

When I was very young I was left to my own devices when it came to choosing books. Classics never seemed to fall into my hands, so I tended to avoid them later, thinking I wouldn't "get" it, whatever the it was. Eventually there came a time when I was determined to see what I had been missing out on. Age and a little experience has an an amazing way of opening and broadening a person's mind. When I finally read it I loved it for the passion of the storytelling and the bleak and desolate beauty of the moors that Bronte depicted so vividly, even though the love story itself is dark and obsessive, full of unlikeable and brooding characters whose behaviours often verge on madness. How did this remarkable young woman conceive a story such as Wuthering Heights?

For me this is a pivotal book, as I went from doubting myself and my abilities to understand and appreciate more challenging reads (particularly classic literature) to realising that no book is impossible to read. I might not like everything I try, but I don't have the same fear of attempting books I previously thought were beyond my abilities. It opened a whole new world of books to me.


A book that deserves a wider audience: Dance Night by Dawn Powell

Of Dawn Powell Gore Vidal wrote, "For decades Dawn Powell was always just on the verge of ceasing to be a cult and becoming a major religion."

In her lifetime (1896-1965), Powell wrote 15 novels, more than 100 short stories, six plays and thousands of letters, and she kept diaries as well. By the time of her death nearly all her work was out of print. She might well have remained forgotten had it not been for the notice of intellectual Gore Vidal (among others) and the championing of her work by music critic Tim Page.

I'm not sure where I first came across mention of Dawn Powell's books, but when I spotted her work in a used bookstore I knew I had to snap it up. She was born and raised in Mount Gilead, Ohio and later escaped to the bright lights of New York City. Although she's known for her New York satires, it is one of her earlier novels, part of the Ohio cycle of books, that I've found so fiercely evocative of small town American life in the 1930s.

The story concerns two youths, Morry and Jen, who dream of bigger and more exciting lives elsewhere (elsewhere usually being NYC) but are caught in their tiny, oppressive lives with little chance of anything more than dreams. Powell's story is gritty and doleful yet never totally despairing, and it ends on a note of optimism. It's told in a series of vignettes, but it still progresses at a brisk pace with fully fleshed out characters who aren't in the least perfect, and full of foibles, at times annoying, yet are complex in their makeup and in their interactions and fumblings with each other. Powell most assuredly deserves a broader reading audience.

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Thanks, Danielle, for taking part in my Triple Choice Tuesday!

What do you think of Danielle's choices? Have you read any of these books? This isn't the first time that someone has championed Rebecca as one of their favourite reads, so I really need to be adding this one to my inventory. Just like Danielle, I tried to read Wuthering Heights as a teenager and simply did not get it, so maybe I should give it another try. And I'm completely fascinated by the Dawn Powell book; I had never heard of her before. I love finding out about new authors in this way...

Three author interviews

Here's three interviews with leading authors that are worth taking a peek at:

• ABC journalist Eleanor Hall interviews Lionel Shriver [there's a radio interview as well].

• Blogger Boof interviews Mary Higgins Clark

• Blogger John Self interviews David Mitchell.

Not The TV Book Group - Session Eight: 'Fledgling' by Octavia E. Butler

Can you believe it? It's the last session of the Not The TV Book Group! It only seemed like yesterday when my co-hosts, Lynne, Simon, Kirsty and I put together our schedule and nominated our books for discussion, and yet here we are some three months down the line getting ready to discuss our last selection!

As ever, it's wonderful to have you all here. And welcome to west London where we are enjoying some rather balmy weather right now. In fact, the sunshine's so lovely I suggest we escape this hot flat of mine (which masquerades as a pottery-kiln whenever the temperature hits 25C) and decamp to a cooler location, such as the wonderful Japanese garden in Holland Park, which is just a short stroll up the road.

 
So, gather up your picnic rug or tuck that fold-up chair under your arm, and let's go find a lovely cool patch of lawn by the pond. I've got an Esky (that's portable icebox to you non-Australians) full of cool drinks and plenty of nibbles. And I'm sure we can probably find an ice-cream van on the way if anyone's feeling like something more wicked.

Speaking of which, let's talk about the book: Octavia E. Butler's Fledgling.

I nominated this one not because I'm a fan of fantasy or vampire fiction, but because it was something completely left of field -- for my reading tastes anyway. The whole Twilight phenomenon has passed me by and I've never watched an episode of True Blood, but vampires seem to be flavour of the moment and I thought it might be interesting to read a novel that taps into that. Mind you, Butler wrote this in 2005, well before the latest craze, which might explain why it's not in the current bestseller lists.

Interestingly, the book isn't so much a horror story but a science fiction one, because the central character, Shori, looks like a little black girl but is in fact a 53-year-old vampire who has been genetically engineered. She's a kind of experiment to see whether a little extra melanin in the skin will allow her to walk about in daylight without being burnt to a crisp. It works, as long as she covers up, wears a ski mask and dons sunglasses, which kind of defeats the purpose of trying to fit in. But hey, it's progress for a "race" of creatures that have been walking on the planet, and feeding off humans, for thousands of years.

Sadly, some people aren't happy with this "progress" and much of the book revolves around a plot to kill Shori and her family. Indeed, the book is a kind of thriller, in which Shori and her symbionts (the humans she feeds off in a kind of mutually dependent relationship) go on the run and then enter a battle against the unknown enemy.

The story is essentially a parable about race and identity, but there's a whole load of other issues about sex, sexuality, gender, politics and science thrown in for good measure.

I have to be honest and put up my hand and say that this book didn't exactly grab me by the throat (pun fully intended). The prose felt a bit pedestrian to me and the dialogue awfully contrived. There were elements that just made me go ewwww and there were times I wasn't sure I really wanted to continue. But... there was something about the narrative that sucked me in (another pun, I'm sorry) and I did want to keep reading if only to find out who was after Shori and how she would go about saving herself and those like her.

But that's probably enough from me.... I'm dying (yes, yet another pun!) to hear what you all thought of it. What you liked. What you didn't. How it compared to other vampire fiction you might have read. Whether you thought it raised any interesting issues about humankind. Whether it made your heart race or your skin crawl. Please, do tell.

I'll be back at about 10am GMT to join in the discussion. Looking forward to it...

Colm Toibin watch

Irish author Colm Toibin is currently in Australia for the Sydney Writers' Festival and is doing the rounds of media promotion.

Listen to, or watch, this wonderful 9-minute long interview with him on ABC radio.

Listen to another interview with him on local ABC radio (together with two Canadian environmentalists Rick Smith and Bruce Lourie).

Read this interview in the Sydney Morning Herald (the highlight of which is his spot-on description of the "Irish face")

'Beside the Sea' by Véronique Olmi

 

Fiction - paperback; Peirene Press; 121 pages; 2010. Translated from the French by Adriana Hunter.

Véronique Olmi's novel Beside the Sea has been a bestseller in its native France since publication in 2001. Thanks to a new London-based independent publishing house, Peirene Press, it has now been translated into English for the first time.

Peirene's mission is to publish contemporary European literature in translation that is thought-provoking, well designed and short. Beside the Sea certainly ticks all those boxes -- and then some.

The book opens with a single mother taking her two young boys, Stan, 9, and Kevin, 5, on their first visit to the sea. Immediately the reader realises that this is no ordinary trip -- they leave on "the last bus of the evening, so no one would see us" -- and this is no ordinary mother -- "Yep, sometimes I sit in the kitchen for hours and I couldn't give a stuff about anything".

And even before they arrive at their unnamed destination things do not go according to plan: the boys play up on the bus ("talking loudly, peeing and blubbing"), and the mother, who narrates the story, is worried that other passengers are talking about them and that she will miss her stop. When they do arrive it gets worse: it's raining, they get lost in the dark, and when they eventually find the hotel, it's a severe disappointment:

Everything was brown: the walls, the lino, the doors, it was an old-fashioned brown - they can't have repainted the place for centuries, and it looked like years of dirt had stuck to the walls and floor, it was like being inside a cardboard box, a shoebox actually.

This sets the pattern for what can only be described as a rather sad and squalid holiday, in which it becomes increasingly clear that the stark reality of the trip does not mesh with the mother's expectations. Olmi plays her cards very close to her chest and drops the odd clue to the woman's background without spelling anything out. We discover the woman has no teeth and "quite often I daren't smile or laugh without putting my hand over my mouth" but we do not know how she lost them. Is a poor diet to blame? Perhaps domestic violence? A drug habit?

We know that she has mental health problems ("It's not true that I'm paralyzed by my anxieties, like they say at the health centre") and that she often takes to her bed to shut out the realities of her life. She's also very poor and has paid for the trip using "all my little savings scrimped from the change at the baker, and sometimes at the supermarket", bringing her coppers long in a little tea-tin.

But it's also apparent that she loves her boys very much and that the whole trip has been planned so that they can see the sea for once in their lives.

Notwithstanding the brevity of the book, it does not take long for an ominous sense of doom to rise off the page. Despite the mother's best intentions "bad luck" has a habit of getting in the way and screwing everything up. It's hard not to feel pity for her and even more pity for her boys. You wonder where it might end.

And then Olmi delivers her final shocking blow. To be perfectly honest, I had seen enough reviews of this book on other blogs to guess that something very bad was going to happen. However, I still found the ending so powerful, so intense and so quietly devastating that I'm still thinking about it a week down the line... By showing the extraordinary in the very ordinary, Olmni has crafted a fine novel indeed. Beside the Sea may not be a cheery read, but it's a hugely emotional one that deserves the widest possible audience.

'Not So Perfect' by Nik Perring

 

  Fiction - paperback; Roast Books; 140 pages; 2010. Review copy courtesy of the publisher.

Reviewing a short story collection is always problematic. Do you take a story by story approach, or a general overview? In this instance, I've opted for the latter.

Nik Perring's Not So Perfect is a sweet collection of 22 stories, some of which are no more than a page long. And given the cute size of this book, which is 130mm x 130mm, that's very short indeed. It can be easily read, cover to cover, in less than an hour, though I suppose you could drag it out, ration yourself to one story a day, and make it last three weeks. But if you are anything like me, reading one isn't quite enough and before you know it you've greedily gobbled up the whole book in one short sitting.

Most of the stories are about human relationships and the not-so-perfect lives people lead. All of them have surprising little twists or moments that make you go a-ha! And many are just downright kooky, but a lot of fun all the same.

I was particularly taken by the first story, Kiss (just four pages long), in which an older man seemingly takes his much younger wife for granted. But then he dies and weeks after the funeral his widow notices that the flowerbed in the garden looks different. Her late husband had planted the flowers so that when they bloomed they would spell out a message. But to find out the message you will have to read the story for yourself! Let's just say it's a bittersweet tear-inducing one.

Similarly, I quite liked My Heart's in a Box (four pages and two lines long) in which a man allows the woman he loves to cut his heart out and keep it in a box. Okay, so it's sort of preposterous, because how on earth would the man survive an operation of that nature, especially as it was conducted on the kitchen table, but in this story you have to suspend belief. It's actually a poignant little fable which explores how the love between two people grows and changes with time. Initially, the woman keeps the heart on display in the kitchen, later it is put on the mantel piece, before it is moved to the bathroom, then the hall and then the bedroom. Finally it's put in the garage "on the windowsill, with the slug pellets and matches, with the almost full bottle of turps and a dusty bottle of champagne we won somewhere".

Sadly, the quality of the stories is slightly inconsistent and there are some, including Shark Boy, which are just plain odd. But overall this is a fun, occasionally subversive, collection.

Not So Perfect is published in the UK on June 2.

J. G. Farrell wins the Lost Man Booker Prize

J. G. Farrell's Troubles has won the Lost Man Booker Prize.

Others on the shortlist included:

• Nina Bawden's The Birds on the Trees
• Shirley Hazzard's The Bay of Noon
• Patrick White's The Vivisector
• Mary Renault's Fire from Heaven
• Muriel Spark's The Driver’s Seat

According to the press release, Troubles won by a clear majority, "winning 38% of the votes by the international reading public, more than double the votes cast for any other book on the shortlist".

Troubles is actually the first in a trilogy, which includes the 1973 Booker-winning The Siege of Krishnapur and The Singapore Grip.

British-based readers might be interested in taking advantage of The Book People deal, in which you can purchase the first two in the trilogy, plus The Hill Station, for £4.99.

Triple Choice Tuesday: Maxine Clarke

Welcome to Triple Choice Tuesday. This is where I ask some of my favourite bloggers and other bookish bods to share the names of three books that mean a lot to them. The idea is that it might raise the profile of certain books and introduce you to new titles and new bloggers.

Today's guest is Maxine Clarke from Petrona, a blog that focuses mainly on crime fiction, with "occasional forays into books in other areas, publishing, science, the web and more". 

I've been following Maxine's blog for four or five years now. In fact, several years ago we met up and had a meal and glass or two of wine together. These days we tend to keep in contact via our blogs and email.

Maxine is an editor at Nature, so we share an interest in journalism and publishing, but we also have a mutual appreciation of crime fiction. Indeed, I largely hold Maxine responsible for my discovery of Scandinavian crime, specifically Arnaldur Indriðason, and whenever I'm in need of some inspiration, in terms of new titles and new authors to try, Petrona is the first blog to which I turn.

Here's Maxine's Triple Choice Tuesday selections:

A favourite book: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Like many people, Jane Austen is a favourite author of mine. I was lucky enough not to be assigned any of her novels to read while I was at school, as at that time I would not have appreciated the subtle, domestic plots – I was more of a Dickens and Arnold Bennett fan in those days.

I first read Austen when I was in my late teens/early twenties and instantly loved her. I enjoyed Emma, in particular, so much that I immediately bought a book of literary criticism of that novel and ploughed through that.

Since then, I have re-read Austen’s novels several times, perhaps once every 10 years or so. I have also seen numerous film adaptations, some of which I have enjoyed very much.

Which is my favourite Jane Austen novel? Well, it changes – I think at the moment it is Pride and Prejudice, but when I next re-read one of her books it will probably be that title! I have to admit that I really like her romantic heroes, though I have never actually met anyone like one of them.

A book that changed my world: The Child in Time by Ian McEwan

I had discovered Ian McEwan a few years before this book was published, via his short stories, which at the time stood out for being on topics that aren’t (or weren’t, then) usually addressed in “literature” but were superbly written, hence standing head and shoulders above everything else of that ilk.

McEwan’s first novel, The Cement Garden, was on similar themes to his short stories. When The Child in Time was published in 1987, I was living in Camden (north London) and remember going into the bookshop by the tube station and buying the hardback – something I practically never did (and still practically never do!)

The book turned out to be a mature work, with a shocking beginning in which a father loses his young child while out shopping. The book is not only about how this incident affects the man’s subsequent life, but is also about science. McEwan (as has been amply shown in his subsequent creative output) is not only fascinated by science but also seeks to engage with it in a way that, in my experience, is very rare. He does not do what many attempt to do, and explain a concept, nor does he take a pretentious and condescending approach as I’ve seen other authors do who weave science into their novels. Here, McEwan is interested in time from many perspectives (including, but not only, scientific ones) and these perspectives form part of this excellent novel.

This novel marked a turning-point for the author: I have read all his subsequent books (some of which I have enjoyed more than others, but they are all beautifully written and observed), and if I had to say who is my favourite living novelist, Ian McEwan would be my choice.

When I read The Child in Time, I had no children, so had to imagine what the central character was feeling on the basis of no experience. I made a resolution to myself that I would re-read the book one day after I had had children (if I ever did). I will certainly keep that resolution.

A book that deserves a wider audience: Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow by Peter Hoeg

These days I read mostly crime fiction for reasons I won’t dwell on here. Back in the early 1990s, I read much more widely – including many highbrow novels, classic and modern, which have long since faded from memory. One novel, however, sticks in my mind from that time, and I still have it, waiting to be re-read one day. The book is Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow by Peter Hoeg.

This novel is widely held to be the “parent” of the current popularity of translated crime fiction. One can certainly thank Christopher MacLehose for publishing the first English-language translation, beautifully done from the Danish by Felicity David (Tiina Nunnally).

I loved the novel as soon as I started reading it, because of the heady mix of a compelling mystery that grabs you from the first page; and a mesmerising central character, Miss Smilla, who as a Greenlander is a fish out of water in metropolitan Copenhagen. She’s a fantastic and fascinating character, stubbornly encountering trouble and conflict in all aspects of her life – her relationship with her father is memorable.

The book is simply marvellous and original – for about the first three-quarters. Unfortunately, it totally falls to pieces at the end with a pseudo-science, hokum-ridden, ‘thriller’ finale. Nevertheless, the first (main) part is just so good that I’d recommend the novel to anyone -- especially if you have become interested in translated crime-fiction as a result of the current vogue for Stieg Larsson and Henning Mankell (both authors also discovered for an English-reading audience by the same publisher, Christopher MacLehose).

I have not seen the film based on Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow (which apparently wasn’t very good, called Smilla’s Sense of Snow, completely missing the haunting charm of the UK book title), nor have I enjoyed the author’s subsequent books. His second novel I read but thought quite weak, and I gave up on the one after that. Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow, first published in the UK in 1993, is an original, compelling and absorbing novel.

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Thanks, Maxine, for taking part in my Triple Choice Tuesday!

What do you think of Maxine's choices? Have you read any of these books? As I've recently admitted, I've not read any Austen. I'm not sure I can put it off any longer! I have, however, read a few McEwan novels, but not The Child in Time, and I've had Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow in my TBR for about 10 years. I've always put off reading it because I saw the film, which starts off well and then turns into some kind of preposterous, over-the-top thriller, and I figured the book might be more of the same...

'The Pickup' by Nadine Gordimer

 

Fiction - paperback; Bloomsbury Publishing; 288 pages; 2002.

The prospect of reading Nobel Prize winning author Nadine Gordimer used to make me tremble in my boots. But earlier this year I read July's People and found her style and her subject matter refreshing. I was keen to try more of her work, and when Kinga recently mentioned The Pickup in her Triple Choice Tuesday selection I decided to give this one a whirl.

The dictionary defines "pickup" as: "an instance of approaching someone and engaging in romantic flirtation and courting with the intent to pursue romance, a date, or a sexual encounter".

In this novel, which begins in South Africa, it's not really clear who's picking up who, when Julie, a white woman from a privileged background, starts going out with Abdu, the mechanic who fixes her car. The relationship seems destined to be short-lived because Abdu, who is from an unnamed Middle Eastern country, is an illegal immigrant. But Julie, a PR professional, couldn't care less about the stigma attached to this new relationship, because she's determined to carve her own way in life, free from her overbearing father's money, his expectations and his much younger second wife.

The authorities eventually catch up with Abdu. As his deportation looms, Julie makes a surprising decision: she will marry him and move to his home country that he hates so much.

The bulk of the book is therefore set in an unspecified Islamic country, where poverty is the natural order and the family is the glue which holds society together. To Julie, an only child who's survived her parent's divorce, living with a rather large and extended family is not the claustrophobic experience one might expect. She treats this new life as an adventure and adapts surprisingly well. But all the while Abdu is applying for legal asylum in other countries in the hope to provide them both with a better life.

As one by one, his applications are turned down, Abdu's resentment, frustration and anger builds. Will their relationship stand the strain? Will Julie abandon him and run back to South Africa? Or will Abdu come to terms with the good things in his life rather than searching for something he cannot have?

The Pickup is one of those books that is rich with meaning and motifs, exploring as it does the notion of race, culture and identity. It also examines the divide between East and West, rich and poor, the freedom of movement versus immigration controls. But in Gordimer's hands these universal issues are handled in an understated way. She merely plants the seeds and it's you, the reader, who joins the dots and mulls things over and wonders how on earth she has said so much using so few words!

But this is a demanding read, one that requires plenty of space and time to digest properly. Gordimer's sentence structure is diametrically opposed to the normal rigours of Plain English and takes some time to get used to. This is not a criticism. Indeed, I like that a writer can use the language in such a way that it forces me to change my reading habits: instead of racing through the text, eager to find out what happens next, I took my time and lingered over each sentence, absorbing each one slowly but surely, before moving onto the next one.

There's no doubt that The Pickup is hard work, but I so enjoyed the story and the issues it throws up it has only made me more determined to explore more of Gordimer's extensive back catalogue. Suggestions for other titles to try are more than welcome.

'Mr Scobie's Riddle' by Elizabeth Jolley

 

Fiction - paperback; Penguin Modern Classics; 240 pages; 2010.

A novel set in a nursing home doesn't exactly sound like a barrel of laughs, but in the very capable hands of Australia's grand dame of letters, Elizabeth Jolley, it's actually a wonderful black comedy in the tradition of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Jolley, who died in 2007, wrote 15 novels. Mr Scobie's Riddle, her fourth, was published in 1983 and won the Age book of the year that same year. It has recently been reprinted in the lovely Penguin Modern Classics livery I love so much.

Mr Scobie of the title is an 85-year-old retired music teacher, who is admitted to St. Christopher and St. Jude, a rather dubious nursing home presided over by Matron Hyacinth Price. Matron isn't exactly Nurse Ratched, but she does have her eyes on her patient's worldly goods and cons them into signing them over. As she battles to keep the home from falling into bankruptcy she has other problems with which to contend: her cook has a raging temper and a penchant for swearing loudly, her night nurse won't follow instructions, and she struggles to find -- and keep -- female staff. To complicate matters further, her housekeeper has married her bigamist husband, and now she's hiding him in the caravan out the back. Oh yes, this is all ripe for farce.

And then there's the patients. Miss Hailey, who's just 60 years old, is a nutty writer who's penned a novel rejected by more than 40 publishers and a poem branded "indecent" by the Town Clerk. Mr Hughes is a retired Welsh farmer who has problems with his bowels. And Mr Privett writes an advertisement selling his body for a "reasonable price".

Throw in all-night card games, female staff who gossip like schoolgirls, and patients who make bids for escape, and it's clear that Jolley's created a rather funny novel. But she treads a very fine line between comedy and pathos, and only a blinkered reader would miss the social commentary that runs throughout this novel.

Ms Jolley has a lot to say about the lack of respect society has for those we brand "old folk". We see this via Mr Scobie's abject misery at having to give up his lovely house and land at Rosewood East. Indeed his riddle -- that death is the only certainty in life -- isn't as funny as it might sound. This is a man who hankers for the past because he knows there is no future. Not even his nephew, a burglar on the run, and his niece, who has settled for an unsuitable man, give him any cheer. Instead, he's locked up in a house full of "evil people" with whom he has nothing in common but age. Any wonder he tries to escape?

I went through a whole gamut of emotions as I read Mr Scobie's Riddle. I laughed, I got angry, I tried not to cry. It's a truly poignant novel peopled with a cast of characters that feel very human despite their eccentricity. I loved this book, and think it deserves a re-read if only to pick up on all the gentle nuances I missed first time round.

Please note that the Penguin Modern Classics edition is only available in Australia, but if you live in the UK you should be able to pick up older secondhand editions for just a pound or two online. It will be money well spent.

Triple Choice Tuesday: Lisa Hill

Welcome to Triple Choice Tuesday. This is where I ask some of my favourite bloggers and other bookish bods to share the names of three books that mean a lot to them. The idea is that it might raise the profile of certain books and introduce you to new titles and new bloggers.

Today's guest is Lisa Hill from ANZ LitLovers LitBlog, my favourite source of reviews and commentary on a wide range of Australian and New Zealand literary fiction.

I only discovered ANZ LitLovers last year, but it has promptly become my favourite book blog, and I do hold Lisa largely responsible for contributing to my ever-growing TBR and wishlist!

Lisa lives in Melbourne, Victoria (my old stomping ground), where she works as a primary school librarian.  

Here's Lisa's Triple Choice Tuesday selections:

A favourite book: The Great Fire by Shirley Hazzard

I don't often re-read books, but I've read The Great Fire twice and listened to it as an audio book twice, too. I've enjoyed all of Shirley Hazzard's novels, but this one is really special. It won the American National Book Award in 2003 and the Miles Franklin in Australia the following year; it was also shortlisted for the Orange Prize and the IMPAC and long-listed for the Booker.

Every time I read (or listen to) it I am lured into sharing Hazzard's belief in the redemptive power of love, in destiny, and - despite human aggression and folly - in the idea of transformation in nations and cultures. I also like Hazzard's courage in rejecting cynicism and suspicion to assert that there can be innocence in a love between a man of 32 and a girl of 17.

She has used the blighted landscape of post-war Japan to visit contemporary themes such as post-colonialism, casual racism, and the fate of women. It's a complex book, but I enjoy Hazzard's nuanced turns of phrase, her tasteful irony, and the power of her imagery.


A book that changed my world: The Female Eunuch by Germaine Greer

I think women all over the world had their lives changed by this book. Greer completely subverted the way I looked at my role as a wife, mother, and daughter, and I love her for it.

I have had a wonderfully rewarding life and career, in relationships that treat me with respect, because Germaine Greer wrote this exciting book in a way that made both men and women see the world differently.



A book that deserves a wider audience: Life in Seven Mistakes by Susan Johnson, and The Bath Fugues by Brian Castro

I'm cheating here because I'm choosing two. Life in Seven Mistakes is a delicious black comedy, woven around the phenomenon inflicted on all of us whose parents have retired to warmer climes: the Dreaded Family Christmas.

With wonderfully original characterisation and a sly dissection of modern family life, it explores one of my favourite themes, how to manage the demands of the creative impulse in the real world of competing career-and-family needs. Susan was based in London the last I heard, but she is a real Aussie writer all the same.

The Bath Fugues is a more challenging book, but it is well worth the effort. Like the novels of Patrick White, Brian Castro’s books gradually reveal hidden treasures, with the enticing possibility that each re-reading will reveal yet more. The book is cleverly structured to mirror the musical form of the fugue, and is an intriguing story of relationships, identity and authenticity, playing with the way people drift in and out of each other’s lives like musical motifs. This book really deserves an international audience.

International buyers can get copies of these two from Readings.

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Thanks, Lisa, for taking part in my Triple Choice Tuesday!

What do you think of Lisa's choices? Have you read any of these books? I'm delighted to see Susan Johnson's Life in Seven Mistakes here, as I read it a year or so ago, and really enjoyed it. Indeed, Susan occasionally comments on this blog. I haven't read The Female Eunuch, but I did read the sequel, The Whole Woman, about a decade ago and found it quite illuminating. And I've really got to read Shirley Hazzard at some point... (see what I mean about Lisa influencing my TBR!)

'An Equal Music' by Vikram Seth

 

Fiction - paperback; Phoenix; 496 pages; 2004.

An Equal Music is one of those big, beautiful books best appreciated by kicking off your shoes and curling up on the sofa to devour it in one or two longish sittings. It's even better if it's accompanied by a steady supply of coffee and cake, while the rain outside patters on the window. That's not exactly how I read this book, but I could easily imagine doing so, because the story is so captivating and pleasurable.

Essentially it is an epic romance, set in London (and Venice), involving classical musicians. Now this is where I put up my hands and reveal I'm a bit of a philistine when it comes to classical music, so some of the terminology and musical references were completely lost on me. But it certainly did not detract from the story, nor the all-encompassing, occasionally claustrophobic world presented here. I am sure anyone with a love of classical music would absolutely adore this novel.

The story, divided into eight parts, is told through the eyes of Michael, a 30-something violinist, who is the member of a quartet. He makes a little money on the side by teaching music, and has recently fallen into a relationship with one of his students. But it's clear that Michael is nursing a great hurt. Ten years ago he left the woman he now realises was "the one" and has no idea what happened to her. Then, one day, while on a double-decker bus stuck in Oxford Street traffic, he finds himself eye to eye with his long lost love, Julia, who is sitting in the bus opposite.

It's difficult to say much more without revealing crucial elements of the plot, so if this all sounds a bit vague, I'm sorry. What I can say is that Michael and Julia do, eventually, get back together, but the course of true love never runs smoothly, and there's a lot of heartbreak and pain with which to contend -- for both characters.

It's pretty hard to fault the characterisation in this novel, although I have to admit that Michael, did, at times, feel slightly creepy and obsessive to me and there were occasions when I wondered how much of his narrative I could trust. Similarly, Julia's motivations are often puzzling, and because we are never told her side of the story, there's no way of knowing why she behaves the way that she does.

The secondary characters, of which there are quite a few, including Michael's musical partners, the quartet's agent, his neighbours and his father, all feel like living, breathing people. And the insights into life as a classical musician -- rehearsing, negotiating a record deal, touring in Europe and performing on stage -- are fascinating, especially the tensions and rivalries between quartet members.

But it's the setting, too, which really sold this novel to me. How could I not like a book set in an area of London I know fairly well? Hyde Park in winter has never felt more atmospheric to me than Vikram Seth's evocative descriptions of it. And the parts set in Venice had me itching to revist the watery city I love so much.

An Equal Music was first published in 1999. It's a hugely passionate novel about passion -- passion for others, passion for music, but, most of all, passion for life.

Not The TV Book Group - Session Seven: 'A Short Gentleman' by Jon Canter

Today's scheduled Not The TV Book Group discussion is for A Short Gentleman by Jon Canter.

I finished the book only moments ago, so I'm still enjoying the afterglow of such a brilliantly funny and well-paced story. Honestly, I tittered all the way through this and, at one point, was reduced to a giggling mess that I could only explain to my partner by reading out the scene, which then had him laughing, too.

The discussion for this one is being hosted by Kirsty of Other Stories, so if you've read the book do drop by to add your thoughts.  I'm heading over there right now...

'I Am The Messenger' by Markus Zusak

 

Fiction - paperback; Alfred A. Knopf; 357 pages; 2005.

I Am The Messenger is a young adult novel written by Markus Zusak, the Australian author who went on to achieve commercial success and international acclaim with his next book, The Book Thief.

The story is told in first person by 19-year-old Ed Kennedy, who lives with a big smelly brute of a dog in a rundown Sydney suburb. He drives a taxi for a living and has a small circle of friends with whom he plays cards and drinks beer. He is in love with his best friend, Audrey, but doesn't feel confident enough to tell her of his true feelings. Indeed, Ed's a bit of a lost cause. His alcoholic father died a year ago, and now he's being constantly harangued on the phone by his potty-mouthed mother, who favours his more successful siblings over him.

But in the book's opening pages, Ed accidentally foils a bank robbery and his life takes a different tack. No sooner is he in all the papers, being hailed as a hero, than he receives a playing card in the post. There's three addresses written on it. When he works up the courage to visit the first address, secretly observing the people who live there, he realises he has been given a mission: he is now a messenger sent to help people less fortunate than himself.

This sets up a bizarre chain of events in which Ed receives more cards, with more cryptic clues. This mission brings him in contact with a vast array of people, including a religious priest, a teenage athlete and a single-mother raising three kids on her own.

It's quite a page-turning read, because ultimately you want to know who's behind Ed's mission. Sadly, the ending is rather manipulative, but I suspect young readers, far less cynical than me, would find it mind-boggingly clever!

If you can forgive the small forays into schmaltz, this is a fast and entertaining read. Zusak deftly lightens tragedy with dark humour and charts a young man's personal growth without being too obvious. If you like young adult fiction, you'll find much to enjoy here.

Note that the book was published in Australia under the title The Messenger.

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This book was chosen by Simon as part of our Riverside Readers book group. Here are some other posts written about the book by fellow members:

• Simon's review

• Polly's review

'Jasper Jones' by Craig Silvey

 

Fiction - paperback; Windmill Books; 304 pages; 2010. Review copy courtesy of the publisher.

Oh dear. I've read a string of rather mediocre books recently and, sadly, this one falls into that category too.

Jasper Jones has only just been published in the UK, but it's been out in Australia for six months or so and garnered plenty of critical and commercial acclaim. Indeed it's been named on this year's shortlist of Australia's prestigious fiction prize, the Miles Franklin Literary Award, which should give some indication of its literary merit. However, in my view, it's far from being anything other than fairly ordinary.

The book is set in a Western Australian mining town in the 1960s in the summer which opens with Doug Walters' test cricket debut, in which he scored a century against England, and the disappearance of the Beaumont children at Glenelg Beach on Australia Day in 1966. In the six weeks or so between these two pivotal events in Australian history, 13-year-old Charlie Buckton gets caught up in a pivotal event of his own.

I don't think it's a spoiler to say he gets carolled by the town's teenage outcast, Jasper Jones, into hiding the body of a girl who has been found hanging from a tree. Jasper, who is half Aboriginal and likes a whisky or two, is such a bad boy he believes that he will be blamed for the girl's death, hence the desperate need to get rid of the "evidence". Why Charlie gets roped into it is never made entirely clear, but it sets up the premise for the rest of the book in which Charlie's summer is plagued by the very real fear that his involvement in the crime will be discovered.

I suppose you could call this a coming-of-age story, because it charts Charlie's last not-quite carefree summer as a child on the cusp of becoming an adolescent. He spends most of his time hanging out with his friend, Jeffrey Lu, falling in love with Eliza Wishart, and avoiding the wrath of his mother.

But while Silvey paints a convincing portrait of a teenage boy coming to terms with his loss of innocence, he is far less convincing on so many other fronts. The prose style is overly verbose, to the point of being over-written, and the broad brush stroke references to racism in a small town (as a consequence of the Vietnam war), just seem trite. (I'm reminded of Chris Cleave's The Other Hand, which referred to asylum seekers in Britain in a similar manner.) And it doesn't help that Charlie and Jeffrey feel too contemporary to be living in the mid 1960s. I mean, what kids back then made jokes about "coming out"? I'm not even sure that phrase was in use in 1965 (although I'm willing to be corrected).

I'm slightly puzzled as to why this book has received so many glowing reviews. Yes, it's a nice story and there's a real urgency to the first couple of chapters. Yes, the camaraderie and banter between Charlie and Jeffrey is deliciously funny if somewhat cheesy and peurile. And yes, there's a stand-out description of a local cricket match in which Jeffrey plays a star role.

But on the whole I found the book slightly wearisome and most of the scenes felt forced and contrived. It's almost like Silvey modelled his style on Bryce Courtenay after watching reruns of the Wonder Years. Throwing in a few topical issues, such as racism, just hammers home the point that this book is simply trying too hard on so many different levels. What were the Miles Franklin judges thinking?

Triple Choice Tuesday: Whispering Gums

Welcome to Triple Choice Tuesday. This is where I ask some of my favourite bloggers and other bookish bods to share the names of three books that mean a lot to them. The idea is that it might raise the profile of certain books and introduce you to new titles and new bloggers.

Today's guest is Sue, from Whispering Gums, who lives in Canberra, the capital city of Australia. Sue trained as a librarian but has spent almost all of her career working in film and sound libraries and archives.

She joined an online book group in January 1997, so has been discussing books online for a long time, but only started blogging last year. And what a blog it is. I love Sue's penchant for Australian literature, with diversions into trees (hence the name), music and other cultural experiences. I've only been visiting for a short while, but Whispering Gums has promptly become one of my favourite book blogs.

Here's Sue's Triple Choice Tuesday selections:

A favourite book: Persuasion by Jane Austen

Pick an Austen, any Austen. As a long-time Austen fan, I find it hard to name a favourite. In fact, like many Austen fans, I usually say my favourite is the last one I’ve (re)read, BUT if I had to name one it would probably be Persuasion.

Anne Elliot is not as sparkly and witty as Pride and Prejudice’s Elizabeth Bennet, and the novel is not as “perfect” as Emma, but I have always admired Anne for her thoroughly good values. Despite being surrounded by selfishness and vanity, she holds her ground steadily, living her life quietly but usefully, until she finally wins through. She may look to some like a pushover, but her options in that place and time were limited, and she does show strength when the opportunity arises. It is she who says: “Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands.”

Anyone who thinks Jane Austen writes silly romances with nothing deeper to ponder than how to get a man has not really read her!

A book that changed my world: The Plague by Albert Camus

I’m not sure that any book has changed my world, but there are many that contain ideas that I often return to. The Plague, which I first read in my idealistic youth, is one such book.

I’m not one of those people who can spout quotes from books at will, but there are a few that have stuck, and one of these comes from The Plague. The character Tarrou says: “Everything is more or less sick of the plague. All I maintain is that on this earth there are pestilences and victims, and it's up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with the pestilences.”

Some people read this as saying we should become “victims” instead, but for me the focus of the message is that we should not harm others, that it is a tough world and that our best path through it is not to make it tougher. It’s a simple message really, but sometimes simple is best, particularly when it is framed by an engaging story.

A book that deserves a wider audience: Drylands by Thea Astley

I cannot do this exercise without including an Australian book – but which one, as there far too many Australian writers who do not get enough exposure internationally? Perhaps the most worthy is Thea Astley: she has been way under-appreciated despite her significant achievements which include being, until Tim Winton’s win last year, the only writer to have won the Miles Franklin Prize four times. By any reckoning that should make her at least as well known as Winton, but she’s not.

She was prolific, so I’ll choose her last, Drylands, which is subtitled “a book for the world’s last reader” and which has an interesting structure as it looks more like a set of short stories than a novel.

Astley is earthy and honest, and her writing is not always easy. She cared deeply about humanity and the failures of our social conscience, and this book explores many of the topics she railed against throughout her life, including the poor treatment of women and indigenous people.

It’s not a cheery book – its title can be read literally and metaphorically. But, don’t you think that this description of the main character - “... she had never been harried by the glamour of any possessions but books” – would make a very fine epitaph?

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Thanks, Sue, for taking part in my Triple Choice Tuesday!

What do you think of Sue's choices? Have you read any of these books? I've had Astley's book in my TBR for about two years: I found a very cheap copy in a charity shop and snapped it up while I had the chance, so now I'm itching to read it. Ditto for The Plague. And now I'm beginning to wonder whether it's time to try some Austen, too...

'Alone in Berlin' by Hans Fallada

Fiction - paperback; Penguin Modern Classics; 608 pages; 2010. Translated from the German by Michael Hofmann.

Hans Fallada, the pen name of Rudolph Wilhelm Adolf Ditzen (1893-1947), reportedly wrote Alone in Berlin in just 24 days. And it shows.

This is a big, rambling book, with a loose narrative structure, and a cast of what seems like a million characters. It's set in Berlin during the Second World War and focuses on one man's efforts to resist the Nazis in the best way he knows how: by dropping postcards with anti-Hitler messages scrawled upon them in public buildings across the city. If he is caught, there is no doubt that Otto Quangel, an ordinary German, will be executed by the regime.

This sounds like a terrific premise for a book -- and it is. I can honestly say that the first 200 or so pages are genuinely gripping, as Fallada introduces us to the characters, provides accounts of their troubled and occasionally trivial lives under the Third Reich, and shows how Otto, once a supporter of the Nazi regime, changes his mind when his only son is killed in the war. When together with his wife, Anna, he begins dropping anti-fascist postcards as an act of quiet rebellion you can't help but admire him for it.

But the momentum of this novel, which is divided into four chunks, is lost in the big baggy structure of it. There are countless characters, many of whom simply drop out of the storyline without explanation. Often the Quango's tale of resistance becomes subsidiary to other tangential threads, some of which are interesting stories in themselves -- for instance, Hetty Haberles decision to shelter the weasel Enno Kluge from the Gestapo on the basis that they prosecuted her husband -- but end up turning what should be the main narrative into mere background noise.

However, the book does throw up some important issues about politics, morality, truth, justice and humanity, which seem particularly prescient given the book was written in 1947 without the benefit of looking at the Nazi regime through decades of moral reflection and historical analysis. If there is any message to be taken from the story it is this, best summed up by one of the characters, Dr Reichhardt, who reassures Otto that his efforts of resistance were not useless:

"Well, it will have helped us to feel that we behaved decently till the end. [...] Of course, Quangel, it would have been a hundred times better if we'd had someone who could have told us, such and such is what you have to do; our plan is this and this. But if there had been such a man in Germany, then Hitler would never have come to power in 1933. As it was, we all acted alone, we were caught alone, and every one of us will have to die alone. But that doesn't mean that we ARE alone, or that our deaths will be in vain. Nothing in this world is done in vain, and since we are fighting for justice against brutality, we are bound to prevail in the end."

As much as I wanted to love this book, particularly it's moral message (I read it very soon after A Woman in Berlin), I couldn't overlook its woolly structure and its meandering narrative. Apparently the story is based on a real life case in which a poorly educated working-class couple conducted a three-year propaganda campaign during the Nazi regime. This is documented at the rear of the novel and, in many ways, was more interesting to read than Fallada's fictionalised account.

Sadly, Fallada, who spent much of his adult life in an out of psychiatric care, did not live to see the publication of this book. It was translated into English for the first time in 2009, where it was published in the USA as Every Man Dies Alone.