dose :: something about books

about books

My first novel, Blind Spot, is currently doing the rounds at publishers, with a couple of glimmers of hope. Here are a couple of chapters (PDF): Blind Spot, Chapter 1-2. I have started a second, much better, novel, which is coming along nicely.

In addition, I am the founder of LibriVox, which gets volunteers from around the world to read/record audio versions of public domain books, and make them free on the internet. Some of the press coverage, including a great write-up in the NY Times, can be found here.

And, while on the topic of books, to help inspire you and me, below you will find:

recent reading list

The Scheme for Full Employment by Magnus Mills.
Doctor Fischer of Geneva or the Bomb Party by Graham Greene.
Middlesex: A Novel by Jeffrey Eugenides.
The Trial by Franz Kafka.
The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown.

2005 book reviews

Books organized alphabetically by author, with the following star system:
*** to be stored on my top shelf, to the left of my desk
** please return after you are done with it
* satisfactory
ZERO a book I did not like

Aquin, Hubert. Blackout (Trou de Memoire)**

Québec seperatist

revolutionary

The "I mean" so dear to English-Canadians recurred with increasing frequency. Joan, her inmost being under siege, couldn't stop saying "I mean," though she was meaning less and less. The very accumulation of "I means" testified to her desperate will, an obscure will toward intellection, at the same time that she gave signs of her total defeat at the hands of nameless enemies who in a way were acting within her as my emissaries.

Auster, Paul. Oracle Night*
Paul Auster gets my first one-star rating of the year -- but that doesn't mean I didn't like the book. I am a big Auster fan, especially of his wonderfully weird New York Trillogy. But I've found the last few of his books I've read a bit candy-like: pleasant to read, compelling, complex plots, and in the case of Oracle Night, an effectively clever russian doll game of novel within a novel within a novel. But I can't help feeling there should be more in his books, as if he writes them quickly and doesn't dig deeply enough into his characters and themes (cloudy relations between people, love and trust, and the mystical powers of writing, the intersection of fiction and reality). Auster also has a habit, shared by, among others, Don Delillo and Murakami, of tossing all sorts of compelling mysteries into the air, and leaving most of them hanging there. Now, this isn't necessarily a bad thing (especially when Murakami does it), but there's something unsatisfying, and maybe even lazy, about a writer who leaves all these guns on the mantlepiece, without one of them ever going off. Though perhaps that's the problem with untidy life, and its real mysteries: resolutions aren't always so easy to find, and sometimes, "unsatisfying" is exactly the right description for what we do find in our own lives.

Basilières, Michel. Black Bird**
What Montrealer could resist this gothic tale about grave-robbers, mad scientists, a dreamy poet-cum-unwilling revolutionary, a young FLQiste who blows up her Anglo grandfather (by accident), a pet raven, miserable marriages, the Royal Victoria hospital and a flaming house filled with a family of loonies, some of them French and some of them English, all of them unbalanced (hence one wise woman's plan to sleep on one side only until things get right again) . Quebec's recent and colourful history get a reworking here, dates get rearranged, specifics get renegotiated, a collection of dead body parts get a new brain, and Canada gets a new and wholly promising novelist. The vitality of the early chapters fades a little near the end, and a real connection with the characters goes lacking; still something of a marvel for a first book. Big things to come, one hopes, from Michel Basilières.
Grandfather was an unkind man, but not a stupid one, so he took life's lessons to heart. To be happy was a mistake; to be kind was a waste of effort; and to plan for the future was to miss today's opportunities.

Ballard, JG. Super-Cannes*
Super-Cannes gets one star, more because of my personal preferences than any flaws: it falls a bit too strongly on the thriller-side of "literary thriller" for my tastes -- all dialogue-driven, shallow characters. Still this book has much to say about our modern obsessions, and the flip-side of corporate engineered perfection. Wounded English pilot and writer Paul moves to a massive shining coporate park in the "new" Riviera, along with his young doctor wife. She has been hired to replace an old lover, a young idealist who went bonkers and killed ten members of Eden-Olympia, their new home. Turns out some wierd stuff is going on at Eden Olympia. Paul knocks heads with a cast of perhaps shady characters, including the resident psychiatrist and Eden bigwig, another Englishman who has seen the future of Europe and the world, and does his best to keep his coperate performers sane. Innocent bystanders be damned. A good beach read.
Homo Sapiens is a reformed hunter-killer of depraved apetites, which once helped him to survive. He was partly rehabilitated in an open prison called the first agricultural societies, and now finds himself on parole in the polite suburbs of the city state. The deviant impulses coded into his central nervous system have been switched off. He can no longer harm himself or anyone else. But nature sensibly endowed him with a taste for cruelty and an intense curiosity about pain and death. Without them he's trapped in the afternoon shopping malls of a limitless mediocrity. We need to revive him, give him back the killing eye and the dreams of death.

Beinhart, Larry. How to Write a Mystery**
This was recommended to me by a writer, Jake Macdonald, who told me, "even if you don't want to write a mystery, this book is worth a read." How right he was. Beinhart is a clever and smooth writer, the advice is, I think, good for anyone writing fiction (mystery or not), and his good humour and and practical advice make for a useful read. He covers all the bases in his sections on Narrative Drive, Characters, and Sex. etc. My favourite passage was this one, wherein a young Beinhart learned that he had to do the work: his editor said the book was too long:
"What," I inquired, "do you suggest I cut?" I had been raised on the Maxwell Perkins legend--which we all sort of know even if we don't know it by name--of fevered creative collaboration, the editor portrayed as a calm and incisive Olympian who could guide the demonic but untutored verbal energies of rabid and foaming young authors--like F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest hemingway, and Thomas Wolfe--into tempered acts of genius, reshaping the raw power of base metal into the finest hammered steel in the manner of Japanese sword makers.
"You're the writer," [the editor] said. "You decide."

Brown, Dan. The Da Vinci Code*
About 70 pages of cheap and powerful crack cocaine, followed by one long, dirty comedown that left me feeling ashamed, used, abused and happy the damn thing was over. Still, one star, rather than zero, for getting me to busily check the internet to look at da Vinci canvasses, reportages on the Priory of Scion, Rosslyn Chapel and a host of other interesting factoids. Code is a horrendously written book--so horrendous it's amazing in parts--but yes, that initial hook was pretty good, and the conspiracy nut in me liked the idea, but by the end I was reading out of spite, at how terrible the whole thing was. The amazing thing is that, apparently, people think the whole concotion is True. The Catholic Church sure has some 'splaining to do for its past, but the feeble ending leaves one wondering, just what exactly it is that's supposed to be True in Dan Brown's Code?
As Sophie gunned the car up Champs-Elysées, Langdon said, "The painting. What was behind it?"
Her eyes remained on the road. "I'll show you once we're safely inside the embassy."
"You'll show it to me?" Langdon was surprised. "He left you a physical object?"

Why didn't he just leave her a phone number?

Ehrenreich, Barbara. Nickel and Dimed**
I didn't mean to read this book, but my girlfriend passed it to me and said, "You should read it." I had a stack of books, all of which I should read, and want to read, on my bedside table; but I decided the flip through it before turning to a more pressing novel. 75 pages later, I realized it was 1:30 am, and I had work to do in the morning. Ehrenreich documents an important socio-economic experiment: can an upper-middle-class, well-educated woman, in good health, make it in the low-wage world, without using (too many) of the crutches her affluence allows? The answer, which makes for great reading (and which, despite everything, never looks condescending), is: No, not really. Her real-world exploration of the problems of wages, transport, housing, time make it pretty clear that surviving the life of the Wal-Mart employee is a struggle, even without kids. I spend a lot of time thinking about the left-right split, I and I have never understood the intelligent, compassionate people on the right who argue that this system should stay the way it is. I just don't get it. Mabye this book will convince more people that it is not to be gotten. Though, as with all in the left-right split, probably things will continue as they always do: they will read theirs, and I'll read mine, and they'll keep making progress against my vision of what the world ought to look like. Ah well.

Greene, Graham. Doctor Fischer of Geneva or the Bomb Part*1/2
I'd been in a reading slump (I still am), starting with an effort to get through a Dostoevski book, thwarted (according to a friend of mine with a reading masterplan, arranged by seasons) by choosing summer to read a Russian. I was out in the country at my mother's cottage (formerly my grandmother's house), and picked up this slim Graham Greene novel/la ... a perfect sort of cottage paperback, published by Penguin with that comforting orange spine with black type that says: whether you love it or not, this will be a well-written book in the best British tradition. Which it was. I breezed through the story of an unassuming translator in Geneva, his love for the young daughter of the rich and despicable Dr. Fischer, and the parties which said Doctor throws for his sycophantic entourage -- or rather throws in order to entertain himself at the expense of his entourage. It's a satire about greed and wealth, and whether it works I'm not sure, but it was a speedy and satisfying summer read, with enough meat on the bones to make me feel almost magnamonious for reading it on a lazy weekend. If you're stuck in a cottage and need somethign to read, this'll do the trick.

Harvey, David. The New Imperialism**
A macro review of the current economic/military situation and the problems facing the US in her imperial adventures, from a neo-marxist vantage. A compelling theory of "accumulation by dispossession," and a scary vision, arguing, convincingly-enough (just look around the world) that a massive military campaign is the logical means the US has for averting a massive economic crisis. So we are in for a great half-century!
Lurking behind all of this appears to be a certain geopolitical vision. With the occupation of Iraq and the possible reform of Saudi Arabia and some sort of submission on the part of Syria and Iran to superior American military power and presence, the US will have secured a vital bridgehead ... on the Eurasian land mass that also happens to be the centre of production of the oil that currently fuels (and will continue to fuel for at least the next fifty years) not only the global economy but also every large military machine that dares to oppose that of the United States. This should ensure the continued global dominance of the United States for the next fifty years.

Laxness, Haldor. Independent People ***
A magnificent tale by one of Iceland's famous sons, Nobel Prize winner in 1955. About sheep worms, a hard-headded peasant, and a farm lost on the icy edge of the world. It's a slow read for many cold winter nights, steeped in the finely-crafted and magical details of children who can't understand Eve's big fuss over an apple, which they think must be "some sort of potato." A book about rocks and the universe.
The old woman never called him anything but that scum of a cat or that brute of a tom, and yet he liked to be with her best, for he valued not vocabulary, but disposition. She had never been known to hurt any animal. It is strange what a great liking cats have for old people. They appreciate the lack of inventiveness, rich in security, which is the chief virtue of old age; or was it that they understood the grey in each other, that which lies behind Christianity and behind the soul?

Macdonald, Jake. Houseboat Chronicles**
I don't usually read books that easily fall into the category Canadiana but this one really pleased me, it was an great read about the Canadian life we all imagine we ought to have (bears, wilderness, enlightening conversations with Natives). MacDonald, with wit and compassion, hits the heart of our desire to know this land that'll never give a hoot about us, funny and illuminating.
In northwest Ontario, something quite dramatic occurs around the fifteenth day of August. The mornings are still lush and warm, but there's something in the air, or more accurately, something missing from the air. You wake up one moringin, step outside, take a curious look at the lake, the emerald-covered lawn, and realize with a vague uncertainty that something has changed. The sun is still strong, but seems hazy and fixed at an odd angle in the sky. And the forest seems different. What is it? You can stand for minutes before you realize what it is -- the birds have stopped singing.

All the various flowers, insects, and songbirds go through intense, dramatic breeding cycles that last only weeks, or even hours. Once the birds have raised their young, the chatter ceases. And you realize, with a surge of saddness, that summer is ending.

Mills, Mangus.The Scheme for Full Employment*1/2
Magnus Mills is one of my favourite writers, and whenever I get my hands on one of his novels I'm giddy with anticipation. His first, The Restraint of Beasts, was one of the funniest I've read, with about the sharpest deadpan wit and dark humour I've come across, accompanied by such casual, bare writing: it's hard to imagine how anyone can suggest so much with so little. All Quiet on the Orient Express was another darkly hilarious understated gem. Three to See the King was a sort of religious allegory about a man who lives in a "house made of tin." Who knew that the phrase, "a house made of tin" could be at once so side-splittingly funny, and so richly illuminating about our human search for contentment, usually upended as soon as we think we've found it? All that to say, hmm, what happened here? The Scheme was still a good read, but it had little of Mills' brilliant use of offhand suggestion, the passing shadows that run through his other works infusing the most minute detail with a delicious mix of terror and humour. This one seemed less layered, less suggestive. Still, as a satire of beurocracy, public welfare and the competing collision with the modern obession for efficiency, the Scheme succeeded. And Mills has an unrivalled gift for catching the speech of work acquaintances , for observation of the most mundane items and rituals -- tea, unloading trucks, work uniforms -- that raises even this middling effort into the realm of "worth reading." And if you start with the others, you're sure to finish with this one.

Weatherford, Jack. Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World**
What a wonderful book. Who knew the Mongols were invented the postal service? Enforced religious tolerance? Promoted free trade? Replaced aristocractic priviledge with a meritocracy? Built the first true public schooling systems (in venacular languages, no less; in conquered lands no less)? Were the first state to officially support multi-culturalism? A progressive bunch were the hordes. They also used to throw peasants into moats so their horses could ride across to attack castles, and at least once the Mongols held a feast on floorboards supported by conquered aristocrats. As they ate and drank they listened to the groaning as their former enemies were crushed to death. A splendidly-written and wrought work, spinning a truly engaging history of an oft-misunderstood and mis-represented empire, founded by an escaped slave from the nomadic tribes of the steppes. We often think about houw quickly life has changed in 20th and 21st Centuries, but the transformations during the three generations of the Mongol empire match, if not outpace, our own. Here, Weatherford describes a Mongol-sponsored religous debate:
Rubruck and the other Christians joined together in one team with the Muslims in an effort to refute Buddhist doctrines. As these men gathered together in all their robes and regalia in the tents on the dusty plains of Mongolia, they were doing something no other sect of scholars or theologians had ever done in history. It is doubtful that representatives of so many sects of Christianity had come to a single meeting, and certainly they had not debated, as equals, with representatives of the various Muslim and Buddhist faiths. The religious scholars had to compete on the basis of their beliefs and ideas, using no weapons or the authority of any ruler or army behind them...Their debate ranged back and forth over topics of evil versus good, God's nature, what happens to the souls of animals, the existence of reincarnation, and whether God created evil...In keeping with (Mongol) tradition, after each round of the debate, the learned men paused to drink deeply [of fermented mare's milk] in preparation for the next match...At the end of the debate, unable to convert or kill one another, they concluded the way most Mongol celebrations concluded, with everyone simply too drunk to continue.

ten books of note

These are some of the books that have been important to me over the years, in no particular order. The first sentence of each (except the Callaghan book, can't find my copy) is quoted:

Vineland, Thomas Pynchon

Later than usual one summer morning in 1984, Zoyd Wheeler drifted awake in sunlight through a creeping fig that hung in the window, with a squadron of blue jays stomping around on the roof.

Mephisto, John Banville

Chance was in the beginning.

The Clown, Heinrich Böll

It was dark by the time I reached Bonn, and I forced myself not to succumb to the series of mechanical actions which had taken hold of me in five years of traveling back and forth: down the station steps, up the station steps, put down my suitcase, take my ticket out of my coat pocket, pick up my suitcase, hand in my ticket, cross over to the newsstand, buy the evening papers, go outside, and signal a taxi.

Under the Volcano, Malcolm Lowry

Two mountain chains traverse the republic roughly from north to south, forming between them a number of valleys and plateaux.

All the Names, Jose Saramago

Above the door frame is a long, narrow plaque of enamelled metal.

Pedro Paramo, Juan Rulfo

I came to Comala because I had been told my father, a man named Pedro Paramo, lived there.

That Summer in Paris, Morley Callaghan

The Gift, Vladamir Nabokov

One cloudy but luminous day, towards four in the afternoon on April the first, 192- (a foreign critic once remarked that while many novels, most German ones for example, begin with a date, it is only Russian authors who, in keeping with the honesty particular to our literature, omit the final digit) a moving van, very long and very yellow, hitched to a tractor that was also yellow, with hypertrophied rear wheels and a shamelessly exposed anatomy, pulled up in front of Number Seven Trannenberg Street, in the west part of Berlin.

The Penal Colony, Franz Kafka

There was a time when I went every day into a church, since a girl I was in love with knelt in prayer for half an hour in the evening and I was able to look at her in peace.

Kidnapped, Robert Louis Stevenson

I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the last time out of the door of my father's house.

(By the way, I am taking a stand: where possible, I link to sites other than Amazon).

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2005 book reviews

ten books of note

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