Week 52: Bel Canto – Ann Patchett
Recommended by: Kate Hind
And so the fifty-second week is here, along with my final book choice. Fortunately it was a good one – thanks Kate! – so I am able to say fairly enough that I have gone out with a bang...
Which is a fairly good lead into Bel Canto, which is based around a highly-charged attempted kidnapping as terrorists storm a dinner party in Latin America. Sadly the president didn't make it to the event (he was at home watching his favourite soap) and instead a siege begins with a motley crew of prisoners and guards. It's the mish-mash of unlikely characters brought together in a later Douglas Copeland novel (with the angst, minus the pop culture references), with a good dose of farce stirred into the pot, and coming from the pen of Kazuo Ishiguro. And what's more, it works.
We see the characters develop as the novel progresses and start to form unlikely relationships, the lines between detainers and detainees blurring. It's Stockholm Syndrome en masse, arguably on both sides, as several key players reveal hitherto hidden talents and love even begins to blossom. One could criticise it for being unrealistic and jumping the shark, but there is a lightness of touch and a playfulness to the writing that says satire rather than silliness. And on top of all of this, there is a steady tension throughout because, as we are repeatedly told, such situations Never End Well.
One of the key themes running throughout is music and two of the main characters are an American opera singer and a Japanese businessman who is her biggest fan. I know next to nothing about opera or classical music in general, but it's clear Patchett does and her love of it comes forth in the prose, which is one reason I was reminded of Ishiguro. The steady rhythms of relationships building, the rise and fall of dramatic moments, and the build towards a crescendo are also all reminiscent of a piece of music.
It's a very well-written, deftly drawn piece of work; a character study with a sense of humour and some serious messages. It even "zip[ped] along", one of Stella Rimington's much-criticised criteria for judging the Booker Prize in 2011. Bel Canto did win the Orange Prize for Fiction around the turn of the century and this is one prize winner I feel was fully deserving of the accolade.
Tuesday, 29 December 2015
Tuesday, 22 December 2015
A series of curious incidents
Week 51: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close – Jonathan Safran Foer
Recommended by: Kirsty Stanfield
Writing about Big Historic Events is a bit of a minefield. Does the author have something to say about the event itself, are they trying to exorcise some of their own demons of the event by writing about it, is it simply a useful crutch to hang a story on? For Jonathan Safran Foer, writing about one – the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center – isn't enough, the fire bombing of Dresden is also thrown in. Or rather carefully placed in, because the trauma of the earlier event is a trigger and explanation for a lot of the family history and the background noise that results in the situation running through the novel's present.
Which is perhaps a very odd place to come at the book from. In it's simplest form, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is a quest: precocious nine-year old Oskar discovers a key in his father's closet, two years after he died during the World Trade Center attacks, and sets out to discover what it opens. This serves as both a literal and metaphorical quest with Oskar and his mother both looking for some closure after the event. There is a lot more complexity to things than this though, for interwoven in the main story are the tales of Oskar's grandmother and grandfather, their own idiosyncratic lives, and as these yarns unravel, we see how earlier trauma has left some deep scars.
What could be a psychologically heavy book – and I found these some of the secondary narratives, if that isn't too dismissive of them, to be hard work – is fortunately leavened by Oskar, who is a creation of pure joy. Oskar is the kind of high-functioning dysfunctional nine-year who is capable of brining unintended humour into any number of situations through the time-homoured disjunction of knowledge but lack of understanding. He's an inventor, a collector, an entrepreneur and his first person narration gives insight into many things beyond his years and his naive, highly-strung, cyncically-tinged romantic world view.
Equally, he serves as a conduit for anyone coping with loss and grief through his emotional openness with the reader and his choice of language that illustrates how we dress up things that we can't talk about or don't know how to talk about. Oskar's term of 'heavy boots' for his depression mirrors similar terms such as 'under a cloud' or 'black dog' that mean we skirt around issues that could expose or embarrass either ourselves or other people. He is therefore a splendid cross between Mark Haddon's Christopher from The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and J.D. Salinger's gifted but brittle Glass family.
As the narrative strands combine, we dig up the family history and watch as Oskar hot foots it around New York, coming into contact with a sizeable support cast of bit-part players and character actors. Ultimately though, it's the journey that's more important than the end result and that is one of the book's key themes, though boiling it down to that feels like it sells it rather short. On top of that, Safran Foer plays around with form within the book, interspersing images (mostly from Oskar's scrapbook), as well as typewritten letters and the kind of red ringing of words that would send Sherlock Homes' brain into overdrive. Now I ain't no literary critic and I'm not sure if it adds extra heft and depth or merely pretension into the mix, but it's innovative and I can't fault it for that.
It strikes the right balance between heart-felt, moving, wise, funny and sombre; the levity needed to puntuate the subject matter as well as to deliver parts of it, and it doesn't lapse into schmaltz. This is always a fear when dealing with human beings and emotional battles, especially when set against a backdrop of something now so deeply ingrained and mythologised in the American psyche it may come out Hollywoodised: a lot less subtle, a few more emotional haymakers thrown in, and finishes up cheerful and teary and looking like someone vomited forth a month-long diet of the Stars and Stripes. It's a better book than that, though: smarter, sadder, and confirms Safran Foer as a writer of no small talent.
Recommended by: Kirsty Stanfield
Writing about Big Historic Events is a bit of a minefield. Does the author have something to say about the event itself, are they trying to exorcise some of their own demons of the event by writing about it, is it simply a useful crutch to hang a story on? For Jonathan Safran Foer, writing about one – the September 11 attacks on the World Trade Center – isn't enough, the fire bombing of Dresden is also thrown in. Or rather carefully placed in, because the trauma of the earlier event is a trigger and explanation for a lot of the family history and the background noise that results in the situation running through the novel's present.
Which is perhaps a very odd place to come at the book from. In it's simplest form, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is a quest: precocious nine-year old Oskar discovers a key in his father's closet, two years after he died during the World Trade Center attacks, and sets out to discover what it opens. This serves as both a literal and metaphorical quest with Oskar and his mother both looking for some closure after the event. There is a lot more complexity to things than this though, for interwoven in the main story are the tales of Oskar's grandmother and grandfather, their own idiosyncratic lives, and as these yarns unravel, we see how earlier trauma has left some deep scars.
What could be a psychologically heavy book – and I found these some of the secondary narratives, if that isn't too dismissive of them, to be hard work – is fortunately leavened by Oskar, who is a creation of pure joy. Oskar is the kind of high-functioning dysfunctional nine-year who is capable of brining unintended humour into any number of situations through the time-homoured disjunction of knowledge but lack of understanding. He's an inventor, a collector, an entrepreneur and his first person narration gives insight into many things beyond his years and his naive, highly-strung, cyncically-tinged romantic world view.
Equally, he serves as a conduit for anyone coping with loss and grief through his emotional openness with the reader and his choice of language that illustrates how we dress up things that we can't talk about or don't know how to talk about. Oskar's term of 'heavy boots' for his depression mirrors similar terms such as 'under a cloud' or 'black dog' that mean we skirt around issues that could expose or embarrass either ourselves or other people. He is therefore a splendid cross between Mark Haddon's Christopher from The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and J.D. Salinger's gifted but brittle Glass family.
As the narrative strands combine, we dig up the family history and watch as Oskar hot foots it around New York, coming into contact with a sizeable support cast of bit-part players and character actors. Ultimately though, it's the journey that's more important than the end result and that is one of the book's key themes, though boiling it down to that feels like it sells it rather short. On top of that, Safran Foer plays around with form within the book, interspersing images (mostly from Oskar's scrapbook), as well as typewritten letters and the kind of red ringing of words that would send Sherlock Homes' brain into overdrive. Now I ain't no literary critic and I'm not sure if it adds extra heft and depth or merely pretension into the mix, but it's innovative and I can't fault it for that.
It strikes the right balance between heart-felt, moving, wise, funny and sombre; the levity needed to puntuate the subject matter as well as to deliver parts of it, and it doesn't lapse into schmaltz. This is always a fear when dealing with human beings and emotional battles, especially when set against a backdrop of something now so deeply ingrained and mythologised in the American psyche it may come out Hollywoodised: a lot less subtle, a few more emotional haymakers thrown in, and finishes up cheerful and teary and looking like someone vomited forth a month-long diet of the Stars and Stripes. It's a better book than that, though: smarter, sadder, and confirms Safran Foer as a writer of no small talent.
Saturday, 19 December 2015
Things the grandchildren should know
Week 50: Dark Eden – Chris Beckett
Recommended by: Sam Johnson
"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." Thus spoke Einstein (probably) in the nuclear age. There may or may not have been further world wars in the interim, but 163 years after their ancestors were marooned on Eden, its people are certainly primitive, shorn of the technological advancements that allowed them to have got here from Earth in the first place. Six generations later, there are definitely things their grandchildren should know. Such as: inbreeding is a terrible idea and causes deformity and weakness, regurgitated rituals are probably not the answer, and that just maybe the truth is out there.
Most of the people don't know that though. Barely half a thousand people make up the Family, all descended from a very small gene pool. The planet is dark, with heat and light provided only by the forest's trees. And nobody has ever ventured very far from where the crash first happened in case when the people from Earth come to save them (and they fervently believe that one day they will) they can't find them. Needless to say, something is about to change.
That something, or rather someone, is John. Barely fifteen but possessed of a greater awareness of the situation and tired of slavishly following redundant practices, he wants to move forward rather than simply eking out an existence and waiting. His words and his actions upset the current dynamic of life, and along with Tina – his friend, lover and confidante – they cause a shift in power and an irrevocable change for the Family.
The story is told from both John and Tina's perspectives and it is their relationship that is at the heart of the book. Both of them are wiser and broader of vision than the majority of their clan, but each is still only young and can be overcome by the naivity and pettiness that is to be expected of the young. Their relationship shifts and changes, never completely settling into any one thing as they pursue separate ends and powers of their own.
The shift in power also says something about gender relationships, though I'm not exactly sure what. The Family is dominated and run by women and for all its faults, is a peaceable society. As the novel progresses, this changes and the men begin to assert dominance. This feels a little simplistic to me but depth is added as we discover the truth of more of the creation and foundation stories that have been handed down.
It's a good read and like all good sci fi has something to say about how we live now. It holds up a mirror and we can see reflected in that follies of religion and rituals, conservatism versus progress and that the road to hell may very well be paved with good intentions. Beckett was an unknown name to me but I will certainly aim to check out more of his work as his fledgling career takes off.
Recommended by: Sam Johnson
"I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." Thus spoke Einstein (probably) in the nuclear age. There may or may not have been further world wars in the interim, but 163 years after their ancestors were marooned on Eden, its people are certainly primitive, shorn of the technological advancements that allowed them to have got here from Earth in the first place. Six generations later, there are definitely things their grandchildren should know. Such as: inbreeding is a terrible idea and causes deformity and weakness, regurgitated rituals are probably not the answer, and that just maybe the truth is out there.
Most of the people don't know that though. Barely half a thousand people make up the Family, all descended from a very small gene pool. The planet is dark, with heat and light provided only by the forest's trees. And nobody has ever ventured very far from where the crash first happened in case when the people from Earth come to save them (and they fervently believe that one day they will) they can't find them. Needless to say, something is about to change.
That something, or rather someone, is John. Barely fifteen but possessed of a greater awareness of the situation and tired of slavishly following redundant practices, he wants to move forward rather than simply eking out an existence and waiting. His words and his actions upset the current dynamic of life, and along with Tina – his friend, lover and confidante – they cause a shift in power and an irrevocable change for the Family.
The story is told from both John and Tina's perspectives and it is their relationship that is at the heart of the book. Both of them are wiser and broader of vision than the majority of their clan, but each is still only young and can be overcome by the naivity and pettiness that is to be expected of the young. Their relationship shifts and changes, never completely settling into any one thing as they pursue separate ends and powers of their own.
The shift in power also says something about gender relationships, though I'm not exactly sure what. The Family is dominated and run by women and for all its faults, is a peaceable society. As the novel progresses, this changes and the men begin to assert dominance. This feels a little simplistic to me but depth is added as we discover the truth of more of the creation and foundation stories that have been handed down.
It's a good read and like all good sci fi has something to say about how we live now. It holds up a mirror and we can see reflected in that follies of religion and rituals, conservatism versus progress and that the road to hell may very well be paved with good intentions. Beckett was an unknown name to me but I will certainly aim to check out more of his work as his fledgling career takes off.
Sunday, 6 December 2015
A rose by any other name
Week 49: Between Two Thorns – Emma Newman
Recommended by: Jan Crosser
And for this week's edition, I bring you something a bit different, at least to me. It's something a sub-genre mash-up that's perhaps best described as urban fantasy meets historical fantasy (or maybe that should be period fantasy?) Either way, it's got faeries, sorcerers, talking gargoyles, detective work and more debutantes than you can shake a Jane Austen-sized stick at. The superlative Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is probably the best point of reference I can think of and there are enough interesting ingredients here and they mostly work to form a satisfactory whole.
In the split worlds, you have the real world, the realms of magic and faerie, and the Nether in between the two. This is the world of the fae-touched, living out the politics and relationships of Georgian and Victorian costume drama in the mirror cities of Aquae Sulis (Bath) and Londinium (London). Cathy, the heroine, is from this world but certainly not of it – a feminist rebel, the last thing she wants is an arranged marriage in a world she does not belong in and so she's hiding out in the real world.
Naturally events conspire against her and she, along with Sam, a Joe Ordinary from the real world, and Max, an Arbiter (essentially a magical law enforcer), are dragged into a plot that threatens all of them in different ways. I haven't tested the boundaries of the world too far to see how much the whole makes sense, but I liked that it didn't just information dump at the beginning, I had to piece together how the characters and worlds interacted, what the relative roles and statuses were, and I liked that each world had very different perceptions of the other – two sides to every story indeed. The Nether also felt well-crafted, a place of constant revels and duels, where family comes first and is either a beautiful dream or horrendous nightmare depending on your perspective.
The characterisation of Cathy was pretty good and there were windows into Sam's life as well, though his accent did very strange things in veering from full-on Cockney geezer towards Queen's English via a dash of West Country burr. By contrast, Max is more defined by his job and I'd like to see him developed beyond this. Plenty of time was given over to building up the worlds and characters, which is a good thing in general but I did have a big issue with the pacing. The whole thing felt slow and while there is a reveal at the end, the reader knows most of what has happened and who was behind it so it's more just the consequences and the fallout that you're waiting to see. There was no great suspense, though there doesn't need to be, but overall the book felt merely like the opening salvo of a trilogy.
Admittedly it is the opening chapter of a trilogy, but judged as a book in it's own right, I felt it needed a bit more to stand on its own feet. The epilogue-like final chapter gave new information beyond the rest of the story so as to set things up nicely with a cliffhanger, merely adding to the episodic feel. I liked it well enough to continue with the series and see how things play out but the plotting and pacing here were a bit uneven. Next time maybe a little less dancing around and a bit more rapier thrust.
Recommended by: Jan Crosser
And for this week's edition, I bring you something a bit different, at least to me. It's something a sub-genre mash-up that's perhaps best described as urban fantasy meets historical fantasy (or maybe that should be period fantasy?) Either way, it's got faeries, sorcerers, talking gargoyles, detective work and more debutantes than you can shake a Jane Austen-sized stick at. The superlative Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is probably the best point of reference I can think of and there are enough interesting ingredients here and they mostly work to form a satisfactory whole.
In the split worlds, you have the real world, the realms of magic and faerie, and the Nether in between the two. This is the world of the fae-touched, living out the politics and relationships of Georgian and Victorian costume drama in the mirror cities of Aquae Sulis (Bath) and Londinium (London). Cathy, the heroine, is from this world but certainly not of it – a feminist rebel, the last thing she wants is an arranged marriage in a world she does not belong in and so she's hiding out in the real world.
Naturally events conspire against her and she, along with Sam, a Joe Ordinary from the real world, and Max, an Arbiter (essentially a magical law enforcer), are dragged into a plot that threatens all of them in different ways. I haven't tested the boundaries of the world too far to see how much the whole makes sense, but I liked that it didn't just information dump at the beginning, I had to piece together how the characters and worlds interacted, what the relative roles and statuses were, and I liked that each world had very different perceptions of the other – two sides to every story indeed. The Nether also felt well-crafted, a place of constant revels and duels, where family comes first and is either a beautiful dream or horrendous nightmare depending on your perspective.
The characterisation of Cathy was pretty good and there were windows into Sam's life as well, though his accent did very strange things in veering from full-on Cockney geezer towards Queen's English via a dash of West Country burr. By contrast, Max is more defined by his job and I'd like to see him developed beyond this. Plenty of time was given over to building up the worlds and characters, which is a good thing in general but I did have a big issue with the pacing. The whole thing felt slow and while there is a reveal at the end, the reader knows most of what has happened and who was behind it so it's more just the consequences and the fallout that you're waiting to see. There was no great suspense, though there doesn't need to be, but overall the book felt merely like the opening salvo of a trilogy.
Admittedly it is the opening chapter of a trilogy, but judged as a book in it's own right, I felt it needed a bit more to stand on its own feet. The epilogue-like final chapter gave new information beyond the rest of the story so as to set things up nicely with a cliffhanger, merely adding to the episodic feel. I liked it well enough to continue with the series and see how things play out but the plotting and pacing here were a bit uneven. Next time maybe a little less dancing around and a bit more rapier thrust.
Punctured bicycle, on a hillside desolate
Week 48: The Versions of Us – Laura Barnett
Recommended by: Katherine Byrne
You wait ages for a book with an interesting concept and then two come along at once. At least that's a little bit what it feels like when The Versions of Us was being pitched to me: two people meet by chance and from that point three different versions of events unfold. To which my reaction was "Ah, like Life After Life?" "Um, I've not read it." "You'll have to take my word for it then."
And yes, that's pretty much what you get, the same sort of concept as Kate Atkinson's book, but as told by David Nicholls. It's less opaque than Life After Life and less artistic, swapping this for bittersweetness and a more straightforward narrative thrust. Thus the reader follows the intertwining lives of Eva and Jim, who meet in Cambridge after a near miss with a bicycle. What you get are three romances, taking place contemporaneously from this first meeting through to last rites.
None of them are straightforward – life's infinite complexities over such a long period of time put paid to that – and perhaps while none of them are truly happy, none of them are depressingly sad, and all of them feel real enough. Some have more luck in love and work in one version, another moreso in another. Both Eva and Jim, particularly the latter, are developed in different ways, allowing the reader to see different facets of their personality, and are ably backed by a strong supporting cast. Some of these are more presences than fleshed out characters, who flit in and out and help drive things forward; others, notably Ted and Vivian, left more of a mark on me.
As it is effectively three stories told inside one fairly standard length book, chunks of life have to be skipped out, creating something of a patchwork effect. That said, life is often mundane and little happens, so unless you're narrating a day in the life of Leopold Bloom or tweeting every minor triumph and disappointment of your life, it makes sense to focus on key events. And part of the book's point is that key events could be chance meetings or moments that seem of little importance at the time but have long-term implications. It's a confident debut, well-told and likeable enough to avoid lapsing too far into clichcé, and would make (in a good way) a great holiday read.
Recommended by: Katherine Byrne
You wait ages for a book with an interesting concept and then two come along at once. At least that's a little bit what it feels like when The Versions of Us was being pitched to me: two people meet by chance and from that point three different versions of events unfold. To which my reaction was "Ah, like Life After Life?" "Um, I've not read it." "You'll have to take my word for it then."
And yes, that's pretty much what you get, the same sort of concept as Kate Atkinson's book, but as told by David Nicholls. It's less opaque than Life After Life and less artistic, swapping this for bittersweetness and a more straightforward narrative thrust. Thus the reader follows the intertwining lives of Eva and Jim, who meet in Cambridge after a near miss with a bicycle. What you get are three romances, taking place contemporaneously from this first meeting through to last rites.
None of them are straightforward – life's infinite complexities over such a long period of time put paid to that – and perhaps while none of them are truly happy, none of them are depressingly sad, and all of them feel real enough. Some have more luck in love and work in one version, another moreso in another. Both Eva and Jim, particularly the latter, are developed in different ways, allowing the reader to see different facets of their personality, and are ably backed by a strong supporting cast. Some of these are more presences than fleshed out characters, who flit in and out and help drive things forward; others, notably Ted and Vivian, left more of a mark on me.
As it is effectively three stories told inside one fairly standard length book, chunks of life have to be skipped out, creating something of a patchwork effect. That said, life is often mundane and little happens, so unless you're narrating a day in the life of Leopold Bloom or tweeting every minor triumph and disappointment of your life, it makes sense to focus on key events. And part of the book's point is that key events could be chance meetings or moments that seem of little importance at the time but have long-term implications. It's a confident debut, well-told and likeable enough to avoid lapsing too far into clichcé, and would make (in a good way) a great holiday read.
Monday, 30 November 2015
Blood red
Week 47: First They Killed my Father – Loung Ung
Recommended by: Zoe Matthews
If reading a book such as this is something of a harrowing experience, reviewing it is to some extent impossible. How exactly does one comment, let alone pass judgement, on a first-hand account of genocide? Anyway, that was my task so I will obviously share some thoughts on the matter now.
First of all, this is an important book. Goes without saying really, but an account of such a terrible period of history, the horrors and the hardships faced not just by a girl and her family, but an entire country, is an important record. Perhaps especially for those in the West, as history is largely taught with a self-centred focus. See also current affairs and the disproportionate amount of media attention focused on the recent atrocities in Paris as opposed to those that regularly happen elsewhere, though that's a topic beyond the scope of this blog and my meagre brainpower. That said, I'm sure the same is true in all countries, probably in Cambodia the school system isn't preoccupied with the the Angevin dynasty, the repeal of the Corn Laws, or necessarily anything in between.
I have to say my knowledge of the Cambodian genocide didn't extend to much beyond the existence of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, the fact that a quarter of the population died, and that it was contemporaneous with the Vietnam War, something I suspect rather more people are familiar with, even if they don't know much of the narrative. So anything that can bring attention of such events to more people, the lessons that can be learned, and the need to remember such atrocities can only be a good thing.
There's certainly something in the lack of knowledge of the topic that gives it a greater power to shock. The straightforward narrative, simply and honestly told, works well; there's no dressing up of what happened and nor does there need to be. The hardship and difficulties faced by Loung and her family, split up and forced to work, to starve, to fight, are all here. One of the things that I found surprising was that the people didn't know what was happening much of the time or indeed who was behind it. I guess this seems strange in the global village of 24-hour rolling news and twitterstorms.
It's not a fun book, obviously. And you know certain things are going to take place: Loung survives, her father does not, the barbarism of humanity is often enough to make one weep. Though much like my experience reading If This is a Man and The Truce very nearly a year ago, it's the end of the book, the fallout and the aftermath which are the bits that never get talked about. Battles, war, disasters, murder, genocide all tend to get aired and command attention but all too often little is said about those who survive, who have to somehow find a way to go on. This is dealt with in a follow up, After They Killed my Father, which I suspect will be just as understated in its delivery and will deliver an equally hard blow to the heart and mind.
Recommended by: Zoe Matthews
If reading a book such as this is something of a harrowing experience, reviewing it is to some extent impossible. How exactly does one comment, let alone pass judgement, on a first-hand account of genocide? Anyway, that was my task so I will obviously share some thoughts on the matter now.
First of all, this is an important book. Goes without saying really, but an account of such a terrible period of history, the horrors and the hardships faced not just by a girl and her family, but an entire country, is an important record. Perhaps especially for those in the West, as history is largely taught with a self-centred focus. See also current affairs and the disproportionate amount of media attention focused on the recent atrocities in Paris as opposed to those that regularly happen elsewhere, though that's a topic beyond the scope of this blog and my meagre brainpower. That said, I'm sure the same is true in all countries, probably in Cambodia the school system isn't preoccupied with the the Angevin dynasty, the repeal of the Corn Laws, or necessarily anything in between.
I have to say my knowledge of the Cambodian genocide didn't extend to much beyond the existence of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, the fact that a quarter of the population died, and that it was contemporaneous with the Vietnam War, something I suspect rather more people are familiar with, even if they don't know much of the narrative. So anything that can bring attention of such events to more people, the lessons that can be learned, and the need to remember such atrocities can only be a good thing.
There's certainly something in the lack of knowledge of the topic that gives it a greater power to shock. The straightforward narrative, simply and honestly told, works well; there's no dressing up of what happened and nor does there need to be. The hardship and difficulties faced by Loung and her family, split up and forced to work, to starve, to fight, are all here. One of the things that I found surprising was that the people didn't know what was happening much of the time or indeed who was behind it. I guess this seems strange in the global village of 24-hour rolling news and twitterstorms.
It's not a fun book, obviously. And you know certain things are going to take place: Loung survives, her father does not, the barbarism of humanity is often enough to make one weep. Though much like my experience reading If This is a Man and The Truce very nearly a year ago, it's the end of the book, the fallout and the aftermath which are the bits that never get talked about. Battles, war, disasters, murder, genocide all tend to get aired and command attention but all too often little is said about those who survive, who have to somehow find a way to go on. This is dealt with in a follow up, After They Killed my Father, which I suspect will be just as understated in its delivery and will deliver an equally hard blow to the heart and mind.
Thursday, 19 November 2015
This is my church
Week 46: Blood Song – Anthony Ryan
Recommended by: Peter Gee
As I'm fairly sure I've already mentioned in at least one blog, while I do love the fantasy genre, there are a couple of things that do bug me a bit. First, while I enjoy immersing myself in the world, strapping on my armour and going frolicking with the ogres, I do wish that books in the genre weren't regularly a minimum of 500 pages. Second, while I also understand the desire on the part of both authors and readers to revisit favourite worlds and characters and to develop them further, series which run and run can both be exhausting when each tome is a brick, as well as potentially running out of steam as the series continues, stretched out out too far by publisher or author. I like series and trilogies and they are the mainstay of the genre but sometimes I just crave a good stand-alone.
Bearing this in mind, I was entirely unsurprised to find that Blood Song is both a doorstopper and the first of a trilogy. It follows Vaelin Al Sorna through his coming of age as he joins the Sixth Order, the military arm of the faith. So far, so standard. But if there are seven basic plots and probably fewer within the genre, it's often not about the premise. The world building and the characterisation are ultimately what most fantasy books will live or die by and fortunately Blood Song holds its own here.
Vaelin is an interesting, well-rounded character. Sure, he's special and not just because he's the protagonist, but he's not perfect, there's a journey of discovery and his colleagues are noticeably better at some things than him. Plus given the training the Order has to go through just to survive, it's not a surprise that anybody who makes it that far is going to be pretty formidable. There can be a relatively fine line between a Mary Sue (I've never liked the phrase Marty Stu for a male character, it's just not as catchy and sounds a bit, well, dumb) and a heroic character and not everyone is going to be Joe Average. I also like the fact that Vaelin isn't really described physically, allowing you to fill in the blanks yourself.
The United Realm is a classical setting at a critical juncture, held together by force of will and faith but with obvious cracks that are barely papered over. In today's geopolitical climate you can, if you choose, read a lot into the portrayal of religion. You have an all-encompassing faith that doesn't allow for non-believers, within which there is the full gamut of intolerant fanaticism to tolerance. There are also plenty of politics, with the church as an arm of the government (or is it the other way round?), asking questions of the role of religion in the executive and the long-running debate over the separation of church and state that each country has, each with its own unique slant on the matter.
Alternatively, you can choose not to think too deeply about this and simply accept it as an enjoyable story, which is perfectly fine. For ultimately, that's what this is and I have no doubt that I'll end up picking up the second and third volumes.
Recommended by: Peter Gee
As I'm fairly sure I've already mentioned in at least one blog, while I do love the fantasy genre, there are a couple of things that do bug me a bit. First, while I enjoy immersing myself in the world, strapping on my armour and going frolicking with the ogres, I do wish that books in the genre weren't regularly a minimum of 500 pages. Second, while I also understand the desire on the part of both authors and readers to revisit favourite worlds and characters and to develop them further, series which run and run can both be exhausting when each tome is a brick, as well as potentially running out of steam as the series continues, stretched out out too far by publisher or author. I like series and trilogies and they are the mainstay of the genre but sometimes I just crave a good stand-alone.
Bearing this in mind, I was entirely unsurprised to find that Blood Song is both a doorstopper and the first of a trilogy. It follows Vaelin Al Sorna through his coming of age as he joins the Sixth Order, the military arm of the faith. So far, so standard. But if there are seven basic plots and probably fewer within the genre, it's often not about the premise. The world building and the characterisation are ultimately what most fantasy books will live or die by and fortunately Blood Song holds its own here.
Vaelin is an interesting, well-rounded character. Sure, he's special and not just because he's the protagonist, but he's not perfect, there's a journey of discovery and his colleagues are noticeably better at some things than him. Plus given the training the Order has to go through just to survive, it's not a surprise that anybody who makes it that far is going to be pretty formidable. There can be a relatively fine line between a Mary Sue (I've never liked the phrase Marty Stu for a male character, it's just not as catchy and sounds a bit, well, dumb) and a heroic character and not everyone is going to be Joe Average. I also like the fact that Vaelin isn't really described physically, allowing you to fill in the blanks yourself.
The United Realm is a classical setting at a critical juncture, held together by force of will and faith but with obvious cracks that are barely papered over. In today's geopolitical climate you can, if you choose, read a lot into the portrayal of religion. You have an all-encompassing faith that doesn't allow for non-believers, within which there is the full gamut of intolerant fanaticism to tolerance. There are also plenty of politics, with the church as an arm of the government (or is it the other way round?), asking questions of the role of religion in the executive and the long-running debate over the separation of church and state that each country has, each with its own unique slant on the matter.
Alternatively, you can choose not to think too deeply about this and simply accept it as an enjoyable story, which is perfectly fine. For ultimately, that's what this is and I have no doubt that I'll end up picking up the second and third volumes.
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