Siege tactics

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Swipe left

Week 45: Her – Spike Jonze
Recommended by: Shaun Gamble

Another week, another first: this time I read my first screenplay. I've read plays before but never something originally intended to appear on the big screen. Blockbuster entertainment this was not, however. Indeed, Her is the antithesis of the big budget blow-shit-up kind of film. Which I suppose makes sense as something you'd read as a screenplay; you probably wouldn't give Rambo the same treatment. And if you're going to read a screenplay, better make sure it's a good one and an Academy Award in that category is a pretty decent indicator.

Set in the near future, this is just about science fiction but it's so close to reality it feels only barely out of reach. And really it's an excellent premise – that of artificially intelligent operating systems that can form relationships – in order to put human relationships in the age of Tinder under the microscope. Themes of loneliness, fidelity and emotional distance are explored from a variety of perspectives; predominantly the protagonist Theodore, but also seen through his friend Amy and the OS, Samantha.

It's a topic I've thought a lot about, loneliness and isolation is probably my biggest fear and the essence of this is captured wonderfully in the dialogue and the simple direction. It doesn't need fancy sets, just the power of words. The vulnerability of the characters, their ability (or not) to deal with complex emotions, the desire for someone, anyone, to understand them all regularly bubbles up to the surface. Theodore obviously embodies this, but Samantha does too. The idea of computers or robots with human emotions is hardly new, but the way it's explored in relation to humans, as equals as opposed to either slaves or masters adds complexity. And yet while she seems to be all one could dream of in a partner, like anybody else, you can never truly know what's going on beneath the surface.

It's a gut-wrenchingly sad story, though it's punctuated throughout with some excellent comic touches that only serve to throw the big picture into contrast. The sense of loneliness pervades the whole piece to the extent that I can imagine the visuals and the score in my head, which is a definite result. To my mind it's the LA of Less Than Zero with more sympathetic characters and added Blade Runner neon nightscapes, spare piano mournfully underscoring night in the city. I've not watched the film; I both want to because I'm sure it's excellent and that the stellar cast sure will do justice to the script, and don't want to because I have such a good mental image anyway that I'm not sure I want to break the spell. Plus if the film has anywhere near the emotional impact on me as the screenplay alone, it's going to be just too damn sad.

One man and his dog

Week 44: Travel with Charley – John Steinbeck
Recommended by: Andy Boor

Travel writing is another relatively new area for me and one where I'm expanding my repertoire. Recently I have been on a whirlwind tour of some of the world's most exciting cities with Ian Fleming, walked across a chunk of Europe with Patrick Leigh Fermor and toured the vastness of Patagonia with Bruce Chatwin. And now I'm strapping myself in and joining John Steinbeck and his dog Charley as they tour a large chunk of the USA in a converted van.

Steinbeck is a fine writer, indeed in my opinion one of the finest (maybe the finest) there has ever been. We join him here approaching sixty, away from his native California, setting for most of his most famous works of fiction, and looking to reconnect with and rediscover his country. From his New York home he travels up to New England, through the Mid West and the Mountain States all the way to Seattle, down the West Coast to California, then east across Texas and into the Deep South. What stands out is his evocative descriptions of place, for America is a country of incredible variety. Add to that an equally varied cast of characters he encounters, brought to life by his fundamental understanding of what it is to be human, something which informs all of his writing.

It's also a snapshot of a time, 1960, and we get to experience both the Kennedy–Nixon election and the burgeoning Civil Rights movement. Nature remains a big theme  and he expresses views bemoaning America's throwaway culture and questions the disconnection many people now feel for the great outdoors. He disliked the direction the country was moving in, but he also recognises that it has gained much since the hungry thirties, even if it might have lost something along the way. Again, his ability to celebrate the achievements as well as highlight the faultlines, shows perception; wisdom comes in his distaste for consumerism and selfishness and the sense of discontent laying lightly across the land.

This is after all a book he could not have written as a young man, any more than Hemingway could have written The Old Man and the Sea before he hit his fifties. His return to California comes with time to reflect on how it – and his family – has changed since he left; ditto Texas and his in-laws there. But it is always the landscapes, the connection to nature that we come back to time and again, from the rugged Atlantic coast of New England to the awe-inspiring cathedral of redwoods on the Oregon–California border.

Where possible, Steinbeck prefers to travel by back roads, largely avoiding big cities and famous landmarks. He appreciates the solitude as well as the companionship of his dog, but also accepts this sometimes spills into loneliness and recognises that one of the best things about travelling can be coming home. He had the travel itch, something he characterises as American, at least within the boundaries of the country, and it was a journey he needed to take. What a privilege to share it with him.

Close but...

Week 43: This Close – Jessica Francis Kane
Recommended by: Michael Chilcott

I don't read enough short stories. That's the conclusion I usually draw when I read a short story collection. Then for some reason I tend to forget about it until the next time I happen to stumble across one or pick one up. Perhaps they're the kind of thing one can't read one book after the other; I find I can't always just sit and read huge chunks of a collection in a single sitting either. But when I do read them, I'm always reminded that I really like them as an art form.

I didn't know anything about Jessica Francis Kane but on the basis of This Close she belongs at the top table of post-war North American short story writers along with the likes of Raymond Carver, Alice Munro and Richard Yates. This collection weaves through city and suburban life, with various links between them to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

The stories feature a range of normal people doing mundane things: dry cleaning, gardening, yard sales, but the key is find the extraordinary in their own very ordinary lives. Like all good short stories, there is an immediacy to them, you are instantly involved in the characters' affairs and it's the simplicity of the situations, the way you can relate to their day-to-day life that works so well.

If there is a theme running through them, it's the relationships between people, their vulnerability, their rivalries, the closeness that they can and can't achieve with their friends and family. And it's this which draws me in and keeps me coming back, the eye for detail and the ear for language, not to mention the obvious writing skill that ties it all together. I will certainly be checking out more of Kane's work and I hope that she is able to find a bigger audience for her talent.

Fringe benefits

Week 42: Ghostwritten – David Mitchell
Recommended by: Jon Mazliah

Before you ask, no, not that David Mitchell, novelist David Mitchell. Indeed his first novel, and in the opinion of my recommender at least, his best. The only Mitchell I'd read before this was Cloud Atlas, way back when I was just started my career and had also just formed a book club. I enjoyed it for its scope and ambition, weaving the strands of several separate tales together through different periods of time.

It's a similar premise here, interwoven stories spanning Asia, Europe and North America  with characters as strangers and outsiders, on the fringes of society. The narration takes place from an array of points of view, from a terrorist cultist in Japan to a scientific genius in rural Ireland via a spirit in Mongolia. It's certainly a way to showcase the writing talent that Mitchell has from both a characterisation and plotting point of view. I don't know if all of his novels are structured in the same way, as I'd like to see what he does with the chance to develop characters over more than 50 pages each, but certainly within the form he's brilliant.

Inevitably some stories grabbed me more than others but the overarching strands running through it pull it together and make it more than the sum of its parts. It's smart too, the author giving himself the platform to show his intellect as well as his range. Even more than this though, is how prescient it feels reading it now. The themes of modernity and change, dislocation in the face of global connection, fear and conspiracy, would be cutting edge now. Published as it was just before the turn of the 21st century, pre-World Trade Centre attack, it must have really captured the zeitgeist.

If there's one criticism of it I can make it's a personal one. For all that it's whip-smart, on the money, crammed full of interesting ideas and well-crafted characters, I found that it was just missing that je ne sais quoi.I liked it, indeed I liked it a lot and can appreciate all of the things that a great about it. But I never found it unputdownable, it didn't grab my by the throat and yell "This is good! This is real!" at me and I can't quite put my finger on why. Everything about it was great and to my taste but somehow, for me at least, it lacked the X-factor which would have put it into the absolute top tier.

Admittedly if that's the worst thing you can say about it, then you're still looking at a damn fine book. And this certainly is that. Packed full of bankers and backpackers, robbers and radio DJs, there is a lot of depth to the work that almost surprises because of the breadth of ambition. It's a whirlwind tour across the globe, it's explosive stuff, so strap yourself in and prepare for take-off.

Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus

Week 41: How to Train your Dragon – Cressida Cowell
Recommended by: Kathryn Hays

Things I knew about How to Train your Dragon before it was recommended to me: there was a film (and a sequel) and... that's it. Somewhat unusually I didn't even know it was based on a book, never mind a bestselling series of a dozen titles. Still, it's nice to go in with essentially zero expectations about it because this rarely happens.

Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III is a Viking, and an unusual one at that. For a start he's ten, but he's also uncommonly smart and somewhat on the scrawny side. As part of the rite of passage to become a fully-fledged member of the tribe, he and the other boys have to capture and then train their own dragons. Fail to do so and they face exile. What could possibly go wrong?

Fairly unsurprisingly, quite a lot can and does indeed go wrong, combining into an enjoyable mix of silliness, seriousness, anarchy and bodily functions. It felt like it was coming from a similar place to comics (British ones à la The Beano as opposed to American superheroes), as well as a rich literary vein with elements of Roald Dahl and Horrid Henry among others. And it's undeniably British in style too, coming from an equally brilliant comedy lineage, with a dash of the Pythonesque about it, a dollop of Blackadder and even a pinch of the madcap antics of Bottom. It doesn't feel out of place in such illustrious company.

Knowing now that it's the first of a long series, it does very much feel like the opening salvo. It's short and self-contained and works well on its own terms. How that translates into longer term character development and world building can't be answered from this but I would be interested to find out. I like the fact that children's books are undergoing a bit of a renaissance in being illustrated but I can't say I was blown away by those on offer here. They do fit the book's style ok but I don't feel they really enhance things in the way of Quentin Blake, Tove Jansson or Tony DiTerlizzi to name but three.

I did have a cheeky listen to a sample of the audiobooks though and feel that could be a very positive experience. David Tennant is both an excellent choice for the material and one of my man crushes so it's hard to see how I would fail to appreciate that. Overall then it was an enjoyable romp with comic touches and an entertaining plot and I'd like to see how the tale of Hiccup and Toothless continues.

Break Me Gently

Week 40: The Silver Dark Sea – Susan Fletcher
Recommended by: Marian Davidson

Atmosphere. Moods more than movements. A sense of place that is half-formed, half-imagined. That's what The Silver Dark Sea is. The kind of book that you want to soundtrack for that fully immersive sensory experience. Something like the haunting melodies of Doves' Lost Souls, maybe with the isolation of Fourteen Autumns and Fifteen Winters by The Twilight Sad, the raw emotion of Portishead's Dummy and a layer of the fuzzy dreamscapes, if not the feedback, of My Bloody Valentine's Loveless. Or simply the sound of the sea.

For it is the sea that is at the heart of the novel. Four years have passed since Maggie's husband vanished off the coast of a remote Scottish island. The community, essentially an extended family, sway to its endless tides. And out of nowhere a mysterious stranger washes up on the shore. To many he is the Fishman, a mythical sea creature, and like a stone cast in a pond, his appearance creates ripples among the cast.

It's more velvet glove than iron fist though, as this legend-come-to-life somehow manages to shake things up softly. He cuts through their secrets and their silences whilst remaining an enigma to them. Told from multiple viewpoints, the characters are lightly sketched rather than inked in, though this isn't a criticism. We are absorbed into their inner worlds, corners of their life are thrown into sharp focus, allowing the reader to apply their own watercolours to fill in the gaps.

The story flows easily, lyrical and softly lit, easing the pain which is so often at the forefront of events. It demonstrates how small things can have subtle but significant effects. And how sometimes we all need some patience, some tenderness, some healing. If there's a criticism it's that all of the strands are tied up a little too neatly at the but I'm a romantic at heart and it has a fairy tale quality to it so I'm willing to forgive Fletcher for offering her characters their happy endings. This is a beautiful book, occupying a space in a half-world between myth and reality. Lie back and let its gentle rhythms wash over you.

Human after all

Week 39: The Humans – Matt Haig
Recommended by: Gareth Watkins

Moving on in fairly rapid succession from The Martian to The Humans it feels like I've come a little closer to home, even if the protagonist in the former is a human and that of the latter is a martian. Ok, he's actually a Vonnadorian but he's definitely still an alien. He has been sent to Earth to kill and replace a Professor of Mathematics at Cambridge University who has just discovered the answer to life, the universe and everything.

This is perceived as a threat from halfway across the universe as those pesky humans are simply not smart or advanced enough to be able to handle such a complex and important piece of information. As 'Andrew' adapts to his new life, we are presented with an outsider's view of humans, their follies, their foibles and their fantastic bits. Inevitably he starts to be humanised and discovers that life on Earth and the relationships of even a single person are rather complicated. And just in case you were wondering, the mysterious answer has something to do with primes, so it's definitely not 42.

So if all of this sounds a bit like a Nick Hornby or David Nichols story as written by Douglas Adams, you'd be pretty close to the money. Things for Andrew don't always go to plan and we're left with him getting into and out of a series of farcical situations throughout the first part of the novel. This is interspersed with a humorous look at some of the daft things we do without thinking that they might be a bit silly, simply because we have always done them. Observations on the usual suspects – think religion, love, the news – are all here but fortunately Haig is genuinely funny so is able to pull it off. A favourite being when our hero encounters a student called Zoe: "I like violent men. I don't know why. It's kind of a self-harm thing. I go to Peterborough a lot. Rich pickings."

During the second half of the novel, Andrew finds out more about what being a human means and starts to form close relationships with 'his' wife and son. Indeed, he actually seems to be a better husband and father than the man he replaced and he starts to go rogue and ignore his mission. Needless to say there are a few twists and turns in order for more comedy, as well as some emotional drama. I don't know if anyone has snapped up the film rights (I'd guess so, pretty much everything seems to be optioned these days) but it would easily translate to the big screen. Indeed, it has a screenplay-like quality to it and I can certainly imagine something that blends elements of Third Rock from the Sun, Red Dwarf and a rom-com.

I'm not completely sure the style of humour and sentiment would be to everyone's taste, though they are to min,e and Haig has sufficient skill to pull off both. There's also some big 'love is all' kind of messages at the end, delivered as advice for his son. This veers a little towards mawkishness but generally works because at heart the book is good-natured and funny. And any book which closes by quoting Talking Heads' beautiful This Must be the Place definitely gets a thumbs up from me.

Off the rails

Week 38: The Girl on the Train – Paula Hawkins
Recommended by: Maddy Watson

Now this is an unusual situation: twice in the last three recommendations I've read 'buzz books', those titles which everyone (allegedly) is reading as part of a brief pop culture phenomenon. Or something like that. Usually these titles pass me by because I'm either not desperate to read them, am sceptical of the circus that surrounds them so wait till the hype dies down a bit, and the fact I tend not to buy hardbacks. The Girl on the Train has been intensively promoted and talked about for several months, sold a shed load of copies and isn't out in paperback yet. It was pitched to me for this reason, as well as falling into that other not dissimilar category of 'beach read'. I've just come back from holiday, I went to the beach, I read the book. This is presumably what they refer to as a result.

The inevitable comparison is with Gone Girl, the psychological thriller de jour of a couple of years ago, and makes sense given the subject matter, unreliable narration and even the title. This didn't fill me with hope as I found Gone Girl dreadful thanks to the devastating combination of a nonsensical plot, a narcissistic villain who is described as a genius yet acts incompetently, and a cameo from the Keystone Kops as the police force. The icing on the cake was the total lack of suspense and mystery which really is the nail in the coffin of a thriller.

The Girl on the Train was at least better than that. Sure, it was a bit trashy and the writing wasn't great, but it was a decent page turner and that basically sums up what most people want from a beach read. It ticked that box for me too. I wanted to find out what happened, even though I figured out who the perpetrator was relatively early on. This wasn't because there were real clues and it annoys me when things are sprung on you when there was no way you could have rationally worked it out, I feel it's cheating the reader. Instead it was straight from the Scooby Doo methodology, which is equally problematic as it relies on breaking the fourth wall and is more the reader cheating the book. Still, enough tension was maintained as the book built to its climax.

Of all of the characters, Rachel was the most interesting and fleshed out. She was also the one who I felt some real sympathy for. In spite of her problems, regardless of whether they were self-inflicted or not, her actions, however misguided, were largely done with her heart in the right place. I liked finding out about Megan, how Rachel's fantasies about her had no basis in reality, but she still seemed a bit lightweight, a hologram rather than a person. As for Anna, she was so bland it's an insult to orchid pods everywhere to describe her as vanilla.

The portrayal of women is also pretty regressive. All of them are not just defined either by their relationships to men or children, but more depressingly they all define themselves in that way. Ok, so one could argue that there isn't anything inherently wrong with this – I'm not going to, and there's an almost unlimited amount that could be said on the subject – but in a book with three female narrators, all of whom are victims in various ways, it's a little sad that all of them fall into this pattern.

Compare this with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a buzz book from a few years ago that I also read on holiday (only coming to it now being far more typical for me!) Lisbeth is a fascinating, complex character who refuses to be a victim in spite of personal problems and while there is a large amount of violence against women in the book, it very much feels like it's got something important to say on the subject, alerting the readership to the scale and seriousness of the issue and treating it with compassion and respect. In contrast, the message of The Girl on the Train seems simply to be that someone you know might be a nutter.

I guess in terms of hitting its objectives, it largely succeeds if one judges it by its own criteria, and I suspect it works well enough for its target audience, though I am probably not it. For all my criticisms it did keep my attention and I liked Rachel's character and narration so I can't say it was a bad book, just not a very good one.

Indian winter

Week 37: A Fine Balance – Rohinton Mishtry
Recommended by: Holly Vitow

With post-colonial literature, I'm not massively well read but I've read bits and pieces, mostly from Africa and the Indian subcontinent. Of that which I've read, I've vastly preferred the African experience. Indeed, I can't remember an Indian novel that I've truly liked, and that includes Booker Prize winners from Salman Rushdie, Arundhati Roy, Kiran Desai and Aravind Adiga. (Sidenote: another ongoing reading challenge was to read all of the Booker winners, something I'm on top of and personal taste being what it is, some have been exceptional, others have done nothing for me.) Anyway, this one has been on my list since right at the start of the year and my first request for recommendations and, if truth be told, it's one I'd been putting off for the above reasons. All I can say is more fool me.

I was wrong on this one. Very, very wrong. Because A Fine Balance was a fantastic book. It was finally the post-colonial Indian novel I've been looking for . Epic in scale, small in detail, it's a Dickensian (a good thing) portrait of four characters brought together during the state of emergency in the 1970s, a period of authoritarian rule and the curbing of civil liberties. Mishtry gets under the skin of the characters, bringing them, their worlds, and India itself to life with consummate skill.

Dina, Ishvar, Omprakesh and Manek come from diverse backgrounds, all have their own troubles but they are brought together through economic circumstance and start to forge complex relationships in this harsh and unforgiving period. The reader is taken on an emotional journey as we see caste, gender and politics all come in to play throughout the intertwining narratives. It is a brutal world as well, yet the characters come to rely on each other in spite of their individual hardships.

I don't think it's giving away much to say that this is no fairy tale. And perhaps that also contributed as it was a step away from magical realism, which is also something I've never really enjoyed. Instead it is simply grounded in realism, the only magic being that it is exceptionally written and with three-dimensional characters that I came to care deeply about. It is an affecting and affectionate novel, offering compassion to its protagonists and criticism of elements and society, especially the government, the way only art can. Quite simply one of the best books I've read this year.

Take your protein pills and put your helmet on

Week 36: The Martian – Andy Weir
Recommended by: Lauren Perrie

"The best thing I've read in ages" is always asking for trouble. As is asking your girlfriend to recommend you a book that you then have to read and review (vaguely) objectively. I've been badgering her for a full nine months now to choose something for me to read, tick following tock, and finally she decided on this one. Good things come to those who...?

Well, yes actually. This one had slipped under my radar (ha ha) but suddenly I find myself for the second time in as many months (ish) reading a book soon to be made into a blockbuster. The premise of this one is simple: as a result of a terrible accident, astronaut Mark Watney is stranded on Mars. With limited food, water and oxygen, not to mention many other hazards, he's on a battle against the clock to survive that seems essentially hopeless. And that's it.

Why the book wins is the (as far as I'm aware) meticulous research that has gone into it to ensure that what Watney does to survive is unlikely but genuinely feasible. He is after all a very pragmatic, capable person – everyone sent on the Mars expeditions falls into this category – but it is the attention to detail that makes the story work. Reciting passages of scientific explanation could be tedious, and maybe to some people it is, but context is everything and here it becomes intense and adds real suspense. I also really liked the fact that NASA and the other astronauts are shown as being highly competent, which let's be honest, they should be. Too often in crime and thriller books various parties, often the police, seem to be strangely incompetent, which can put a damper on suspension of disbelief to either advance the plot or show the protagonist in a better light. Here it turns out a lot of very smart people actually prove to be very smart, there's just very little they can do about the fact Watney is alone and trapped 225 million kilometres away.

The straight up style may not be to everyone's taste, the writing is definitely neither Hemingway nor Fitzgerald, but it works here. It should also be borne in mind that the majority of the story is in diary entries and engineer and biologist Watney nowhere declares himself to be a literary genius. Equally, I can see why Watney's characteristic silliness and humour could grate with some, though I enjoyed it and it simply felt like a facet of his personality. The other criticism you could level at it, and this one I can understand, is the fact he remains so upbeat and positive in a situation that by all rights ought to be totally hopeless. Maybe I'm not a practical genius and a survivor, but I can't help but feel I would quickly be crushed by the weight of despair.

Regardless of this, the odds are very much not in Watney's favour, the difficulties of even the most seemingly simple tasks are actually a battle for survival, and it is this simplicity that shines throughout. It's a good idea, painstakingly researched, and smartly told, adding up to an excellent blockbuster read. By all accounts the film does this justice so I look forward to seeing how it translates to the big screen.

A plague on both your houses

Week 35: The Speckled Monster: A Historical Tale of Battling Smallpox – Jennifer Lee Carrell
Recommended by: Viki Mortimer

And now for something completely different. No, not a giant foot merrily stomping along in time to the Liberty Bell March, or, god help us, a UKIP party political broadcast. Instead, in a long overdue new post, we have some historical faction. This being a nonsense term of my own devising to mean historical fiction which is based heavily on facts, drawing on lots of primary and secondary evidence but then constructing a story around it as necessary.

A lot of people probably know the story of Edward Jenner and cowpox, or at least vaguely remember it from school. This story predates it and tells of two separate battles, one either side of the Atlantic, to inoculate people and save them from the horrors of the worst disease humanity has faced. Hyperbole? Not really. I'll spare you the gory details and the imagery, you can search for it yourself if you want to, but we're talking grimness with a capital grim. The figures are equally sobering, it had a historical fatality rate of about 30% over approximately 12,000 years, killing untold millions in total.

So here we get two early 18th-century stories, one of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu of London and one of Dr Zabdiel Boylston of Boston, the connecting strands coming together in the third part of the book. Both suffered, as did all, from the disease, whether being ravished by it personally and surviving, or seeing friends, family and peers wiped out by it. Both fought resistance to their experiments based on ideas from the Middle East, Africa and Native Americans, which it will come as no surprise to anyone were looked down on by most proponents of Western medicine. Boylston in particular faced severe persecution in the line of duty.

Yet ultimately both prevailed, their evidence simply too great to be ignored, especially when the British Royal family decided to adopt the method. It's a fascinating spotlight on unknown (at least to me) historical figures who contributed much to the world, courtesy of their skill, dedication and courage. Even better is the fact it's a tale well told, engrossing and interesting in equal measure.

It's also a reminder that we have a lot to be grateful for, that humankind is capable of incredible things, and eliminating smallpox is a major achievement. And it's a timely one that should be highlighted to the current crop of anti-intellectualism manifesting in anti-vaccination movements; I won't go into full-on rant mode as there's no need and I don't want to raise my blood pressure unnecessarily, so I'll leave it with the short and sweet message that they can go fuck themselves. To borrow the sentiment from Churchill's Battle of Britain speech, we really did have some unsung heroes who probably saved an incalculable number of lives. This books does Lady Mary, Dr Boylston, and the author herself a lot of credit.

The abyss gazes back

Week 34: Prince of Thorns – Mark Lawrence

Recommended by: Luke Kidson

If Locke Lamora (pay attention, you read about him a few months ago) is a self-styled Gentleman Bastard then it's fair to say that Prince Jorg Ancrath is best described as an Utter Bastard. Blacker than black, he's the most anti of antiheroes, perhaps to the point where you wonder if he is the antagonist even though it's his story. That was my first impression anyway.

And remained so for a while, wondering if the author is simply trying to see how far he can push the envelope with acts of cruelty and depravity, with the fact that he's so young thrown in for good measure, and still take you along on the ride. But as you read on, there's the odd streak of charcoal grey thrown in, perhaps a vein of silver, maybe even a dash of something that may once have been off-white. So there is some character development and while he's not necessarily likeable or sympathetic, he's sure as hell compelling. Lawrence drags you kicking and screaming into his world and has written what I believe in the trade is known as a page turner.

The world itself is a faux Western Europe, a brutal and bloody affair reminiscent of the Holy Roman Empire in that it consists of dozens of kingdoms of varying strengths and sizes. What is interesting is that it's almost an alternate Europe, for there is a Pope and it throws in references to historical figures from Plato to Shakespeare and, somewhat inevitably given Jorg's nature, Nietzsche. The abyss probably hasn't gazed into many darker souls. Ordinarily this might stand out in a medieval setting (it's par for the course in plenty of urban fantasy and steampunk), but world building here takes a distinct backseat to the characters and plot so I think it passes muster.

Otherwise my main complaint would be that while Jorg's natural abilities, both physical and mental, allow him to work his way out of many situations, his rashness and lack of forethought at times ought to land him into trouble that he simply cannot get out of. The arrogance of youth is perfectly befitting for his character and while killing off the protagonist is not unheard of, one senses that if he were not the leading man, he would soon discover that there's always a bigger bully in the playground.

If you can stomach it – there's probably a reason George R.R. Martin didn't write any chapters from Joffrey's perspective – there's a lot to like here. It fairly zips along and Jorg and his Brothers are certainly memorable characters. As the warning goes, "He who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose." Well Jorg dares and he's power-hungry, ambitious and ruthless enough for a dozen men, so woe betide anyone who crosses him, or even his path.

Jerusalem

Week 33: The Wake – Paul Kingsnorth
Recommended by: Liz Lake

No dark satanic mills here, and one suspects that it wasn't quite what Blake had in mind, but there's quite a bit to work with here. Following the Norman invasion, French feet in ancient times were tramping all over England's green and pleasant land and making themselves pretty unpopular with the locals. Not least of whom is Buccmaster of Holland, father to murdered sons, husband of a murdered wife and hell-bent on vengeance. He gathers around him a band of 'grene men', certainly not very merry men, in order to repel what he considers the dual tyranny of France and Christianity.

Buccmaster clings to the old gods, to his ancestors, to his country and homeland in the Fens of Lincolnshire, and believes he has been chosen as a result of the omens he sees and the blade of his grandfather that he wields. Yet like his forebear Cnut, you can't help but feel that he is trying to hold back the tide and that progress is inevitable. The Normans had the advantages in numbers, in technology and in enough English folks both unprepared to fight and prepared to embrace the Church. Our protagonist isn't as eloquent as Richard Dawkins but is equally withering in his condemnation of Christianity and the priesthood. Also the French, the Scots, the Welsh, those unprepared to fight and indeed most people outside of a pretty select few.

He's a strong, single-minded character, slightly out of sync with his own time, never mind our own, but his situation at least is sympathetic as his whole world seems to be literally burning around him. The critical bit is that you fully enter not just his world but his worldview and a big part of what makes him a compelling character is his voice and indeed how the book is written. It isn't written in Old English but what Kingsnorth calls "a shadow tongue – a pseudo-language intended to convey the feeling of the old language by combining some of its vocabulary and syntax with the language we speak today." Like all books written in dialect (think Trainspotting or A Clockwork Orange) it takes a while to get into but it provides an immersive experience which is key to the book's success.

There is a relentlessness and a sense of the inevitable about the story, which keeps driving it forward and it has a page-turning quality that one might not expect from a literary historical fiction written in a made-up language. There is a strong sense of place and identity to things, of an Englishness that Buccmaster is prepared to defend to the death. Yet at the same time, it is apparent that part of what he considers to be English is originally Scandinavian and only serves to highlight that people have always travelled, that bloodlines have always had a mongrel quality to them, and that borders and identities are fluid. The march of progress may go on but here we are given a small window into an alternate history that brings a bygone age to life.

Sorrow

Week 32: Tess of the d'Urbervilles – Thomas Hardy
Recommended by: Dad

Me and pre-20th century literature? I'll refer you back a couple of entries to A Tale of Two Cities. This is where I found myself with this one: having doubts about it. I'd read one Hardy before, Jude the Obscure (or as it should be subtitled, I Would Happily Punch Every One of You in the Face), which is both bleak and full of tediously dull, whiny characters. They are described as pure and worthy and brilliant yet their actions fall a long way short, which is to be honest a simple failure of 'show, don't tell'. So safe to say, I was sceptical about reading Tess of the d'Urbervilles.

And as I worked my way through the first couple of phases, my fears began to be confirmed. Hardy's works have a reputation for being grim and depressing and this started off on trend by following Murphy's Law. This is something I take issue with because for me tragic events become infinitely less tragic (and indeed veer towards the comic) if they are simply followed by ever more terrible things but turned up to eleven. It loses the emotional punch if you know something worse is just around the corner and laying it on thick like that devalues what you're trying to achieve. The Kite Runner springs to mind here; I know a lot of people love it, I thought it was ridiculous and terrible for the aforementioned reasons. And the same applies to 'mis-lit', an inexplicably popular genre that I have forever struggled to get my head around; why on earth would I want to read about this in the first place, never mind when it becomes an arms race of 'My terrible, abusive childhood growing up in Ireland was worse than yours?' It's like the Four Yorkshiremen but with none of the humour or charm.

Anyway, I think it's fair to say we got off on the wrong foot and I was worried that it was going to continue to be overly melodramatic and awful. Except, I'm pleased to report, it didn't. The worst excesses were kept in check and I think the primary reason for the book's success is Hardy's portrayal of Tess as a very well developed, sympathetic character. Even when her naivety and honesty get her into scrapes that as the reader you can see coming, you can't help but feel for her. She is an innocent, essentially virtuous figure who is repeatedly wronged. As events build towards a climax of Shakespearean tragic proportions (I don't feel I'm giving away much to say that it's not going to have a happy ending), Hardy walks a careful line the right side of melodrama and we have a satisfying and wholly believable conclusion that may have noticed the shark swimming by the coast but crucially refuses to jump. As an aside, was I the only one slightly baffled by the last chapter when it all goes a bit 'Oh My Darling, Clementine' right at the death in a proper WTF? moment? Either way, it wasn't enough to derail things for me and I finished considerably more impressed (happier isn't exactly the right word) than I started.

I also really liked the fact that Hardy tackled the double standards applied to men and women in Victorian times. Standing up for such things even now can be difficult depending on circumstances and can create a backlash – just have a look at the media on any given day and something's sure to come up. That he chooses to do so around the subject of rape and purity is commendable as I can't imagine many people who would stick their neck out to write on such a subject in a way that must have been pretty radical at the time. Perhaps the biggest tragedy of all is that while progress has inarguably been made in the last 125 years, we have yet to reach parity and that sadly, more often than not, to use Hardy's words, "The Woman Pays".

How to disappear completely

Week 31: Into Thin Air – Jon Krakauer

Recommended by: Carol Butler

To the best of my knowledge, I have previously read two books on mountaineering: Touching the Void, Joe Simpson’s recounting of his horrendous climbing accident in the Andes, and a completely different one from W.E. Bowman, whose mountaineering satire The Ascent of Rum Doodle probably falls into a category of one. I can now add a third to the list: Into Thin Air, Jon Krakauer’s personal account of the 1996 Everest disaster.

My memory for significant news events (see also bad 90s music) generally isn’t too bad, often being able to remember how old I was or what I was doing but this one didn't ring any bells so I came to it with zero knowledge and expectations. And left very satisfied. It was a gripping read in all the right ways, it had me up late to finish it and ‘just one more chapter’ syndrome ran high. Even more impressive than that is the fact that beyond the opening chapter it’s a straight-up linear narrative with no jumping around, and that you know what's going to happen before you start. Keeping readers interested in spite of this, indeed dragging them with you on the adventure, is no mean feat.

Krakauer’s journalism background obviously helps here; indeed it was this that landed him the Everest gig in the first place. The time taken to flesh out the people involved, develop them as characters is important too, as is the way of imparting what it's like to climb an 8000-metre Himalayan peak: this is not a high octane adrenaline-rush, it is man versus nature at a primeval level. And it's this, coupled with capturing Everest's allure – the desire to conquer, to climb, to explain why so many hear its call despite the ridiculous hardship, risk and pain – which really makes the story succeed.

As a personal account, it’s also unavoidably subjective in some ways. Krakauer did interview the other survivors in order to try and piece together information and corroborate stories. This must be no easy thing after such a tragedy, when memory is notoriously unreliable, particularly factoring in how fatigue, cold and oxygen depletion will have affected the participants. Passing opinions on people in the recent past (it was published the year after the event) always has the potential for trouble, doubly so when some of them are now deceased. As I’ve later read, there is some controversy over the portrayal of one climber in particular.

Reading around the subject has been interesting too, not least of which is the fact a film of the event is due to be released next month. And while I’m not desperate to rush off to learn the correct way to use crampons any time soon, I could happily read more books like this; time and quality of writing will perhaps tell if I liked this because it’s different to other things I’ve read or because it’s a stand out in the field. It's certainly inspired me to pick up some more travel (perhaps adventure may be a better term) literature in the vein of Marco Polo’s Travels, Scott’s voyage to the Antarctic, Lawrence’s adventures in Arabia. If any of them can nail the allure of the unknown, the ‘pull of the mountain’ in the same way then I'll know I'm in safe hands.