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.

Immigrant songs

Week 30: By the Sea – Abdulrazak Gurnah
Recommended by: Nick Brown-Warr

Zanzibar is a majestic name, instantly conjuring up images of the exotic, appearing on maps only a short hop from 'Here Be Monsters'. At least that's how I've always imagined it, though I knew little about it other than its location off the African coast and the fact that Freddie Mercury was born there. Thanks to By the Sea, I can now say I know a little bit more.

This is the story of two Zanzibari men, their experiences abroad, and the shared history that it is slowly revealed that they share. We meet Saleh Omar, a man of sixty-odd years, upon his arrival in Britain as an asylum seeker. Following his journey through the immigration process, an alienating, dehumanising experience, his entry is approved and he is shipped off to a town on the south coast of England. And, sad to say, fifteen years down the line I can only believe that such experiences are now considerably less enjoyable than they were then. Stranger in a strange land, the key message Salah tells us is that for all of the dislocation he feels, he also feels safe.

We then meet Latif, another Zanzibari now living in England. However, that is in the future, what we instead find out is a little about his unhappy family life prompting his travels to the GDR. A callow, naive youth, he builds up strange relationships with fellow immigrants (born of necessity) and locals (born of curiosity) before he escapes to rock up on England's shores.

Brought together by Salah's caseworker, the two meet up in the present in the seaside town he now calls home. A dense tale of cruelty, oppression, pettiness and family rivalries unfolds as the two men share partial truths. As both narrators take pains to point out, these are incomplete, presumably to protect both themselves and their families. By turns coy and cynical, brave and barbarous, the two present a complex and unhappy picture of their lives; the harsh reality of island life then, the isolation of exile now. Carefully plotted and clearly written, Gurnah presents a critical snapshot of his homeland underpinned by an echo of the lyric, the sea's endless rhythm.

You say you want a revolution...

Week 29: A Tale of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
Recommended by: Chris Spencer

As many of my readers probably know, me and pre-20th century literature have a mixed record. Some of the classics, the canon, the whatever you want to call them, I've found to be excellent, others I've struggled to get to grips with or have left me disappointed or just plain indifferent. So how does that differ to any other book or genre you might be wondering? I guess because they're not always things I would choose for myself. I do read them often enough, partially I suspect out of a 'I should have read this' mentality, and partly in the hope that they will actually turn out to be amazing, but unlike some of my friends, they are a long way from my default option.

Or maybe that's just not true any more, now I think about it. There are lots of classics that I do enjoy, probably outweighing those I dislike (hey, I'm easy to please), but I also think that part of the key is that I did choose to pick them up myself and at the right time to appreciate them. I only read Pride and Prejudice for the first time a couple of years ago (yeah, feel free to judge me) – and I bloody loved it. However, I'm well aware that fifteen-year-old me would not have done, would not have appreciated that it's a social satire and I can't think of anything more likely to put children and teenagers off reading than forcing 'worthy' books on them at school that they have to slog through and gain little from (I could also rant about politicians and stupid ideas quite happily).

Anyway, having largely avoided anything dreadful being foisted on me at school, I have enjoyed most of the Dickens I've read, though some books have been harder going than others. A Tale of Two Cities falls into the tougher camp. I didn't enjoy it as much as David Copperfield, Oliver Twist or Bleak House, likening it most to Hard Times. Poverty and injustice are common themes throughout all of Dickens' work but I think it's the lack of humour that makes me pair it with the last of those novels.

With the possible exception of Jerry Cruncher, there are none of the caricatures and grotesques you may expect, and a grave-digger and wife-beater is not ideally placed to provide light relief. Inadvertently I couldn't picture M. Defarge as a wine shop owner, contemporary politics leading me to peg him as a guffawing twat in a purple tie clutching a pint, a slightly odd counterpart to his wife's Lady Macbeth. The large cast you would also probably expect from Mr D is present though, and I liked this and the scale of the story, both macro events and intertwining micro relationships that tied the characters together.

However, it wasn't really until the third book and the arrival in Paris that I really felt things properly kicked into gear. The lesson: if you're going to use the French Revolution as a backdrop, make the most of it (see also Les Misérables; later time period but only really got going once in Paris). The first part set things up nicely in a concise way, but the second part was more of a struggle than I was expecting. However, the third and final part had a cracking pace to it, more suspense and intrigue and finally succeeded in delivering at least some of the book that was promised.

A tale of three cities

Week 28: To the Hermitage – Malcolm Bradbury
Recommended by: Ros White

Philosophy is something I'm happy to confess I know a very limited amount about. I have no grounding in the discipline and while I can list names, I have little clue as to what they believed, rationalised or reasoned. In fact the sum of my knowledge can probably be encapsulated in Monty Python's philosophy football sketch (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ur5fGSBsfq8). My knowledge of the French Revolution is at least a little better, thanks mainly to Boardworks' US History, having never studied any aspect of French history during my academic adventures (sacré bleu!) Throw in some Russophilia into the mix and what you get out the other side would probably be something resembling To the Hermitage.

An ode to Denis Diderot, editor of the Encyclopédie, the book gathers a collection of academics and miscellaneous Scandinavians together and sends them on a pilgrimage to St Petersburg to follow in the footprints of the aforementioned Diderot. Twinned with this is a journey into the past to join our philosopher on his visit to Russia to pay homage to and educate the famous despot Catherine the Great. Part quest-as-wild-goose-chase, part historical fiction, this unusual blend works rather well.

The present (early 90s, recent post-collapse of the Soviet Union) story was for me stronger, with a playful, smart narrator who weaves his tale lightly and skilfully. St Petersburg is obviously one of my three cities but plenty of the early action takes place in Stockholm, and Diderot's narrative has more than a little of the Parisian in it. Of these, it is Stockholm which is best realised, both in terms of its sense of place and its people. It gently satirises the Swedish mindset and behaviours, but in a way that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than affection. The motley crew of the so-called Diderot Project is testament to that.

Diderot's own tale I found less engaging overall. The numerous exchanges with Catherine read like an Oscar Wilde play, with plenty of witty repartee, but I found they did more to enhance and add depth to the present-day narrative rather than truly hold up in their own right. I'm also going to take the opportunity to gratuitously lavish a small amount of praise on my industry: "Publishers are amongst the boldest, the wisest, most generous of all humankind, risking their fortunes for our opinions. That is, so long as they don't keep too much company with princes, priests, or popes. Or bankers or the lowest tastes of the people." Seems fair to me, and a fictional Diderot said it so it must be true.

The historical trip also features cameos from other notable figures of the Age of Reason including Voltaire, Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson upon Diderot's return to France. The main narrative is more open-ended, with the excursion more one of self-discovery than academic knowledge, poking a little fun at the academia Bradbury knew so well. Curious and endearing, full of deft touches and sharp observations, this is a charming portrait of, and homage to, a key figure of the Enlightenment.

Not now, Conor

Week 27: A Monster Calls – Patrick Ness
Recommended by: Beth MacAdam

Looking at his track record of Mr Benn, Elmer, King Rollo and more, it's fair to say that David McKee is a pretty damn good children's writer and illustrator. Of all his titles though, for me it's Not Now, Bernard which has really stuck with me over the years. In this classic picture book, Bernard discovers a monster in the back garden but his mum and dad aren't interested. He tries to befriend it but, much to his disappointment, gets eaten instead. His parents remain oblivious to this too, sending him to his room for bad behaviour, despite the plaintive cry of '"But I'm a monster," said the monster', which has stayed with me through the years.

This hearkening back to my childhood came to mind when thinking about A Monster Calls. For all that Bernard's monster is purple and befanged, it is also cutely cartoonish, whereas the titular monster in Ness' book takes the form of a nightmarish tree, but feels more shadowy and less well defined, leaving the reader to imagine their own fearsome image, and is thus far scarier for it. More than that, the parallel between the elephants in the room in both books – what is seen and unseen, said and unsaid – came across despite their vastly different target demographics. Oh, and if you hadn't picked this up either, they're both bloody brilliant.

Thirteen-year-old Conor is visited by the monster in a recurring nightmare at the same time every night. The monster insists that he summoned it and with echoes of Dickens and countless fairy tales, he promises to tell Conor three stories, after which Conor must tell the monster his own story. The monster is also an allegory for Conor's mother's cancer, for which she is undergoing chemotherapy, and serves to highlight the isolation he feels with his father absent, his grandmother frosty, and his school life far from easy. It's a Neil Gaiman fable, with a healthy dollop of the wisdom of Philip Pullman and a dash of the brutality of Robert Cormier. And if you think that sounds like a Good Thing, you would be right.

The original concept was that of Siobhan Dowd, which Patrick Ness took and ran with, creating his own story with credit due, rather than simply trying the standard posthumous 'writing as' credit. I've read Ness' young adult Chaos Walking trilogy – also fantastic and well worth your time – so I was expecting it to be good. Pleasingly, the combination of a tight narrative, big ideas and raw emotion exceeded these expectations; it was masterful where I feared it could be mawkish.

As layers of nightmare build up and Stories With Meanings are shared, Conor's behaviour and mindset lurch uncontrollably through the stages of the grief cycle towards an emotional climax. Clue: this probably isn't going to end well. It's intelligently constructed, heartfelt in a sincere, understated way, with the stories and the monster more devastatingly effective than any straight up telling of the tale could be. If only all stories were this good.

Half time report

As it is now officially closer to this Christmas than last Christmas, we must be halfway through the year so now is probably a good time to stop and take stock a bit. I have to say I was overwhelmed by the initial reaction to the project, both the number of people who've talked to me about it over the past six months, not to mention the willingness to lob all kinds of books my way. Those who have been brave enough to stick their head above the parapet and recommend me something, at risk of me slagging off their childhood fave or irrevocably branding them with poor judgement: I salute you. Without your input this would be nothing. 

Likewise, the many (yes, many – I can see the page views in the analytics) people who have been following the blog, I salute you too. You've all been a great motivation to keep going, stay on track and to write what I hope are fair, balanced, interesting and entertaining reviews. Or at least some of those things to some of the people some of the time. Some reviews have certainly been easier to write than others in that I either have better ideas for them or possibly just more to say but I hope there have been more hits than misses.

And that has certainly been the case with the offerings. I've enjoyed the variety of what I've been given: a mix of genres, fiction and non-fiction, things I've never heard of and things I've never got round to reading. Which was basically what I was hoping for and I'm delighted that it's turned out this way. I'm not going to go all High Fidelity on you at this stage and do a top five or anything but I suspect that come the end of the year I'll end up doing something like that. Until then, thanks once again for recommending and reading, and it'll be back to the day job for me.

No monkey business

Week 26: We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves – Karen Joy Fowler
Recommended by: Polly Silk

I'm going to do something I've not done yet as it hasn't been necessary or applicable, but figure I ought to do so in this instance and add a warning: spoilers.

Some people have been very polite about their recommendations: "Have you read x? No? Ok, that can be my recommendation then." Others have been a bit more assertive: "OMG you MUST read this book, it's like the BEST thing EVER!" We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves (WAACBO? sounds like something a character would shout during Mario Kart) was definitely one of the latter, where it would have been thrust forcefully in my direction if only she had possession of a copy at the time. Which is to suggest that she rather liked it. So no pressure then.

Fortunately it was a very easy book to like, ticking a lot of boxes for things I enjoy of a novel. This includes but is by no means limited to: family drama (dysfunctional or otherwise), well-rounded and interesting characters, a strong narrative voice, a story unfolded slowly through memories. Indeed, I was reminded in style if not tone of Kazuo Ishiguro and I'm a big fan of his.

Rosemary certainly has a distinctive voice and reveals information at a perfect pace – enough to keep you hooked and wanted more without either laying all her cards on the table at the start or unfairly withholding it to the reader's frustration. As she tells us about her childhood and family, it becomes apparent that things are not quite as straightforward as they appear where her siblings are concerned. We find out that Fern, her beloved sister was in fact a chimpanzee, her Professor father using the Rosemary's childhood as an experiment.

And so we trace the family history, the disappearances of Fern and also their brother Lowell, through Rosemary's reflections on growing up and her college years, particularly her whirlwind relationship with the walking manifestation of chaos that is Harlow. Posing key questions on familial ties, sibling rivalries and bonds, and ethical treatment of animals, there is also a satisfying depth to it, giving it a heft beyond that of 'just' a good story. Heartwarming and heartbreaking in equal measure; smart, readable and gripping; We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves is simply a small piece of joy in book form.