Monthly Archives: December 2010

End of the Year Thing

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Not quite sure about doing the year-end thing, having become an unrepentantly lackadaisical blogger, but having read some sixty books over the course of 2010, and blogging perhaps ninety percent, heck, I could pick a few favourites. It is a time of indulgence, after all…

So. Top five. Unless it is impossible to choose less than six. (Nb. Some very worthy authors featured on my reading list this year, but the criteria here is pure reading pleasure.)

Runners up:

Legend of a Suicide – David Vann
Invisible Cities – Italo Calvino
Ethan Frome – Edith Wharton

And the top three in reverse order:

Child of God – Cormac McCarthy For finding beauty in the sordid.
Wise Blood – Flannery O’Connor Ahem. See above.
Moby Dick – Herman Melville Whoa. The book that has everything. (Also my long-term nemesis, finally neutralised.)

But, more importantly, a Happy New Year to all, and a “Thank you” to those who have visited my blog over the past year.

Sulphuric Acid – Amélie Nothomb

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Concentration is a television reality show. The contestants have been rounded up indiscriminately and entered involuntarily into what is effectively a death camp. They are starved, beaten and, in the ultimate vote-off, executed as they become too weak to perform the meaningless task allotted them.

This is Amélie Nothomb’s satirical take on reality television, and it is undeniably odd.
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The Canal – Lee Rourke

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The Canal is Lee Rouke’s debut novel, a grim story about a man driven by boredom to discard his job. His new occupation: sitting on a bench at the side of Regent’s Canal.

He reflects and reminisces, and obsesses about a woman who also frequents the canal. The development of his relationship with the woman, and the revelation of her history and unsettling mentality constitute the main body of the narrative. It is bleak and dark and ugly, and it is impossible to avoid using the word ‘Ballardian.’ (Strong echoes of Crash, in particular.) But this novel and I did not gel.

It is largely concerned with boredom, and how this relates to modern society, but I found it difficult to recognise boredom as described here, what constitutes boredom and what does not, and at this point the novel and I parted company.

What I can say is that this novel about boredom is not boring, and I should admit to reading it over the course of one highly alcohol-fuelled afternoon and evening. For a considered and fair review I can do no better than to refer you to Max’s thoughtful analysis, here, which was, I suspect, conceived in commendable sobriety.

If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler – Italo Calvino

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‘The novels I prefer are those which wrong-foot you at every turn…’

Not an exact quote, nor an entirely accurate representation of my sentiments with respect to reading, but If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler did keep me on my toes, and it had its moments. Admittedly, for the first hundred or so pages those moments largely involved scowling, but past the halfway point there was actual laughter.
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