Rites by Sophie Coulombeau

Sometimes you come across a new writer who possesses breathtaking originality and verve. Sophie Coulombeau is the genuine article, and in my opinion this novel will come to be seen as her first step on the road to becoming a literary name.

The premise seems deceptively simple; four teenagers strike a pact to lose their virginity together, and despite their best intentions it all goes horribly wrong. Now, many years later, they reflect on the loss of innocence and how it shaped their lives.

Coulombeau uses the mechanism of first person narration throughout, as each of the four main protagonists, along with a supporting cast of eight other key figures, are all asked to recollect the incident. This approach offers the opportunity for a range of narrative reminiscences, some of which may be more reliable than others. Her real skill lies in creating sufficient differentiation between the voices that all twelve characters remain clear and uniquely individual, and not once did I struggle to remember who was who.

The novel came to be published when Route Publishing selected an extract of Coulombeau’s manuscript as the winner of their “Next Great Novelist Award 2012”, the prize being full publication. This came as something of a shock for Coulombeau who apparently hadn’t completed the rest of the book and consequently had to quickly complete her draft. It doesn’t show, which must be a testament to her skill.

I often criticise other reviewers who use lazy comparisons to describe an author’s carefully constructed prose as being just like another writer’s, and so I consciously try not to do that in my reviews. However “Rites” did give me a similar feeling to Stephen May’s “Life! Death! Prizes!”, and that is no lazy comparison; it simply means that they share the same soul. Twinned, but of different parents, if you like.

As I read through the novel, with my opinions being deliberately manipulated by the different first person narrations the question that kept puzzling me was “Who are they telling this to?”. Am I (as the reader) being asked to take on the role of inquisitor or confessor, or is that the role being adopted by the author? Is it actually one of the protagonists themselves who is the inquisitor? The way that Coulombeau chooses to deal with this particular issue is a marker for her confidence and ability as an author. When I was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to ask her about this aspect of the novel she simply replied with an enigmatic face, which indicated that I should draw my own conclusions.

Well the conclusion I have drawn is that Sophie Coulombeau is a very fine novelist indeed and one who does not need to explain her methods or approach. I will certainly be following her career trajectory with genuine appreciation and admiration.

The Light Between Oceans by M L Stedman

“This is a story about right and wrong and how sometimes they look the same”.

This carefully constructed tag line neatly encapsulates the moral dilemma that lies at the heart of this powerful novel. Having survived the horrors of the First World War Tom Sherbourne is now the lighthouse keeper on remote Janus Rock in South Western Australia perched between the Indian Ocean and the Great Southern Ocean. He and his young wife Izzy long for a child, after a succession of miscarriages. Then a boat washes up on the island containing a dead man and a crying baby.

This incident is the heart of the story, as a decision made with the best of intentions causes Tom and Izzy’s life to unravel as the consequences of their actions spiral inexorably towards a tragic conclusion.

This debut novel features some beautifully evocative descriptive prose. One of my favourite passages reads: -

“The line between the ocean and the sky became harder to judge as the light faltered second by second”.

This inability to judge between ocean and sky stands as a symbol in judging right from wrong which echoes throughout the novel, underpinning the moral ambiguity of the narrative.

It seems no coincidence that Stedman has set the lighthouse on Janus Rock, its beam illuminating the two oceans of the title. Janus was the God of beginnings and transitions. His two heads looked both to the past and the future, which is an apt metaphor for Stedman’s meticulously crafted plot.

I was really impressed by the quality of writing in Margot Stedman’s first novel and her writing is by turns evocative, lyrical and compassionate. Her deft use of the rising and falling cadences of the Australian language is both charming and completely realistic.

The novel’s title is also an inspired choice. Apparently Stedman’s working title for the piece during its early drafts was “Lighthouse Story” before the title came to her, and to my mind it works beautifully on a number of different levels.

This novel grips the reader from the outset as it proceeds to its intensely sad conclusion. I shall certainly be looking out for the next novel by Margot Steadman.

Peaches for Monsieur le Cure by Joanne Harris

The popular wisdom is that it’s often a mistake to revisit earlier successes. Try telling that to Joanne Harris.

Just once in a while you read a book that is so good, so well-written that you can’t leave it behind, and you find that long after closing the final pages the characters are still intruding on your life, slipping into your thoughts throughout the working day. Many of Harris’s novels seem to have that effect on me, but possibly none more so than this one.

This is an absolute gem of a book, deftly plotted and beautifully constructed. The pace is measured and never rushed as Harris confidently interweaves the narratives of her main characters. With an interesting twist it could be argued that Vianne Rocher is not truly the main protagonist this time around, as the plot spirals around Father Reynaud as he struggles to deal with the influx of Muslim Maghrebins into the sleepy village of Lansquenet. Set around Ramadan (in itself a clever echo back to the Lenten setting of “Chocolat”) Vianne’s return to Lansquenet with her daughters Anouk and Rosette finds the village trying to cope with women wearing the niqab and the appearance of a mosque.

The book raises a number of questions about the nature of communities and the prejudice with which outsiders are viewed. However, as you would expect, it does so with a subtle touch rather than a heavy hand. Harris neatly encapsulates the main themes of the book with the phrase “everything returns” which echoes throughout the story, layering the plot threads into an integrated whole.

For anyone following the trajectory of Harris’s writing career this novel stands alongside Chocolat in representing the zenith of that curve. I am in awe of her talent and fervently hope that she is drawn back into her shed to write whilst her muse remains such a fascinating enchantress.

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

“Mockingjay” is the final instalment of the Hunger Games trilogy and represents a far darker and bleaker view than the earlier two novels. Although ostensibly still aimed at the Young Adult market it’s almost as if Suzanne Collins has decided that the story needs to grow up at a similar rate to her prospective readers. So you can consider yourself fully warned; don’t expect a light hearted conclusion to the trilogy.

I have thoroughly enjoyed reading all three novels although I am far removed from the target demographic. I found Collins to be a master-storyteller (no gender-based puns intended or required) and remarkably even-handed, irrespective of whether it’s a main character or a member of the minor supporting cast who is being killed off. The truth is that very few survive, but that will come as no surprise to readers familiar with the gritty realism that Collins employs.

I felt that her skill at characterisation improved considerably from the first book and I felt a real sense of identification with the problems and difficulties that the main characters experience. Katniss’s descent into depression and lethargy is particularly well-written and heartbreakingly accurate.

For me the epilogue felt a little unnecessary and I wondered why Collins felt the need to write it. I must try to do some research on-line to see if anyone has asked her this question. I suppose that after the machinations of the fairly convoluted plot had played out perhaps she saw it as a simpler, cleaner ending. But to me the conclusion of the book felt somewhat rushed after such careful plotting to reach this point.

However to sum up this third and final novel is harsh, brutal, and utterly relentless.

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins

Catching Fire is the second novel in The Hunger Games series and demonstrates that Suzanne Collins really understands the power of the story. The novel develops the story of Katniss Everdeen and Peta Mellark following their success in the televised fight-to-the-death game show The Hunger Games.

It is immediately apparent that this is a far darker tale than the first novel and Collins creates a believable scenario of manipulation and exploitation for her characters. This does affect the pacing of the story, and the first half of the novel is slower than its predecessor, but that’s an inevitable consequence of trying to write the broader plot development that is needed to sustain a trilogy.

To my mind one of the strong points of the book is that the minor characters are given greater weight and depth than the rather one-dimensional supporting cast of the first novel. Collins manages to create an ensemble cast that engages you emotionally, and you care what happens to them. She also introduces two great characters in Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason (who will reappear in the final part of the trilogy).

Some reviewers have criticised the narrowness of her dystopian world-view, suggesting that her world-building could be stronger with a greater global sweep. I think this rather misses the point, and it should be remembered that Collins is primarily targeting the Young Adult audience. Whilst I felt that some of her symbolism was a little obvious I felt that she struck a good balance between the need to move the story on, whilst also broadening the overall vision.

As with the first novel I was again somewhat irritated by the lack of any mention of the cameras that must be filming every move within the arena for the reality show. I still felt that this was a missed opportunity by Collins which could have added another dimension to the piece, and a wider comment about surveillance, but overall this seems rather like sour grapes when considered against the many strengths of the novel.

Absorbing and compelling, this novel acts as an excellent bridge between “The Hunger Games” and “Mockingjay” and will not disappoint.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

The Hunger Games is an astonishing achievement and a hugely impressive piece of writing. Suzanne Collins is the consummate story-teller, and Katniss Everdeen is a brilliantly voiced heroine. Written in the first person and in the immediate present Collins carefully constructed prose gives her protagonist both a believable voice and a thrilling sense of immediacy. You find yourself drawn into the book through an invisible magnetic bond that you cannot shake off.

As I read the book I found a strong echo of Stephen King, particularly in his earlier novels such as The Shining and The Stand. When I was a teenager King had an ability to grab me by the throat; I was unable to stop reading until the early hours of the morning as I breathlessly finished many of his novels. Although the Hunger Games is purportedly targeted at the “Young Adult” audience I think its themes are universal and transcend any notion of narrow audience boundaries.

Set in a dystopian near-future the plot revolves around The Hunger Games, a televised fight to the death game show where a boy and girl are chosen as “Tributes” from each of the twelve surviving districts of North America (which Collins calls Panem), to provide a gladiatorial entertainment for the masses. When her younger sister’s name is drawn Katniss volunteers in her place, alongside Peeta Mellark, a boy with whom she shares a history and their adventures begin.

If I had two very minor criticisms of the book they would be that the minor characters within the games are fairly one-dimensional, most being killed before their characters can be fully established. The other point that irritated me was the lack of any mention of the cameras that must be filming every move for the reality show. This seemed like an opportunity missed by Collins as I felt that the awareness of these cameras (and their possible destruction) could have added another dimension to the piece and a greater sense of realism. However these are very minor gripes in what was otherwise a truly remarkable book.

Suspend all belief and allow yourself to be carried away into The Hunger Games. Just remember to breathe (at least between chapters!).

Books to Read

I feel as though I need to develop insomnia if I’m to make any headway with my “To be read” pile, which stretches skywards in my study like a particularly malicious game of Jenga.

I’m currently reading “Mockingjay” by Suzanne Collins, having read both “The Hunger Games” and “Catching Fire” over the weekend. I don’t know which particular rock I was hiding under when these were first published but I’m slightly embarrassed that I missed out on them. However I’m really enjoying them now, hence the slightly obsessive blast through them. 

In some vague sense of establishing a sense of order the rest of the pile currently lines up as follows: -

1. Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé – Joanne Harris
2. The Light Between Oceans -  M. L. Stedman
3. Gillespie and I – Jane Harris
4. The Red House – Mark Haddon
5. Keeper – Andrea Gillies
6. About Last Night – Adele Parks
7. The Sense of an Ending – Julian Barnes
8. The Reconstructionist – Josephine Hart
9. Sweets from Morocco – Jo Verity
10. Your Blue-eyed Boy – Helen Dunmore
11. The Girl With Glass Feet – Ali Shaw
12. This isn’t the sort of thing that happens to someone like you – Jon McGregor
13. Unless – Carol Shields
14. The Accidental – Ali Smith
15. Strandloper – Alan Garner
16. Nail Your Novel – Roz Morris
17. From Pitch to Publication – Carole Blake.

Wow! I think I need to take a month off work to try and attempt a catch-up. Either that or a very long flight…Australia maybe?

blueeyedboy by Joanne Harris

I find that a novel is far more enjoyable if it offers a challenge and Joanne Harris’s ninth novel offers a host of them. It is a multi-layered book that will make you constantly re-assess exactly what you’ve been told whilst you try to fathom exactly where you’re being taken. It requires you to trust the author’s innate sense of truth and balance, and it doesn’t disappoint.

It has the feeling of a fiendish Japanese puzzle where all of the parts tessellate, but none seem to fit. Indeed Harris herself has likened to novel both to a Rubik’s Cube and the Lemarchand Box from Clive Barker’s “Hellraiser” series. It is certainly as fiendish and in my view Harris’s writing has never been stronger or more deftly constructed.

I’ve always loved unreliable narrators (from Nick Carraway to Holden Caulfield) and in her two main protagonists blueeyedboy and Albertine Harris has created two deliciously unreliable storytellers. In a modern take on an epistolary novel they communicate through alternating blogs on a website called Badguysrock, and we all know that in the virtual world of the internet people are often not who they claim to be.

It’s difficult to comment on the intricate plot without revealing massive spoilers (a task which even the book jacket failed to achieve). However it is brilliantly plotted, and will keep you guessing at every turn, following the pattern that she established with Gentlemen and Players.

The book has attracted conflicting reviews, and Harris refers to it as her “Marmite” book (you either love it or hate it). Having now read it three times I’ve enjoyed it at every reading, despite the fact that I now where it’s going. I think it’s a work of genius and I feel privileged to have joined “#Team Marmite”.

Everything in the Garden by Jo Verity

Jo Verity’s debut novel is a fascinating read. The story is a straightforward tale of four sets of middle-aged friends who jointly buy a large rambling farmhouse in Wales, intending to grow old together. However, tensions grow within the group, particularly for the main protagonist Anna when her best friend’s husband Bill starts making passes at her.

For any novelist it’s quite a challenge having a group of eight main characters and creating sufficient differentiation between them that a reader can easily remember them and readily identify just who is who. I must admit that I resorted to making a little list of the four couples, just so that I could remember who was married to whom.

Also Peter and Mark are hardly mentioned, leaving just the six main characters to juggle, along with a large supporting cast of daughters, boyfriends and friends. The good news is that Jo Verity juggles with consummate ease, and she creates a readable and plausible story which relies more on emotions than upon simple plot devices.

Not everything in this particular garden is rosy and eventually the plot takes a progressively darker tone. I’d be interested to see Jo try writing a dark thriller; I have a feeling she’d be quite successful.

If I am being picky I think she could have concentrated a little more on the character of Prosser in the earlier stages of the book, particularly as he has such a key part to play later on. But her real strength as a writer is revealed in her deft handling of the character of Anna who is utterly believable with a credible voice. I found myself rooting for Anna on many levels, which must be a testament to the empathy that Jo manages to create.

If I’m being honest I think I would have to say that as a novel I preferred “Not Funny Not Clever” more. However given that this novel is a much earlier work it is well worth reading to see a writer honing her craft. For me “Everything in the Garden” is well worth cultivating.

Are We Nearly There Yet by Ben Hatch

Ben Hatch has written a wonderful memoir that is by turns both hilarious and deeply moving. His family’s eight thousand mile journey around the UK in a Vauxhall Astra carrying out research for a family-friendly guidebook provides many opportunities for humour. But this is much more than a series of funny set pieces; the quality of the writing draws you into Hatch’s life, and provides an insight into this period of re-evaluation.

By the end of the book I had developed a real affection for Ben’s wife Dinah, which I am convinced is largely down to Ben’s skill as a writer, carefully and gently manipulating your emotions throughout the story. The overall tone gave me a vivid recollection of Gerald Durrell’s “My Family and Other Animals” which I haven’t read for over forty years.

However it is during the book’s darker side, dealing with the terminal illness of Ben’s father Sir David Hatch that Ben’s true core shines through without any hint of sentimentality. Hatch writes with such engagement and self-deprecating humility that I was moved to tears.

However the majority of the book has a rich seam of laughter running though it, particularly the observational humour surrounding Phoebe and Charlie which will strike a chord with all parents. I hope that Ben will now return to his work as a novelist as I believe that he has a great comic novel in him. I would wholeheartedly recommend this wonderful book.

Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire

Emily Maguire has a breathless talent and a fascination with the cloying nausea of intoxication. This is a book which forces you to throw back a full tequila shot then immediately demand another two.

I had equal parts of fascination and revulsion for Sarah Clark. Maguire claims that Sarah is profoundly unsure of herself, yet I was profoundly unsure of Sarah as I was forced to witness her spiral into self-degradation. Maguire’s writing is so powerful, so disturbing that I found myself alternating between almost throwing the book across the room and desperately trying to finish it. I can’t remember when a book affected me so violently.

It is not a comfortable read. It is by turns tender then repellent and ferocious. But it is insistent; it demands to be read. Maguire skilfully manipulates your emotions so that you become as confused about Sarah as she is about herself. The pace is relentless, but for me the book became progressively more difficult to read as it became darker, so much so that I began to question why it was that I was so gripped by it.

It can only be testament to Maguire’s abilities as a writer to elicit this compulsion alongside such uncomfortable voyeurism and raw abhorrence.

This is a book that you need to judge for yourself and decide whether it is gratuitously exploitative or searingly honest. Having finished it I still can’t decide, but I know that it will stay with me for a long while to come.

Itch by Simon Mayo

Simon Mayo. You probably know him as a radio DJ and might remember that he took over the flagship Radio One Breakfast Show from Mike Smith back in the 80’s. You might also know him from his great 5Live afternoon show which included his verbal sparring with Mark Kermode debating the relative merits of the latest movies. Perhaps in recent years you’ve heard him as the Drivetime DJ on Radio 2, including the excellent Radio 2 Book Club. Well now he’s written a novel and quite simply it is a revelation.

“Itch” is primarily aimed at the young teen market. Mayo’s hero Itchingham Lofte is a nerdy fourteen year old science geek obsessed with collecting elements from the Periodic Table. Living in Cornwall he yearns to be a cool surfer boy, but can’t learn how to catch a wave. However he does understand Chemistry and discovers what appears to be a completely new element with dramatic consequences, for himself, his cousin Jack and his sister Chloe.

This initially started life as a short story to amuse Mayo’s youngest son before spiralling into a 94,000 word novel. However you wouldn’t know that this was his first foray into fiction as it’s a truly assured debut.

Mayo writes with skill and dexterity and seems to have an innate understanding of pace and plot development. He balances a broad range of characters and does a strong line in baddies without resorting to clumsy stereotypes.

Whilst the novel stands on its own without the need for comparisons it is an interesting exercise to compare it with The Philosopher’s Stone, and for me it holds up pretty well. Rowling has the edge on inventiveness and pure fantasy, but Mayo has some great material up his sleeve, and some of it is very dark material indeed. He has also left sufficient loose ends and unresolved plot strands to ensure an incendiary sequel, which he is already writing.

Whilst his target audience is undeniably the young teen market the plot is sufficiently dark to provide an equal appeal to older audiences. Ultimately it’s a story about great responsibility (hold on…that sounds like a tag-line for the new Avengers movie!).

I would have no hesitation in recommending this marvellous novel, whatever your age.

Between Each Breath by Adam Thorpe

Adam Thorpe’s contemporary novel of romantic deception is well-written and intricately constructed, which will come as no surprise to readers familiar with his other novels. In Jack Middleton he successfully creates a not entirely sympathetic narrator with a number of irritating character flaws, yet Thorpe’s skill is to make him utterly believable.

The unintended consequences of Jack’s transcultural love affair with Kaja, a young Estonian waitress, create a series of ripples across his ordered married life. Thorpe’s characterisations, particularly of his ensemble cast are well-observed. I particularly enjoyed the characters of Milly Du Crane (Jack’s wife) and Howard (Jack’s friend), both of whom have a real depth and vibrancy.

One minor gripe concerns the somewhat oblique prologue which I felt compelled to re-read more than once throughout the novel, trying to decipher the connection. Perhaps that was Thorpe’s intention, but for me it felt less than satisfying, and I normally enjoy time-shifts.

Overall I would recommend this book, and on the strength of it I have now bought “Still” (which looks to be a fairly mammoth undertaking).

Sin by Josephine Hart

I decided to re-read one of my favourite novels, Josephine Hart’s “Sin”. It is an astonishing achievement and is one of the many novels that I really wish I had written. It is short enough to be devoured in a single sitting but like a wonderful meal leaves you hungry for more.

Hart’s writing is a revelation with her short sentences and tautly controlled plot. The story is magnetic and ruthless and will hold you in its thrall until its tragic conclusion.

In Ruth Garton and Charles Harding she depicts the “ordered deceit” of two obsessives and the trail of devastation that their affair leaves in its wake. Ruth is a chilling piece of characterisation as the malevolent psychotic sister to Elizabeth, determined to wreak revenge on her “perfect” sister.

Hart’s prose is hypnotic and powerful. Her addictive recipe uses simple ingredients and combines them into a lethal cocktail, and I find myself totally intoxicated.

The Greatcoat by Helen Dunmore

Dunmore has a fascinating style. She writes quite obliquely and doesn’t over-explain. The reader has to let the story wash over them, confident that the meaning will evolve. It’s an act of faith.

Set in the fifties this is a story of a young woman’s possession by a World War Two airman, although Dunmore doesn’t let her tale take obvious routes or arrive at an expected outcome. Although this is her first published ghost story she has an innate understanding of what the story needs in order to work. She has a poet’s sensibility and her writing has a meticulous structure as the reader begins to question reality and the influence that the past exerts on the present.

Dunmore makes a conscious authorial decision that her protagonist won’t be frightened by the airman, despite his provenance, which doesn’t quite ring true. Her acceptance of him into her life and her bed is the one area that jarred slightly, although this didn’t spoil my enjoyment of the book.

Beautifully constructed and elegantly delivered this short novella will resonate with you long after you close the final pages.

Solid Air: The Life of John Martyn by Chris Nickson

Chris Nickson preaches the gospel of John Martyn and in my case he’s preaching to the converted. His love for the big man is evident and he writes from the heart with a simple, direct and conversational approach. I’m dead envious…this is the book I would love to have written about one of my heroes.

Nickson’s analysis of each track on every album is both insightful and unflinchingly honest; he certainly doesn’t pull his punches when it comes to assessing some of John’s shortcomings, musically or otherwise. But overall I think the Guv’nor would probably have agreed with some of the sentiments (assuming that he had been feeling suitably amenable).

John’s forty-two year recording career spanned sixty-nine albums if you include all of the many compilations and live albums, and his career had more trajectory curves than a test-match bowler. However Nickson manages to get beneath the skin of the man and paint a comprehensive portrait that goes far beyond the usual lazy canon of stories and reminiscences.

I have a couple of other biographies of John (Lee Barry and John Neil Monroe) but I feel that this version is better than either of those because it feels more personal, more heart-felt. However the fact that Nickson seems to love the songs that I do (Just Now, Hurt in your Heart, Spencer the Rover and the obvious Solid Air) probably helps the connection.

In his acknowledgements Nickson says that “this is a book I’d always imagined writing, but I never believed anyone would want to publish”. Well from my perspective this is a book I’d always imagined reading but couldn’t believe anyone would ever write. From the bottom of my heart my thanks go out to Chris Nickson.

Alan Garner's "Elidor"

When I was nine (back in the dim, distant past that we’ll refer to as 1968) I had a teacher called Mrs McEke. She was a strict disciplinarian but she probably needed to be given that her class was full of little oiks from the local council estate (like me!). Mrs McEke used to spend the last half-hour of every school day reading to us. She loved language and was a wonderful orator, bringing the stories to life through the strength of her vocal delivery.

Given that we were only nine she made some fairly ambitious choices; The Hobbit, The War of the Worlds, The Silver Sword, The Railway Children and even John Wyndham’s The Midwich Cuckoos (definitely left-field). However I will always be indebted to her for choosing to read Alan Garner’s Elidor.

Elidor had only been published in 1965, so at that stage it was a fairly contemporary novel. Although Garner was ostensibly writing for children the book had some very adult themes. It was a brave Mrs McEke that tried to illustrate symbolism to a bunch of largely disinterested nine year olds. However she would probably be delighted to learn that some forty-four years on at least one of her pupils still remembers the symbolic importance of the sword, the spear, the stone and the cauldron.

I was completely entranced by the tale of four children and their rusty relics, which opened a gateway to another world. It seemed like a cool and edgy version of “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe” but set in the real world, or at least a world that I could identify with.

We used to have a travelling library van that visited the estate every Monday evening, and I managed to obtain a copy of Elidor and raced through it in advance of Mrs McEke’s reading so that I was always one step ahead of her. Garner’s writing was a revelation to me and he became one of my early heroes as I worked my way through his other books.

Characterisation is not really his strong point as a writer, although his dialogue is an object lesson to any aspiring writer, exploding like little emotional depth charges on the page. As ever with Garner it is the power of myth which is his main fascination.

As an adult I do have a few gripes with the novel which weren’t as apparent to me when I first read it. Overall the tone is cold and distant. There is very little to engage the reader in Elidor’s plight, and therefore very little sense of empathy. The ending seems horribly rushed, almost as if Garner had grown tired of his tale and wanted to finish it up and move on. However these minor gripes aside Elidor will always have a special place in the memories of my childhood.

"Life! Death! Prizes!" by Stephen May

Quite simply this is the best novel I have read over the last year. It almost has a will of its own, an insistency that demands that you keep reading it and will not let you stop until you breathlessly reach the end.

I’ll readily admit that it’s not always an easy journey. It can be raw, ragged and uncomfortable, but it has a tender and compassionate core that ultimately restores your faith in humanity.

In Billy Smith May has created an authentic and utterly believable character, emotionally flawed and occasionally almost psychotic. At the outset Billy is ill-equipped to deal with the care of Oscar, his younger brother, as they both try to come to terms with their Mother’s murder. But Billy knows that Oscar is relying on him and that he needs to shape up, despite the fact that his own life isn’t exactly working out.

May’s observations have the precision of a surgeons scalpel and the cast of characters he has assembled are sharply defined and truthfully rendered.

Many reviewers seem to want to compare May to other writers (Nick Hornby, David Nicholls, Kate Atkinson, Dave Eggers and even J.D. Salinger….and that’s just on the inside cover of the book!). Personally I think he stands on his own as a major talent without the need for lazy comparisons.

I had wondered whether May could write another book which was as strong and self-assured as his debut “TAG”. But this wonderful novel demonstrates that Stephen May is developing into a literary force to be reckoned with.

"Not Funny - Not Clever" by Jo Verity

“Not Funny – Not Clever” is Jo Verity’s fourth published novel and it’s an engaging read. It is essentially a character study where the feelings and emotions of the main protagonists take centre stage, rather than the plot.

It is a fairly straightforward story told as a linear narrative and describing the events of a single week in the life of Elizabeth Giles. This tightly focused timeline gives the book a satisfying structure and Verity’s deft writing allows the storyline to gently develop and gather pace.

Elizabeth has settled into a largely uneventful life. When her husband heads off to France on a cooking course she decides to visit her old school friend Diane in Cardiff. However, just as she is making plans to leave an unexpected problem arrives on her doorstep in the shape of Jordan, the teenage son of her own son’s older lover. She decides to take Jordan to Cardiff with her for the week, setting a train of events in motion which will challenge her perceptions and force her to re-evaluate her life. The catalyst for this re-evaluation is Diane’s neighbour, the charismatic TV weatherman Dafydd Jones. Elizabeth, Diane and Jordan are invited to stay at Dafydd’s parents-in-law’s holiday cottage on the Gower peninsula along with Dafydd and his two teenage daughters. In this idyllic setting Elizabeth is challenged to confront the direction her life has taken.

Jo has a great ear for dialogue and it’s the conversations she constructs for her characters which makes them authentic and convincing. She also does a superb job of balancing the various characters’ back stories with their present actions, teasing out details that provide a depth and a resonance to each of her cast. There are beautifully judged echoes between how the teenagers and the adults react to different circumstances which give the book an edgy realism.

Based in Cardiff, Jo’s books are published by the independent Welsh co-operative publishers Honno. On the strength of this novel I shall definitely be ordering Jo’s other books to add to my “must read soon” pile.

Solid Air - John Martyn

Unique and intoxicating.

John Martyn’s songs are woven into the fabric of my life; no album more so than Solid Air. I was introduced to it back in 1973 when I was fourteen and heavily into Bowie, Pink Floyd and Yes. But Martyn’s music was like nothing I had ever heard before. It had a raw intensity and an emotional core running right through it. I was hooked.

He was a gifted guitarist, with a delicate touch and a sparseness that tricked you into believing that he wasn’t doing very much. He used his voice as if it were another instrument, with slurred indistinct lyrics where the feelings and emotions seemed more important than the actual words he was singing. I simply got it. It connected. It spoke to me.

Over the years I continued to buy virtually every album that he ever released, but it was always Solid Air that I would go back to, time after time; my late-night album of choice.

Even after thirty-nine years of repeated listening the title track can still make me cry if I’m in the right frame of mind. But it’s an album full of other little gems like “Over the Hill”, “Go Down Easy” and “Man in the Station”. It also has John’s “signature” composition, the wonderful “May You Never” which he performed acoustically on The Old Grey Whistle Test, and was what prompted me to buy the album in the first place. But for me none of these surpass the sublime title track.

The Moment DT’s bass and those vibes kick in I’m back in 1973 at the age of fourteen, where everything is possible, and the future stretches out in front of you full of limitless possibilities. It also, even after all these years, makes me feel stoned just listening to it.

I guess that’s what great music does for you.

John’s death affected me greatly. It was no real surprise; he’d lived on the edge for so long that sooner or later he was bound to slip off. His self-destructive path finally led to a point where his luck ran out. But it was a genuine sense of loss, almost as if I’d lost a part of my personal history.

I was fortunate enough to see John live on dozens and dozens of occasions. The first time I saw him was in the mid-seventies about the time of One World. My first proper date with my wife was to see him at the Town and Country Club in Kentish Town back in 1986. With an amazing symmetry the last time I saw him was twenty-two years later when I took our then eighteen-year-old son to see him perform the “Grace and Danger” album at The Barbican in November 2008. By January 2009 he had gone.

He leaves a legacy of stunning music, and Solid Air remains one of his finest hours.

Uncoupled by Lizzie Enfield

“Uncoupled” is Lizzie Enfield’s second published novel and it demonstrates that she is a gifted author who fully deserves the rich praise she has been receiving. This is a much more accomplished novel than “What You Don’t Know”, which in itself was a superb debut. However the overall feeling here is of a novelist really hitting her stride and finding her voice.

The characterisations are beautifully judged, with sufficient depth to make the reader really care about their story and their lives. The main protagonist Holly survives a serious train crash where she is helped by a stranger, Daniel, a fellow commuter who stays with her until the emergency services arrive. When they meet again some weeks later on their regular commute up to London a friendship begins to develop, despite the fact that they are both already committed to other relationships. Holly’s husband Mark runs a struggling PR company, whilst Daniel’s partner Daisy is a fitness instructor. Gradually the four lives begin to intertwine, along with the mysterious Anne-Marie, who claims to be a survivor from the same rail crash.

Enfield successfully juggles these five main characters alongside a larger ensemble cast, primarily Holly’s work colleagues whose love lives provide a contrasting echo to the confusion that Holly begins to experience. She uses this wider cast of characters for some excellent observational humour which balances the book’s slightly darker tone.

Her writing style reminds me a little of early Joanna Trollope [particularly the period of “A Village Affair” and “A Spanish Lover”] especially in her deft handling of the fragility and the emotional entanglements of relationships. That comparison aside Lizzie Enfield deserves to be judged in her own right, and I am convinced that she will go on to produce a body of work that will be enjoyed by a host of admiring readers.

I would thoroughly recommend this immensely satisfying novel.

High Fidelity

Over the years I have bought about half a dozen copies of “High Fidelity” and given them all away to friends with the exhortation to “…read this, it’s just wonderful”! Sadly none of my friends ever seem to find the same sense of unadulterated joy in Hornby’s prose as I do.

My current copy came from a charity shop and has a small sticker on the back saying “50p – Good”, obviously intended as a comment on the physical condition of the book, but which I mistakenly took to be a critical review. I still recall my embarrassment on marching to the desk demanding to know why it didn’t say “excellent”!

The blurb inside the front cover starts with a quote from the Guardian: “The most frequent response to High Fidelity is ‘Oh God, I know people just like that’…” Well it’s true; I do – me. Whenever I re-read the novel, which has been every couple of years, I find myself wincing with painful self-recognition. Right down to the obsessive list making (each new diary of mine used to start with a list of my top ten albums, novels and movies so that I could compare the lists back to previous years).

Hornby is such an astute writer, with a real gift for comedy. If you regard “Fever Pitch” as a memoir then amazingly “High Fidelity” is his debut novel and it is astonishing. I know all the jokes yet still find myself reading with an inane grin on my face, when I’m not laughing uncontrollably – not a book to read on a quiet train. In Rob Fleming he has created a totally believable and fatally flawed human being, and I still find myself rooting for him from the bottom of my heart.

Hornby’s authorial voice is conversational with an immediacy that makes you feel as though he had written a confessional just for you alone. His dialogue is an object lesson in authenticity for any aspiring writer; effortlessly fluent and compulsively readable. It certainly makes its way into my list of my top five favourite novels, year on year.

Equinox

Rain in rivulets

runs trickling down windows.

Opaque images of trees,

violent against the pale skyline,

fight through the gloom

and cast shifting shadows

over the seated figure.

The boy gazes, silent,

lost in another world.

He watches the rain

jagged line of pines beyond

but they do not register.

He sees only the window

and you.

You waved at him

through that very window

then returned to your own life.

He wishes you were back,

rain dripping on the porch.

Deceptions by Rebecca Frayn

Rebecca Frayn’s second novel is elegantly written with a compelling and convincing plot which demonstrates one of her key skills as a writer.

She chooses to narrate the story as a male character, Julian Poulter; slightly detached, emotionally ambivalent and yet utterly believable. Julian’s profession as an art valuer, trying to spot fraudulent copies and fakes, creates a deft sub-text to the central premise of the book, alongside his own agendas and self-deceptions. The unreliability of his narration creates an interesting distance between the events and the reader, prompting you to question his motives and the truth beneath his blinkered perspective. There is also a fascinating echo to Annie’s self-deceptions as she tries to deal with the disappearance of her son. I was interested to learn that Frayn’s working title for the piece was “The Art of Self-Deception” which works effectively on a number of different levels.

With a limited cast of four main characters and a few minor ones I was fascinated by the authentic depth that Frayn is able to give to Annie and Julian, particularly through her use of dialogue which is beautifully judged and weighted throughout.

Frayn was inspired to write the book after reading an article by Nick Davies in The Guardian which described the true story that lies behind her tale. I understand that it took her nearly three years to write the piece, with numerous drafts and re-writes as she grappled to nail her story.

Frayn has described the writing of the novel as fulfilling “a kind of obsessive-compulsive disorder, a compulsion that wasn’t sated until the final proof copy went off (to) the printers”. I have to say that reading the novel elicited a similar compulsion, holding me in its thrall until I finished the book in the early hours of the morning. I would recommend that you do likewise.

Martin Turner's Wishbone Ash

I went to see Martin Turner’s Wishbone Ash last night at The Boom Boom Club in Sutton, a great little venue run by a wonderful promoter called Pete Feenstra. I’ve been to see Martin and the boys about three times a year in various venues since Mart decided to tour again back in 2005.

As ever the band were superb and played a great set including a host of old Wishbone classics. Astonishingly it’s forty years since the release of “Pilgrimage” and the guys played The Pilgrim last night as an acknowledgement. They still play a good selection of tracks from “Argus” including Sometime World, The Warrior, Blowing Free and my personal favourite Throw Down the Sword. Great additions to the set last night were Lady Jay from There’s The Rub and Front Page News from the 1977 album of the same name.

Ray Hatfield and Danny Wilson do a fantastic job on the twin lead parts, and their understanding is almost telepathic. It may seem almost sacrilegious to say it but I think they are nearly as good as Andy Powell and Ted Turner, although Andy and Ted actually wrote the parts, which probably gives them the edge. Martin’s voice still sounds great and his bass playing is awesome, particularly on FUBB, Persephone and Living Proof. Given that he’s 66 now his energy is an inspiration. I had a tear in my eye and a lump in my throat during Persephone, which I still think is one of Martin’s best and most ambiguous lyrics.

It was great to chat with Martin after the show and he autographed the cover of my old vinyl copy of the first album from back in 1970….one that will never find its way onto eBay!

They are playing at the Central Theatre in Chatham in a fortnight’s time with Curved Air as support with Sonja Kristina, which should be good. I’ll be there again, smiling broadly, and re-living my teenage years. Who says nostalgia is old hat?

Truly remarkable

I thought I would re-read “if nobody speaks of remarkable things” as it had been a few years since I last read it. I remember being very impressed by Jon McGregor when I initially read the book (I was going through a phase of reading debut novels at the time).

McGregor’s writing style is poetic; beautifully and meticulously structured. The story of a single day slowly unfolds through a series of little vignettes that slowly connect together, like projections on gauze. The narrative develops like a series of Polaroid snapshots, each slowly becoming clear to the reader, as you piece together the events of a seemingly unremarkable day. The multiple narration where the same event is seen through the filter of different eyes creates a series of repeating echoes with a cinematic sweep of motifs and images.

The tone is carefully measured throughout, and McGregor deliberately chooses to avoid inverted commas for speech marks. In fact he seems to have a bit of an aversion towards punctuation generally.

The structure interweaves the main first person unnamed narrator in the present (a girl facing her own personal crisis) back to the events of this specific Sunday. Each character is described rather than being given a name which creates a deliberate sense of detachment and anonymity, and forces the reader to really concentrate to remember who’s who, which is quite a clever ploy.

Some reviewers have criticised the resultant sense of emotional detachment, but this seems to rather miss the point. I found the book completely mesmeric and entrancing. I am certain I’ll be re-reading it again. As a piece of writing I think it’s a truly remarkable achievement.

Ten novels I wish I'd written.

As an idle diversion I’ve listed ten novels that I wish I’d written (not quite the same as my ten favourite novels although some of these titles would make both lists!). So in no particular order: -

• Damage – Josephine Hart.
• The Magus – John Fowles.
• The Owl Service – Alan Garner.
• The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald
• High Fidelity - Nick Hornby.
• TAG – Stephen May.
• if nobody speaks of remarkable things – Jon McGregor.
• Sin – Josephine Hart.
• The Bridges of Madison County – Robert James Waller.
• To Kill a Mockingbird – Harper Lee.

Now I fully appreciate that it’s an eclectic list, but these things often turn out that way. Equally I’ve probably got twenty other titles that could be on there (Twelve, The Crow Road, Red Dragon, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, etc., etc.).

So what links this bizarre and random collection of novels? Well I suppose the common thread is that they all made a connection with me, and I was blown away by the breadth of their invention, the strength of their ideas and the sheer brilliance of their writing.

So there’s an aspirational group of novels to read again!

The Language of Art - Olafur Eliasson at the Tate

I went to an Art lecture on Saturday at the Tate Modern. It was a discussion in their Topology series entitled “Spaces of Transformation – Continuity / Infinity”, featuring inspirational Danish / Icelandic artist Olafur Eliasson who is fascinated by the nature of spatial perception. He was sharing a platform with Bruno Latour, the French sociologist of science and theoretical anthropologist alongside Peter Weibel, the German mathematical theoretician and artist.

I’ve always liked Eliasson’s work, particularly “Your Blind Passenger”, which was at the Arken Museum of Modern Art in Denmark when we visited last year. (Check it out on: - www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhQqtNUIlTY )

I spent a large proportion of the afternoon feeling intellectually inadequate. Eliasson was as erudite and entertaining as ever, Latour was dryly sardonic and quick-witted, but Weibel’s English was unfortunately completely impenetrable. At times it felt as if I was being given an introduction to Alzheimer’s; total incomprehensible confusion punctuated by occasional moments of brief lucidity.

The problem I had with the discussion was that the language seemed almost deliberately obtuse, with far too many concepts for my simple brain to grasp. As I looked around the lecture theatre I wondered just how many of the audience were keeping up, or whether they were all as confused as me. However the afternoon did perfectly illustrate a simple truth for me; don’t use forty words when ten will adequately suffice. It reinforced the feeling that brevity and sparseness are the elements that I most admire in writing (see Josephine Hart), and that’s what I should aspire to achieve.

Stephen May's TAG

Stephen May. Remember the name. You will certainly hear it again.

There is quite a thrill in finding a new writer that you admire (tinged with just a hint of mild envy). TAG is May’s debut novel, and quite simply it is stunning.

I’ll freely admit, with a hint of shame, that I had some trepidation about reading a novel where the main protagonist was called Mistyann. Now I can happily sneer at my misguided prejudice. Mistyann is a wonderful piece of characterisation.

TAG [acronym for Talented and Gifted] tells the story of fifteen year old Mistyann Rutherford, a troubled, unpredictable, foul-mouthed yet gifted child who is selected to attend a residential course for teen prodigies in mid-Wales. She is accompanied for the week by her acerbic forty-something teacher Jon Diamond, a frustrated musician and dried-out alcoholic. In the confined setting of the residential course their lives both unravel through a series of unfortunate events which are in turn both comedic and emotionally-charged.

May eschews a linear narrative, and structures his book with deft precision through a series of careful time shifts. He alternates the first person narration between the two main characters, creating utterly believable voices for each of them. He also makes clever use of second person narration with JD effectively addressing Mistyann as if writing her a confessional letter. I’m certain that much of the author’s own voice is used for the character of JD, but his real skill is in creating such a rich and authentic voice for the moody and belligerent Mistyann. However May’s palette is wider still and even his minor characters crackle with life and realism. By getting under their skins he has an uncanny knack of making you care about his characters and their back stories. He creates a strong ensemble cast and uses them to good effect.

Mistyann’s dysfunctional extended family is a good case in point, where May sketches out a believable mother, with her various partners and children without resorting to particularly obvious stereotypes.

May’s experiences on Arvon courses have obviously underpinned many of his descriptions of the TAG Residential Course, although I suspect his teaching style may be slightly more orthodox than the American educational psychologist of his novel. I’m quite surprised that he managed to get the Cinnamon Press, (a Welsh independent publishing house) to publish a book which both mocks and ridicules the Welsh at times, so full marks to them for a self-referential sense of humour.

In TAG May bravely tackles a number of difficult subjects, confronting taboos and challenging prejudices. He leaves me convinced that he is a writer to watch out for, and I look forward to his second novel ("Life, Death, Prizes") with keen anticipation.

The Small Hand

Having recently re-read The Woman in Black I decided to read Susan Hill’s most recent ghost story “The Small Hand”. I wanted to try and review it without giving the ending away as I felt that this would spoil a truly wonderful piece of traditional storytelling.

Hill’s gentle nod to M R James is not just in the structure of this slight tale, but also in the emotionally barren life of her central protagonist, who is a dealer in antiquarian books.

The plot structure is straightforward and uncomplicated. Adam Snow takes a wrong turn down an overgrown country lane and discovers a derelict Edwardian country house which seems to draw him into its abandoned garden. As he explores he experiences the strange sensation of a small child’s hand creeping into his own. This sets off a train of events which becomes progressively more sinister and malign, prompting Adam to experience debilitating panic attacks and nightmares as he tries to unravel the secret of this small hand.

 

Hill’s skill as a writer is to create ambiguous space between her sparse lines, almost as if constructing a poem. She has an unrivalled ability to make your nerve ends tingle with her precise and carefully structured prose. Her contemporary tale distils the essence of a ghost story, distorting the reader’s perceptions like shifting reflections in a pool, which seems an entirely appropriate image.

The Woman in Black

As a precursor to going to the cinema to see Daniel Radcliffe’s “Woman in Black” I decided to re-read Susan Hill’s original novella, particularly as I understand that Jane Goldman has taken a number of liberties with the source material in her screenplay.

Hill’s prose is astonishing; beautifully crafted to recreate an authentic Edwardian voice, reminiscent of M. R. James. In fact in a nod to the master Hill even titles one chapter “Whistle and I’ll come to you”. I was fascinated by the way she deftly handles time within the narrative. The opening chapter alone has six time shifts, from the present to the near past, to the far past and back, yet seamlessly interwoven into a deft linear tapestry.

The storyline is deceptively simple, yet the overall tone that she creates reminds me greatly of Jack Clayton’s 1961 film “The Innocents” (based on Henry James’ “The Turn of the Screw”). That was a movie which provided a host of nightmares for me as a youngster, with a saturated Miss Jessop standing amongst the reeds in the lake. That powerful image kept surfacing as I rattled my way through Susan Hill’s dexterous prose, which creates a wonderfully chilling sense of unease. The sense of speed that she gives the climatic last two pages of the book is an object lesson to any aspiring writer, with a truly satisfying final line: -

“They asked for my story. I have told it. Enough.”