Book Review: Disgrace by J M Coetzee

J M Coetzee's 1999 Booker-winning novel about the often brutal life in South Africa is deservedly one of the major influences on his endowment of the Nobel prize. The story takes place in Cape Town and on the Eastern Cape and revolves around a university professor his later-life sexual encounters and the grissly side of African life. But it is also a message about the sociohistorical legacy of European settlement and it's fallout. Delicately written with many levels and intricacies, this is one of the best novels I have read for a long time. A detailed and wonderfully designed piece of work, describing the brutality of African settlement with the most brutal aspects of the European legacy. An excellent read.

Book Review: John Steinbeck: The Red Pony

The Red Pony is a novella broken down into four episodes outlining the maturing of a young adolescent boy. The stories all take place on the ranch belonging to the child's father. Each episode presents the child with a challenge, be it phyiscal or emotional. And with each challenge the child adjusts and responds in an independent manner and not just in reflection of his father. It's a delicately written story, with not much in the way of detail, rather it is a story with a moral. Within the space of a hundred pages we see the young child develop into a young man. An interesting read with some rarely examined growing pains. Beautifully written in Steinbeck's inimmitable prose and a stark outline of the hardships of growing up in a young California.

Book Review: Jonathan Barnes: The Somnambulist

I'm not entirely sure what drew me to this book or even if I'd heard of it before I bought it, but I'm sure it was probably the cover and the title. And the cover reeked of Victoriana - it was in the guise of a poster for a magic show and outlined how bereft of literary merit the book was. It was a promising start.

Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is an outstanding book, it's a tome, a work of epic proportions delicately planned and intricately detailed. Anything set in Victorian times will remind me vaguely of that. That and Mr Dickens. The somnambulist had a lot to live upto, and Jonathan Barnes, a first-class honours student from Cambridge in English Literature makes a good attempt.

The book has all that you would expect of this genre, interesting characters and scenarios, the dark, grimness of 19th Century London, unsavoury characters and a perpetual influx of beautifully crafted sentences. But it never really quite makes it. The characters are intentionally unlikeable, written with bizarre physical characteristics and odd penchants. And though interesting and varied, I just don't like them, and don't really care if they win or lose. Another obvious comparison would be with Sherlock Holmes who on occasion was an absolute bugger to Watson, but I still liked him, and I liked Watson, and there was always that element of respect to be garnered. The Somnambulist himself is somewhat of an enigma, but also an entirely unnecessary addition, he plays no significant part specific to his character traits and certainly is not the worthy eponym of the novel. Looking from the character arc angle, most are colourful but irrelevant, interesting but fleeting, perhaps needfully so and I do welcome the variety, but I feel that perhaps these could have been fleshed out a little and perhaps had a longer, more useful part in the novel rather than just a series of brief appearences; often they had the air of a new idea that just had to be added to the manuscript, as though the novel grew organically without much redrafting.

Onto the plot. I like the plot, but that is again because of the variety and colour that Barnes has painted it with. There so much to keep you interested. But events and the characters therein are tenuously related, there are a number of loose threads and dead ends that really could've been tied up. The mystery element to the story were never fully realised because the plot moved at such a pace that it never seems to give you that moment to think "what's going on?" or "ahh, that explains that." There were very few mysteries in the first chapters that were tied up in the later chapters and so on. There were some interesting twists, but these were primarily a post-modern angle wherein one was reminded of the fact that this was a story and a patchwork of ideas.

To summarise, I think Mr Barnes is an exceptional wordsmith. His vocabulary is better than most writers and he can build such vivid imagery that I've rarely seen elsewhere. The imaginative aspects of the book are excellent and had this been a 600-page epic I think it would've been a masterpiece. I'd like to draw a comparison to a Victorian freakshow, as that's what this book reminded me off, somewhat fantastical but segmented and non-contiguous, jumping from one colourful scene to the next without that current underlying it; a series of junkie highs. I had the same problem with the recent Danny Boyle film, Slumdog Millionaire, it was an excellent film with a great story but was poorly bound together and paced like a set of long steps puncuated by bland flat landings. I liked The Somnambulist, I found it very readable and enjoyable and criticise it only because there is so much potential. Jonathan Barnes will, I'm sure, mature into an exceptional writer and I will watch his career closely.

Koontz, Dean: Forever Odd

[Spoilers]

Having spent more time in the King camp than the Koontz camp, and with only Watchers on audio book for comparison, I approached Forever Odd with an open mind. The book opens with a series of rolling chapters and interesting asides. As a sequel to Odd Thomas, I expected to have to invest some time in assumptions, but Koontz successfully enlightens the uninitiated into the back story very neatly. I cannot compare this to the sequel nor the recently published Brother Odd, but Forever Odd does, to a large extent, stand up as a novel in its own right.

However - and this is a wholesome however - the book does not stand up as a worthwhile investment of time. The first few chapters reminded me of an M. Night Shyamalan conglomeration, with the protagonist having the ability to 'see dead people' and a good friend with a similar bone condition to Unbreakable's Elijah Price. After a brief snort of disdain, I continued unabated expecting a story as strong and gripping as Watchers. As I got past the first few chapters though the story really started to deteriorate, with uninteresting secondary characters, unconvincing villains and a bleak plot.

To describe the plot would take only a couple of sentences, and, although a complex plot is by no means a prerequsite to a good novel, there does have to be some substance to grip onto in its abscence. All there is is an unlikely setting and a series of coincidences, which Koontz reinforces with detail that seems to be present merely to plug flaws rather than to direct the action.

There's an element of adolescent fantasy to the female antagonist, Datura, which, more than anything, is amateurish and unnecessary. Her power seems to be sourced from her sexuality, which is not only cliche but also a little insulting. Those who stand in Odd's way are defeated with remarkable ease, none more so than Datura, whose death by mountain lion is not only random but also a severe cop-out, feeling like Koontz suffered writer's block and was saved by The Writer's Guide to Death Scenes

The book ends with such a bizarre twist that seems to be present simply as a link to the subsequent Brother Odd. Overall, I was disappointed and even considered putting the book down with only ten pages to go. Compared to Watchers, Forever Odd read like a debut. Hopefully, Koontz's reputation will keep him afloat, but this series is not his strongest work.

Card, Orson Scott: Capitol

Published in 1978*, Orson Scott Card's debut novel hits the ground running. Like the galaxy the book describes, this is the humble, but brilliant foundation, of one of the science fiction's leading authors. Science fiction has always had a relatively bad reputation with the general public. Few books make it into the literary halls of fame, and even fewer will, as things stand, make it to the list of eternal classics. However, there remains a collective bouyant with the beauty found in science fiction. And thankfully, this keeps the genre alive.

Capitol starts with a foreword from the author directing the reader in how the book should be approached (basically from page one until the end!). After reading the book, however, I realise how important this is. The novel is a collection of interrelated stories operating in the same 'empire/galaxy'. To group stories just by the mere fact that they operate within the same galaxy may seem presumptuous, but the essential fact is that society in this book is described with an appendage that makes all the stories distinct from anything else - immortality.

Many books have been written about immortality and its side-effects, but OSC explores a number of different perspectives. Somec, the sleep-inducing drug that allows people to be 'alive' only for a few months in every few years, allows people to stretch their lifespans to the fullest. Not immortality, as such, but as near as is required to get the point across. Somec is not available to everyone and this is a salient point in every story.

The book is laid out almost like a manual to immortality, each short story illustrates a pertinent side-effect of immortality. This is not to say that the progression of the book is linear, indeed quite the opposite, we see a gradiated rise and fall of the empire akin to the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire in 300-odd pages (anyone who has read the book may find a note of irony in that sentence!). The stories are bold and quickly lay the groundwork for the involving episodes that unfurl. There are no complex plot points, but plenty of places to stop, look away from the page and think. We get glimpses into the mythology, ecology, astronomy, history and politics of the empire revolving around Capitol, without getting bogged down. In the liberal vein of much of science ficiton, pheonomena such a telepathy and strange beasts are introduced without the hinderance associated with most other genres, and all play a central role in illustrating their individual story. Too frequently are such concepts bandied around in Science Fiction and Fantasy in the oft fruitless attempt at making stories more colourful. OSC, however, uses them in the most commendable fashion; as metaphor for abstract social and psychological concepts.

The stories are excellent. They could exist by themselves, but holistically they make up a body of work that gives the feeling that a whole galaxy of muses could have been appended. The first and last stories stand out as the important ones, foundations to the others. There's an Orwellian gloom to the work, in particular the story entitled A Thousand Deaths, which gives the story even more credibility and shows the depth of knowledge and understanding that OSC has. I read the book faster than most books, not because I wanted to turn the page to continue the story, rather I wanted to peel back another layer from Capitol. Steeped with philosophy, Capitol allows us to step back and examine life and humanity from a different viewpoint, but a viewpoint that nonetheless looks at us. Nobody will ever compare this book to the great philosophers of the 21st Century, but it is just as valuable.


*from hatrack.com, OSC's official site, only my copy states 1979. But who's arguing!

Steinbeck, John: Cannery Row

What a delight to return to Steinbeck's California, and where better than the warm, but ultimately wizzened Monterey. Cannery row is a story about a place and life therein, a place not necessarily like home, but with a familiar intimacy nontheless.

At the Western frontier of the world, in one of the gloomier sectors of America's history, is Cannery Row. No imagery can do better justice to Cannery Row than Steinbeck's own tidepool analogue. It is a tightly-packed microcosm of symbiotic relationships, where each character is as distinct as the lifeforms that populate a tidepool. Each with average characteristics, mundane outlooks and flatlined prospects. But alongside the darkness and solitude, lives beauty, life and balance. The story is about that equilibirum that keeps the community anchored and the inter-dependencies between the struggling creatures that populate the Row. How they rely on one another for life outside existence. Mack and the boys, with their bare-bones lifestyle, stripped of complexities, luxuries and constrictions, Doc with his fine-tuned life-in-statis, and the girls at the whore house with their patchwork quilt. Each esentially lacking the basic glue that binds mankind in intimate relationships, instead binding themselves to the community. Economy figures highly in the daily events, but is carefully tamed and controlled. Simplicity, the very essence of Cannery Row, dictates one input and one output. Shopping away from Lee's store (a wonder in itself, stocking all a Cannery Row inhabitant could desire) is as unfamiliar and undesirable as working in the Canneries. Instead the inhabitants rely on the tidepools.

Perhaps my favourite concept in Cannery Row is the inclusion of a series of interchapters; tiny stories lived in Cannery Row, inconsequential to the plot. These wonderful little sculptures, just momentarily, give you time to blink and see the tidepool from a different perspective. The most significant of these is the story of the gopher, and his doomed paradise - a stark outline of reality against fantasy which stimulates an empathy localised to Steinbeck's tales. The bleak acceptance that the characters have of life within their own world is quite typical of Steinbeck's work; the paralysis of the American Dream; a time when dreams had lost their currency. Though the depression was only transient, it lasted long enough that people had to build a life within it. Perhaps Cannery row is America through a macro lens. A simple story with isolated, grayscale characters brought into technicolor by basic human emotion, resulting in an blurred montage of stunted ideology. Community is a sense quite frequently alien today, perhaps due to a requirement for it that is equally diminished. Steinbeck captures a nook of history and community and lets us wade in it, just for a while. Then we slip off our waders and forget the uneventful, inconsequential life that was Cannery Row as the high tide comes and sweeps it away.

Scott Card, Orson: The Grinning Man

This is why I read Sci-Fi. If someone asked me to define what appeals to me about Sci-Fi, I would read them this short story. It is great. I read it in the Robert Silverberg editied collection Legends (Silverberg, King, Brooks and other feature in this outstanding book). The mini-narrative is a side-line (like a lot of these types of stories) from Orson Scott Card's Alvin Maker series, and is a wonderfully warm anecdote. The characters are joyful and funny without spoiling into silliness, the scenes are believable and the story is sugar-coated with imagination. This is story telling in the vein of the brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen. Perhaps it won't e remembered, but it should - it's a warm cup of tea on a cold winter's morning. It would only take an hour to read, so find this book and read it - rarely have I spent such a fulfilling hour in the world of commas and full-stops.

King, Stephen: Dreamcatcher

We were holidaying in beautiful New England. It was fall, the leaves had just started to rust, and the wind of the Atlantic started to chill. Clear, blue skies covered Acadia National Park and the Green Mountains were lush. Everywhere was beautiful... except, in the world of Stephen King. In his New England aliens had invaded and disease was preparing to spread through the Maine counrtyside like a forest fire. We passed a number of the places that I was reading about, which was interesting and gave a snug a feel to the story, like when the winter comes and the open fire is sparked up for the first time since Spring. But what of the story?

Well, Mr King is varied in his writing. I have always thought that. He has a noticeable style, one that's consistent, witty, interesting and colourful. Each sentence flowers, intertwining history, current events, philosophy and emotion. You find out interesting little facts and explore the local towns and countryside. It's always good entertainment, it's always fun.

Dreamcatcher is a hybrid of SciFi and horror; aliens harboring fatal diseases, crashed spaceships and long, slimey worm-like creatures known, peotically, as Shitweasels. The story has all the props, but with an added Stevey-Bonus - Four childhood friends, reunited and reliving the events that brought them close as Primary school kids. Like IT years before, it has the seeds for a wonderful creation.

But I didn't much care for it. Like IT, the plot starts of thoroughly introducing us to the characters, describing their varied upbringings and their more varied adult lives. Up North, strange things are happening, we are drawn into the plot. The winter scenery is described with a clarity as crisp as the snow, and the isolation from the outside world sounds more like Vladivostok than Northern Maine. There's a wonderful scene, possibly one of King's greatest, where the woodland creatures are all fleeing, the wolf and the rabbit, the deer and the bear, and none of them paying attention to what would normally be their prey or predator. The horror is rife, as always, King takes the Western World's fashionable fears, chops and dices them and sprinkles them between the lines - in this case, at the beginning of the 21st century, Cancer. But, sadly, as with a few of King's books, the plot looses momentum and withers away to a few fast-paced threads without much reader-relation, and ultimately the Humvee speeding down route one doesn't synchronise with my slowing pulse. I feel a little disappointed; the time I've invested in getting to know these characters all seems a little wasted. Then I take a look at the book I'm reading, it's horror, from the man who defines the genre. So why am I looking for emotion? Perhaps it's me, I think; I like to relate to the characters. But no, I feel let down because I know what Stephen King can deliver, he gave us the Shawshank Redemption, the Body (stand by me) and numerous others. He brought in all the props, and a great plot, but like the Shitweasels, they never really got anywhere.

Platt, Charles: The Silicon Man

It was in the bargain bin at a local bookshop, it looked a bit SciFi and a bit Cyberpunk, the blurb was interesting and it had a shiny cover. So I bought it. I didn't really expect I would read it, but I took it on holiday with me to Egypt, just in case.

The book was appealing from the off. Themed in Cyber culture, with Techie characters and a Californian backdrop. The story revolves around the upload of a personality into a computer, the personality is then dropped into various environments and scenarios. It was an interesting concept, one which has been jostled with since artificial intelligence was first concieved. The narrative, though not of a high standard, was interesting, and built the tension throughout. Essentially a tradgedy, the plot takes a couple of shallow bends and though I never felt I liked the characters, I did feel for their peril. There was nothing strikingly original or intriguing about the book, it was just nice to read. I find very few books I read are page-turners, though I think this may be due to my slow pace of reading, but this was one of those rare occasions. It conjoured up images from 'The Matrix'; contact to the real world via telephone, big empty environments and a few others, and the book was written a few years before the film.

Overall, it was enjoyable. The plot never really went into much depth, and it did seem a little weak. But it was quite a chilling rendition of a future that becomes more feasible by the day.

Herbert, James: Others

Thanks to Mr King and teenage years smirking over hours of low-budget horror movies, I liked the horror genre, so decided I'd venture into the world of British author James Herbert. The first few pages set an interesting scene, a little dark, a little creepy. But as I started to unravel the lead character, I started to get a little unnerved. The lead is horribly disfigured, and as this is written in the first-person, it left me with a ill-feeling. I felt a little shallow at this, but put the book down, and never picked it back up.

Dickens, Charles: Hard Times

Except maybe Shakespeare, is there an author more famous than Dickens? How many other authors have been immortalised through the adjectivisation* of their name? I think that really must be the definition of fame and celebrity; the adjectivisation of one's name; Marxism, Newtonian, Cartesian, Leninism, Dickensian. Kafka almost gets there, with Kafka-esque, and a number of philosophers and sociologists do, but few storytellers (Clancian, Grishamian? Come on!).

Hard times is set in an imaginary industrial, British any-town. Like many of Dickens' books, it focusses less on the elite, and more on the lower-classes, I'm sure this must be a reason for its popularity. It observes the discourse and interactions that emerge from circumstance. Hard times is not richly plotted nor overly complex, it is a linear plot but crafted with such care that each paragraph is like a poem in itself. The characters are rich, realistic and individual with such traits as to make them believable. There exist three environments in literature, the now, the then and the alternative. The then, or the historic, is rendered with such detail and accuracy that you really feel like you are observing these places and people rather than a pithy echo.

I feel it is often easier to empathise with those whose plight is more desperate which often amounts to those down on their luck. In turn, it is frequently the case that 'down on their luck' is synonymous with having little money. This is part of Dickens' magic, he gets to the raw nerve, talks to you on a one-to-one basis. Him and I understand the same things, that's what I like. Perhaps this is why people often compare Dickens to King, though this may be doing Dickens a disservice (Steinbeck would fit the bill better in my opinion), it is clear how the comparison is made.

I think in the future when reviewing Dickens' books I will have to start on the basis of the plot, much like comparing King's books, the style should be taken for granted. In that case by self-comparison, this is not one of Dickens's greatest, the plot is not outstanding, the characters only marginally memorable. But, still a classic book.


*I don't think this is a word, but the English language is not that prescriptive!

King, Stephen: The Gunslinger (Dark Tower I)

The Gunslinger is the introduction to King's epic seven-volume Dark Tower series. Spanning almost three decades, the whole series is a serious investment. When I picked up the Gunslinger, book number five (Wolves of the Calla) was just in publication, or thereabouts. There was considerable hype around the series. I wanted to know what the fuss was all about.

The Gunslinger operates in a skewed alternative-world. Writing this review almost four years after reading the book, I remember very little. This is odd, but I think in part due to the sparsity of the novel. King's vision evidently stretches well beyond the boundaries of this short story, which cannot be considered outside the series. The Gunslinger relies very much on being part of a series, it is not a novel or novella, it does not set a solid foundation for the series, rather it is very much like the first chapter of a book; an introduction I guess. But it is intriguing, I am told by Dark Tower experts that there are numerous references to other books, mainly the Stand, but also the Talisman and Black House, and a number of others (referencing like that is something I really do like). The Gunslinger reminded me very much of David Lynch films; quite odd and absurd and it had my curiosity held. Now, I don't like series, I like to get to the end - I watched the first five series of Sopranos and got annoyed when I found out there was more! I never got round to reading book two - The Drawing of the Three. But since the series has been completed I have bought collectable copies of all seven books. The illustrations, varying throughout the series and including Darrel Anderson and Michael Whelan, are really unbelievable and draw me deeply into the series - it is something I just have to read, a world I have to experience. But the investment in time is huge, and I have to think about this!

The Gunslinger gives a taste of the world dominated by the Dark Tower. At this point, I cannot imagine where the plot will go or how the Gunslinger fits into the story - in fact, all I know is that I long to read it. And I'm sure I will start with the Gunslinger once again. I have the feeling that this is the type of story I will like - something which I imagine I will need to share. I just pray there is some poignancy therein; I mean there has to be - such an epic - would it be a waste to just tell a story?!*

*I will answer this when I come back, I'm inclined to think that it will not be a waste - stories are beautiful thinks, our ability to tell them defines us as human beings!

Attenborough, David: The Life of Mammals

The Life of Mammals, as a title, does not evoke the same dry, scientific, taxonomic, encyclopaedic impression as most other natural history books. Neither does the content. This is a beuatifully produced book rich in colourful illustrations and text. Sir David (I have no problem calling him by his appointed title!), as always, presents the subject of natural life with an enthusiasm and style that highlights what beauty and intrigue exists in nature. He avoids the human problems that plague the subject (environmental damage, evolution etc.), instead choosing to offer the reader an insight into a world so rarely viewed.

Each chapter refers to the corresponding TV episode and Attenborough selects the most unusual and intriguing behaviours and nuances each particular species exhibits. The colour photographs compliment the text well. Often I found myself reading about a certain mammal, visualising the particular focal point (e.g. catching prey) only to be presented with a wonderful image on the following page! A highly recommended read and another achievement for Sir David!

King, Stephen: The Stand (unabridged)

The Stand is King's first epic (the other being the Dark Tower series). Originally published in 1978, some 400 pages were removed as Doubleday were dubious about publishing such a lengthy book. However, in 1990 they chose to republish an unabridged edition (1400 pages if I recall correctly). Quite a smart move on Doubleday's part in the long run - most long-term fans have a copy of both!

Anyway, onto the book. As usual King introduces each character with such a depth of backstory that you would swear that you could easily bump into Stuart Redman at a gas station in the Deep South. The difference with this book is King has allowed himself a little extra room to tell their stories fully. And this is what appeals to me most about this book, it is not a single-story, nor a bunch of interrelated tales, rather it is an episode of a post-apocalyptic world, experienced from every angle. Something encouraged by the sparsity of population. So many areas of life are explored, so many terrifying perspectives are daubed with King's to-the-point writing. It may essentially be an ultimate good against evil plot, but much more is included, pertinent points are addressed and the darker side of humanity is put on a platform and given voice. The scale of the novel maps neatly to the scale of the book's background (America - from the West to the East) and, unlike a number of King's books, the ending is paced well and hits just right.

Rarely touted as one of King's masterpieces, it always appears to exist outside of King's bibliography, as if raised to a height where competition cannot reach. Perhaps, quite rightly so. This book is a world apart, few authors succeed in writing such a world, it is too large a challenge and takes years to plan. Has King pulled it off? Well, yes, if judging against King himself. It does not compare to some other epics; it isn't the Lord of the Rings of Horror (I imagine the Dark Tower series may be). But what is important is that it is an epic in King's style, a style I think is all too often associated purely with horror, and, although this is his realm, his style is what is important. If you're a King fan, then you will like this book. King is not the literary king (although there are very good examples of such work), but he is the master storyteller. Nobody would be better suited to a campfire telling stories!

Homer: The Odyssey

Translated by T E Lawrence.

Not many books can live up to a title as profound as this one. It conjours up not mere adventure, rather a journey of epic importance. The episodes within this story are well known, they are some of the oldest and most creative ever imagined; their survival through centuries, indeed millenia are testament to this. However, it's not the events that I remember this book for, it's the writing. This is not to denegrate the influence this book has had on literature and story-telling, rather to highlight the value that translation and interpretation of a text has on its enjoyment. This is the only translation I have read, but I have glanced through others, including some modern interpretations, they each bring their own angle to the story. T E Lawrence (of Arabia) colours Ulysses and the whole cast with a particular aesthetic. Each word has its place in the sentence, each word is required, each sentence is vital. I like that in writing. I like tight sentences, otherwise it just seems a little 'fluffy'. The style is almost 'classical' Dickensian; if Dickens had translated the Odyssey, it would have sounded like this. I have never read a book so slowly. I have tried various different reading techniques, but when I am enjoying something, I savour each word. With a piece like this, it is only fair to give each word its full value. This is something that has been crafted, not spat out by a group of ghost-writers. It is a classic text, the highlight of a fading genre.

Tolkien, JRR: The Silmarillion

(edited by Christopher Tolkien, I believe)

Since my rediscovered interest in fiction, I had finished every book I had started - an ethic trickled down from my parents to finish a job started. A work colleauge had recommended the Silmarillion (and every other Tolkien-inked word), so I got a copy and commenced with a now familiar enthusiasm.

I was not immersed. It was interesting, and stretched the boundaries of Tolkien's Middle Earth as depicted in LOTR. Missing gaps were plugged, and things hinted to in LOTR and the Hobbit were fleshed out in a history as detailed as our own Earth's. But it lacked character. All it's depth in description could not compensate for what it lacked in plausability. The warmth was gone. In a sense, this was a history book, written a long time after the event, lacking the kineticism of Tolkien's stories.

Perhaps this was Christopher Tolkien's hand at work, I am not sure. I by no means wish to apply any negativity to the work Tolkien Jr has done to the scattered remnants of Tolkien Jrr's notes; indeed a great public service has been performed to those with a sense of longing following completion of the great trilogy. I have also tried to remain objective, and not to draw parallels with LOTR, but it is difficult. At the end of the day, the Silmarillion is not a story book, and should not be approached as such. It is an encyclopaedia, glossary and history, and reads as such. It is for the hardcore fans, and to me offers neither enjoyment or reflection. A shame as I am sure many a story could be crafted from the structure defined by this book, unfortunately the master-crafter no longer plies his trade.

Defoe, Daniel: Robinson Crusoe

Classic literature survives the ages. There's a reason for that; distinction. Whether it be artistically distinct, distinct in it's deeper meaning or distinct in its description. Robinson Crusoe is a Classic.

I picked Robinson Crusoe from a load of classics that I had bought cheap. I'm not sure what drew me to it; perhaps it was the latent adventure, perhaps it was the intrigue; how could a book, based mostly on a desert island, keep me occupied? Tom Hanks' Castaway didn't. Who was Man Friday? How did Crusoe get there? And where exactly is there? I started to read.

The adventure starts in Hull, from where Crusoe sets sail, much against his parents' will. This had me intrigued, being from that neck of the woods (if grimey northern cities can be compared to woods). I was immersed into Colonial times, a period of World history both triumphant and tragic. I sailed down the coast with Crusoe, exploring Africa, South America and the West Indies. All was going well, until that fateful event.

Having been exposed to numerous later tellings of similar stories, and having seen numerous films, it was all a little expectant. I knew he would struggle for food, shelter and health. I knew he would try to get off the Island. But even so, I was hooked. Time panned out between each simple event. Things we take for granted were were atomised into their most simple parts. But what deepened this was that the things that we couldn't survive with now, hadn't even been invented in Defoe's time. Crusoe couldn't have wished for a battery operated torch if he had wanted to. This not only highlighted the desperation of Crusoe's plight but also the fickle, materialistic society we live in. Throughout the book I imagined myself in that situation, theorised how I would survive, what I would do. It would be easy. But of course, it wouldn't. How ever much Ray Mears TV I had seen (incidently very little), I would be up the creek without a paddle, nor the means to make one.

And of course, the Savages. Looking at the time the book was written, it's not suprising that Man Friday would immediately be subservient to the White man, irrespective of his attire and obvious lack of power. This is something I have thought on since reading the book, and something that remains a mystery. Perhaps it is a metaphor for the treatment of slaves; the desperate situation of both, the balance of Providence's kindness on each, the reliance on each other, yet still, Crusoe is Master, Friday is servant. Perhaps poignant centuries later, but at the time was it mere normality. Still, a minor aside - once they are settled in their micro class-system, they operate well together and become dependant on one another (again, perhaps a reference to Defoe's dislike for slavery), and ultimately they suceed in their quest, to return to civilisation, and eventually Yorkshire!

An excellent book. The more I think about it, the more I see shreds of forward-thinking flaking of the pages. Perhaps it has been said before, perhaps I'll take a look, but this seems less a story of survival and more a story of breaking humanity and race-relations down to the lowest level, and highlighting the flaws in society not nature. But then I think, was he that smart? Yes, I reassure myself, I see all others as equals, why shouldn't he? But is that not just another case of, I'd survive on a desert island?

Tolkien, JRR: The Lord of the Rings

The simplistic, sugar-coated almost caricatured Hobbit out of the way, it was time to make the transition from Uncle to Nephew, enter the trilogy. No sooner had I put down the Hobbit, than I had picked up the Lord of the Rings. I had bought a omnibus edition, and intended to get my money’s worth. The book starts in familiar territory, a narrative set amongst the dancing, prancing, drinking and smoking Hobbits of the Shire (almost a pre-emptive parody of 21^st Century Britain), but I soon realise that this book is different. Note, this review may contain spoilers.

Akin rather to a chronicle of history (albeit an ‘alternative’ one) than a mere novel, rather crafted than written, Tolkien’s masterpiece is composed with such a depth and breadth of detail from the off there’s a part of you that not only wants to believe that Middle Earth is real, but also a part that feels this is acceptable and justified. It’s really no different to an account of the Middle Ages, and certainly no less detailed. There’s an index of names and places, family trees and a calendar. But that’s all ketchup to bacon sandwiches, necessary but not the main event.

So, on with the book. The story starts with an ending, of sorts, but also a beginning. The beginning of a new quest. The story is itching to get going on the quest, but the scene is set and Tolkien must have had endless patience to pad the beginning out. A padding, I must add, that is both vital to the story and entertaining. Characters are established, but most importantly a love for the Hobbits and their home. The quest commences, and is fraught with peril continuously, friends are made, a fellowship formed. Back-story is called upon frequently – every character is a detailed person, with relatives and friends (mostly Bilbo!) and a personal motivation to follow the quest. Again, the landscapes are described as though they existed in the remotest reaches of Scotland, often bringing images of Scandinavian myth and legend, or the barrenness of volcanic Iceland – places, I imagine, that were certainly influential in the crafting of Middle Earth. Throughout the journey, one is never offered the privilege of absolute distance, only allusions to very vast areas and journeys that take days on foot. But most importantly, the bond between these men (no women – this was the 50s), fighting on the side of good, becomes an evermore essential thread for the story. We see the friendship between Frodo and Sam grow to one of brotherhood, the relationship toward the hobbits as one of protector (especially Aragorn) and fatherhood and, almost subtly, a kinship between the peoples of all races (again, a particularly poignant and harrowing prediction of modern day society, where resilience against terrorism transcends race – perhaps a subconscious reason for the trilogy’s popularity).

As I progressed through the second book, the weight and influence of the ring become more prominent, to the point where it almost aches to read the book. Book one had left me with a grasped handful of interconnected stories, not simple branches of the same story, rather a hedge created from individual stories, now matured and seamlessly matted into a whole. As one story gets moving, we’re whisked away to another event miles away (assumedly!), eager to find out what happens to the first, but getting once again immersed in the second. Again, the landscapes are magnificent, as are the cities and citadels that occupy the spaces. A fort is not simply a fort, it’s Helms Deep, built in to the side of a mountain, never breached. Saruman’s Isengard is an immense monolith, completely contrasting the lush forests surrounding it. The gates of Minis Morgul are not gates, but manmade cliffs, impenetrable and incomprehensible. And it is in this book that we are introduced to another of Tolkien’s strengths, war. The battles are huge, handled at all levels of scale. Sometimes the action moves too fast and it becomes overwhelming, but that’s war, I guess.

Finally, on to book three, where the separate threads rejoin and the story comes to its finale (I avoid the word climax, as the ending is a series of climaxes, tying off all the loose ends, and putting everyone in their right place). The final battle between good and evil is not a swash-buckling affair between a tiny Hobbit and evil incarnate, rather it’s a battle of wills. Compassion is an interesting theme throughout, and is, too a large extent, the foundation of the book. This is manifest most cleverly in the form of Gollum. Though I try to stay away from finding references and metaphors within the book, I cannot help but feel that the place of Gollum on this line between good and evil, is a deliberate philosophy on the nature of conscience and the notion of rehabilitation over punishment – “It was pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand”. And, as is alluded to, it is pity that ultimately saved Middle Earth - a lesson that many a philosopher, has tried to portray. This can be seen equally clearly with the posthumous heroism attributed to Boromir, a good man, who sinned, repented and died. How often is that seen in fiction, in life? Whilst I’m on the subject of deeper meaning, it’s been batted about that much of the book is a set of references to religion. Personally, though I did see similarities, I choose not to see these as direct references, but rather as simply detail. Middle Earth is a complex society, and religion is just another societal parameter. It sits well with religion as we experience it in this world, and I seem to recall that Tolkien was a God-fearing man, but perhaps he just felt that religion went hand-in-hand with fellowship and good-nature – again, a much discussed philosophy. I think when you get to this level of detail, analogies are inevitable – indeed there are many comparisons with the real world, both societal and material. Why should this be any different? Well, I was getting close to the end, ‘we’ were getting close to the end. I shared the burden, and saw the single-mindedness with which the forces of good fought to the end. The emotional ending left me with a curious feeling; I missed Frodo and the others. And what saddened me further was the fact that I would never hear from them again. Alas, Christopher Tolkien has perpetuated the legacy, but without the same warmth – but what a pair of shoes to fill!

It’s neither possible nor sensible to compare this trilogy to any other book; the Lord of the Rings is the comparator. It is the yardstick by which every book since, and before, is measured against. Nothing has come close, nor likely ever will. This book defines epic, it is synonymous with adventure and the shining star atop the Christmas tree of fantasy, nay fiction.

Tolkien, JRR: The Hobbit

My first book of fiction purchased, perused and put away, I was ready to move on. And with the upcoming three-year epic film series, the Lord of the Rings, on the horizon, I decided my choice was made. There was, however, the book’s prequel – The Hobbit.

I had read the first page when very young, in a copy that my brother had owned, but could still remember it distinctly “In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit”. It had stuck with me since, and I had never known anything more. That weekend, I went back to my parents’ house and dug out that very copy, and started to read. I was hooked. Fantasy reading had never really appealed to me. Like Sci-Fi, I had relegated Fantasy to the realm of geeks and nerds – an opinion I am ashamed of to the day. My opinion changed that morning when I was submerged into that hole where the Hobbit lived, with his pipe and hairy feet.

I never imagined an imagination could create a world that could be packaged into a few hundred pages and transported to another imagination. I didn’t think it possible to read someone else’s mind – at least that’s what I thought I was doing initially. A few chapters in and I realised fiction held a much more valuable gem; the ability to give a reader a few pointers and for that reader then to fill in the blanks. I was totally immersed in Tolkien’s world of mountains, forests, trolls and elves. I’ve never been able to put a finger on how imagination is manifested, I guess that’s part of the paradox; imagination, once realised ceases to be imagination. Either way, I was there, I was in middle earth, and I was glad (except the hairy feet – I just didn’t like that). In some respects, one’s relationship with characters in a book, their qualities and faults, the experiences and tribulations become part of one’s own experience in a detached way, much like a tattoo. You share their vices and fears, when they fall, you fall, when they get lucky, you get lucky. Anyway, back to the book!

Everything about this book was flawless, characters were loveable, greedy, irritating, evil, grumpy, crabby and neurotic, like a 20^th century Snow White. The landscapes, as I’ve mentioned already, were engulfing. The level of detail appealed to every sense, the sheer difference in scale between middle earth and everyday earth, was like the difference between Yosemite and Sherwood Forest! This book introduced me to the concept of the quest, the spine of any fantasy novel, so many interesting events and meetings, though a little linear, still utterly captivating. And of course, that ring, the harbinger of novels to come, and worlds in the oven of Tolkien’s mind.