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.

Books Read in 2001

Tolkien, JRR: The Lord of the Rings
Tolkien, JRR: The Hobbit
King, Stephen: Salem's Lot

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.