There's a quality bunch of stories in this issue of Britain's longest-running science fiction magazine. I liked all six of them, but to pick out three in particular:
'Comus of Central Park'. by M.K. Hobson: a plan to take revenge on a horrid New York socialite goes wrong, leaving a faun moving through her social circle and, er, 'livening up' a few parties. Very funny indeed.
'The Two-Headed Girl' by Paul G. Tremblay: Veronica, as the title suggests, has two heads; what's more, the second one keeps changing into the heads of famous characters (real and fictional). The girl has been driven out of school by bullying, and is now feeling stifled. This story pulls off the neat balancing act of being both strange and moving, without compromising on either.
'Africa' by Karen Fishler: the two Guardians are faced with a request to visit the planet by the last members of Expelled humanity -- but the Guardians' very purpose is to prevent the Expelled from ever repopulating Earth. Though set in the far future, this is very much about the relationship between a father and son, and what happens when a woman comes between them.
Full review now publsihed in The Fix here.
When his parents are killed in an accident, Jacob Jankowksi is forced to abandon his studies in veterinary science. He jumps aboard a passing train at random one night, and finds himself in a travelling circus. He becomes the company's vet, falls for a married woman, and discovers how harsh circus life can be. (The cover blurb ends, 'Where falling in love is the most dangerous act of all...' -- which got some gentle mocking from the members of my reading group.) Seventy years later, in the present day, an old Jacob reflects on those days to escape the drudgery of life in the nursing home -- and another circus comes to town.
Well, I quite enjoyed this: it goes through a range of tones -- it's a romp in some places, very serious in others -- yet is always engaging. I lost track of some of the (numerous) minor characters, but that was by no means a problem; and the ending, which made me chuckle, was just right.
Here's a strange thing, though: the Author's Note at the end reveals that many of the incidents in the novel are based on real events -- and I found them more interesting when Gruen wrote about them as anecdotes in her afterword than when I encountered the same incidents in the story. Why this should be, I'm not sure; perhaps I'll put it down to one of my quirks as a reader...
Jolly little piece of fluff that ends up as something quite different from what it begins as. The Greek gods are living in present-day London, but have dwindled in power and have to make ends meet: so, Artemis walks dogs for a living, Apollo is a TV psychic, Aphrodite has a premium-rate chat line, and so on. Thanks to one of Eros's arrows, Apollo falls in love/lust with frumpy cleaner Alice. She, however, is in love with Neil (the feeling is mutual, unbeknownst to either to them), and rejects the god's advances -- but Apollo is affronted, and seeks revenge as only a son of Zeus can...
At first, it seems as though Gods Behaving Badly is just going to be a romp; then, halfway through, something happens that gives the book a whole new dimension. It loses a certain amount (though by no means all) of its humour (the very beginning of the novel had me laughing out loud, but the rest wasn't as amusing), though the plot gets more interesting. I can't honestly say that the book does much more than pass the time -- but it's a good book for passing the time.
The second issue of a fiction, non-fiction and poetry magazine that seeks to (quoting from its website) 'challenge or explode preconceptions' and 'defy genre distinctions'. Each issue has a theme, and this one's is 'sex and gender'. Personally, I didn't find it quite so provocative, but there's some good stuff in there. The best stories may actually be the shortest, 'Dream Date' by Chelsea Martin and 'Peach' by Ginnetta Correli, both three pages each and both dealing elliptically with women who are left behind in both love and life. In the former, a woman finds herself excised from a relationship without being sure just how it happened; in the latter, it's the protagonist's friends who have all the fun. Both these pieces have an oblique style that wonderfully balances and highlights the cold reality of their events. Speaking of cold reality, there's also 'Stitching Time' by Stephanie Burgis, a historical piece about farmers' wives in northern Michigan who are taken away to an asylum for 'treatment' if they struggle with the isolation. It's a very disturbing story, perhaps all the more so for the economy of its prose.
Full review now available on The Fix here.
My first Koontz novel, and I am not quite sure what to make of it. As he lies dying, Josef Tock's daughter-in-law is about to give birth. The old man predicts that terrible things will happen on five particular days in the child's life, and then dies -- at the very same moment that Jimmy Tock comes into the world. Since Josef correctly predicted other details, such as Jimmy's birth weight, the family takes seriously his prophecy of the five days -- and they are right to do so. As Jimmy's life progresses, misfortune does indeed befall him on those days, though not necessarily in ways that he expects; in particular, the murderous clown Konrad Beezo, who went on a killing spree in the hospital on the night of Jimmy's birth, casts an increasingly long shadow over his life.
The problem with Life Expectancy is that all the principal characters come across as whimsical, larger-than-life creations, rather than anything resembling real people. The main antagonists, Konrad Beezo and his son Punchinello, are unhinged individuals with concerns that would seem almost comedic (such as a grudge against aerialists), had the two of them not had a propensity for killing anyone without a second thought, seemingly for no particular reason. These characters would work fine -- the horror and thriller genres are, of course, full of such extraordinary and outlandish enemies -- if they were pitted against ordinary, down-to-earth folks. But they're not: Jimmy Tock is an awkward, shambling 'lummox', who's also erudite; indeed, his family of bakers and pastry chefs are all wordy, and they're all the kind of people who can eat anything without putting on weight. Oh, and Jimmy likes festooning his house with Christmas decorations in the six weeks after Thanksgiving... sometimes it feels as though Koontz is loading Jimmy with traits and characteristics whenever it suits his story. Lorrie, the girl who wanders into Jimmy's life at random, is also extraordinary: witty and beautiful, she is no less than Jimmy's ideal woman.
All well and good, but the effect is to push the characters out of reality (the background has similar problems, as Jimmy and Lorrie gain support from their community to a degree that frankly stretches credibility to its limits) -- which numbs the impact (on the reader) of the harsh events they live through. And Jimmy's observations on life often come across as cloying sentimentality, because it doesn't feel like a real person saying those things. Some of Koontz's writing is very good, good enough to make me think I should take a chance on another of his books; but it would have to be more grounded, because I struggled at times to take this one seriously.
In the midst of battle, Orna, a member of the elite Cadre, is ambushed, and her husband killed, by the enemy Gurta. Put to work in the fortress of Farkaza, what keeps her going is the thought of escaping and finding her son Jai, who's fighting in the war (though Orna believes he never really wanted to). Falling in with a disparate group of prisoners, Orna hatches a daring plan to escape -- which succeeds. Her journey home takes her to the surface (most of this moon's inhabitants living underground) and the brink of death; before she must get to the bottom of a conspiracy -- because somebody betrayed the location of her party to the Gurta, and Orna is out for revenge...
This is the first book I've read by Chris Wooding, and I liked it -- but I didn't love it. Wooding is good with action and description, and his choice of street-smart first-person narration is interesting when contrasted with the outlandish nature of his setting. He creates a complex character in Orna, and poses thoughtful questions about right and wrong. But the author is less skilled at generating interest in his characters' political machinations, which is problematic because the plot hinges on them; his final showdown verges on the melodramatic; and The Fade just lacks the extra zing that would really make it stand out. It's a solid effort -- certainly better than a good many fantasies out there -- but it's not essential reading.
Since I'm now allowing electronic publications in my count, I'll include this science fiction and fantasy webzine. Five stories, the pick of which are 'Disarm', Vylar Kaftan's examination of fighting back against a 'benevolent dictatorship' of aliens; and Larry Hodges' 'Ghosts of Cretaceous Park', the comic tale of a nasty real estate developer getting his comeuppance thanks to a dinosaur's ghost. One is thoughtful, the other more light-hearted, but both reach their intended targets.
Also in this issue, but not quite as good (though still worth a look): 'One Wicker Day', Andew S. Fuller's story of a mysterious new funeral service (which is more distant from the reader than it really ought to be); 'Wolfling', Laura Anne Gilman's exploration of what it is to be born 'normal' in a world of people with special powers (whose main problem is that its theme is overfamiliar); and "Xenosomnambulism", Lawrence M. Schoen's tale of a student who holds the key to linking Earth with an alien world (a romp that's jolly enough but lacks that extra something to really make it shine).
EDIT: Full review now available here.
Here is an example of arbitrary rules coming back to biite me. When I started out blogging about my year's reading, I set myself a number of rules, one of which was that I wouldn't count electronic publications, no matter how long they were. I made up that rule on a whim, because I didn't expect to be reading any electronic publications of any significant length. But things have turned out to be different, and what do I do under my rules with this, which I started reading in electronic form and finished reading in print? Simple: I admit that the rule was a silly idea in the first place, and scrap it from now on. Technically, Something Wicked should now belong in my count; but I think I'll keep the numbering as it is, and that magazine can be an unofficial 'number 26a' .
Anyway, this is the latest issue of Postscripts, the magazine of Peter Crowther's PS Publishing. One of the great things about this magazine is that you can never quite be sure what you'll get (apart from a substantial amount to read -- 144 pages in this issue). It's like (in fact, it pretty much is) having someone knowledgeable and trustworthy present you with a bunch of stories you might like. (Chances are, of course, that you won't like all of them; but I think that's less important than the variety and the opportunity to read something you might not otherwise come across.)
My particular favourites in this issue? 'Island Tales', Jeff VanderMeer's 're-imagining' of four folktales from Fiji, Hawaii and the Philippines; it's as compelling as any telling of folktales that I've read. "Something Borrowed, Something Red" by William Alexander, which evokes the creepy atmosphere of what it might be like to live with the threat of changelings who would take away your child if they had the chance, changelings who have their own rules that they know but you don't. And, best of all, 'The Ghosts We Have Become' by Paul Jessup which, in just seven pages, combines an elegant weirdness with so much about the various damaging effects of warfare. It's a story that grows in my mind the more I think about it.
So I was on the train, with a book I wasn't sure I'd like. I duly gave it a hundred pages, then decided life was too short (and no, this wasn't a dream), and turned instead to the other book I'd taken with me as a back-up -- Summer Knight.
The Dresden Files are my current favourite 'palate cleansers' -- that is, books I can rely on to be enjoyable and (relatively) quick reads, in between the other stuff. It's strange: although that other book wasn't the worst-written I have ever read, I've never been so glad to start reading something by a writer who knew how to achieve the effect he wanted. And so I was back in the world of wizard-for-hire Harry Dresden.
In this, the fourth entry in the series, Dresden is 'hired' (or , more accurately, bound) by the Queen of the Winter Court of the faeries to investigate a death which proves to have implications for relations between the two Sidhe courts, which may in turn threaten the entire world -- and, wouldn't you know it, someone's after Harry again?
One thing that concerns me about these long series that build up an elaborate background is that they'll get too big for their own good. For example, thus far in The Dresden Files, there's been mention and/or appearances of Red, White and Black Courts of vampires; Summer and Winter Courts of faeries; the White Council of wizards; and that's just what I can remember off the top of my head. The plot of Summer Knight draws quite heavily on this background, and at times I did wish for a good ol' supernatural mystery without all the embellishments. Yet I also couldn't help being charmed by some of Butcher's twists on the material (the queen-in-waiting of the Winter Court is a girl with dreadlocks and a T-shirt that reads 'OFF WITH HIS HEAD'); and the story itself was as entertaining as ever -- just as I'd expected when I took it with me on the train journey.
28. One Story, Issue 101: 'Familial Kindness' by Kirsten Sundberg Lunstrum (2008)
Alma and Sara were sisters who led very different lives: Sara married Charlie, moved to Indiana, and severed most of her ties to Alma, who stayed in the family home even after their parents died. Now Alma's daughter Lovisa (the father is a nameless fling from years before) is getting married; Sara has died from cancer, but Alma invites Charlie (whom she hasn't seen for thirty years and is not too bothered about seeing again) out of courtesy. The story begins as Charlie arrives at Alma's house, and the subsequent thirty pages are essentially them (particularly Alma) reflecting on the choices they've made in life.
I haven't much else to say about 'Familial Kindness', unforturnately. It's not a bad story by any means; but it didn't really grab me, or stay in my mind. The characterisation is fine; the story just doesn't... say as much (overtly or otherwise) as I;d have liked.
29. One Story, Issue 102: 'What the World Will Look Like When All the Water Leaves Us' by Laura van den Berg (2008)
Perhaps the best explanation is a comparison, because I found this story to be much richer. Celia (who must be in her late teens or thereabouts as the story begins) has ambitions to be a professional swimmer; but her mother June, a primatologist, keeps dragging her off on her study expeditions. The latest is to Madagascar, to test June's ideas about the relationship between lemurs and reforestation -- but the relationship between mother and daughter will also be tested, and to the limit.
Van den Berg's depiction of the two women is acutely observed: June is a larger-than-life character, whose life is so dominated by her work that everything else comes second -- including Celia and, ironically, the real point of the work; June seems to care more about using her work to validate herself than about the fate of the animals she studies. As for Celia, it's no surprise that she doesn't share her mother's passion for science when June insists on drumming into her pointless lists like famous scientists who committed suicide ('she said I needed to understand the toll answering important scientific questions could take on a person' -- and, oh, how June demonstrates that toll in her own way). It's great to see the daughter break free and start finding her own way over the course of the story.
I read in the back of the magazine that Laura van den Berg has a story collection coming out next year. If only it weren't such a long time away.
Frustratingly patchy anthology from the EditRed online writing community. It's frustrating because these stories genuinely have their moments -- I was struck particularly by how good some of the writers were at creating distinctive narrative voices -- yet I still felt there was something missing, without quite being sure what. Then I read what looks to be the only review of the book currently online, and I think I've worked out what was bugging me: that review mentions the subtext of one of the stories, but I think some would benefit from a bit more subtext; the tales didn't always seem to have as much to them as I'd have hoped for.
Which ones did I like? To pick out four: Eoin Beckett's short, intense character study of two people at a party. Teri Davis Rouvelas's tale of the lady upstairs who keeps leaving sacks of soil outside her door. Aiofe Mannix's child's-eye view of a broken relationship. Aliya Whitely's story of a polar bear who has issues with the number four. In short, this is a diverse anthology, but one that I think you do need to cherry-pick from.
Subtitled 'The Common Sense Approach to Measuring Things', I found this book in the library and thought it sounded interesting. Cairns introduces himself as a man who spent ten years researching what people in Britain thought about changing to the metric system; in general, he found, they didn't like the idea. He then poses the question of why this should be, when we embrace changes in areas like technology and fashion quite readily. What follows is a tour of measurements, where they come from, and where they might be heading.
We have a complex relationship to weights and measures in this country. The metric system is what's taught in schools, and has been for... actually, I don't know how long. Yet, if you ask a Brit how tall he or she is, you will most likely get an answer in feet and inches; beer is sold in pubs by the pint; and road signs use miles. On a personal level, I'd use metric units to measure the length of something; but I could no more judge a metre 'by eye' than I could a foot. I think it's a fascinating subject for a book.
And I learnt a lot from About the Size of It: I didn't know how traditional measurements were arrived at; I never realised that litres and centimetres weren't 'official' (under the SI) metric units. Now I do. I also find that Cairns makes his central argument -- that metric units are good when you need to be precise (such as when measuring for scientific experiments), but traditional measurements are well suited to other occasions -- persuasively.
On the downside: although Cairns is a pretty good writer, his conversational style can grate over the course of a whole book; asides are fine, but sometimes it feels as though the author didn't check how the rhythms of it worked it writing. He also doesn't really get into looking at what makes measurements such a special (or, indeed, not-so-special) case when it comes to attitudes towards change. Overall, then, this is indeed an interesting book, but not as interesting as I'd hoped it would be.
One of the reasons I decided to include books by my LiveJournal friends in my reading for the 50 Book Challenge was that they coincided with some books I had meant to read for quite a while. I was thinking especially of this one by
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desperance, which I bought eight years ago and is actually my first Brenchley novel (though I have also thoroughly enjoyed his short fiction). Another reason for choosing to blog about books by my LJ friends is that I was pretty confident I'd enjoy them unreservedly; and now that decision may come back to bite me, because I like the beginning of Dispossession more than I like the ending.And the beginning is very good indeed. Jonty Marks is a solicitor who wakes up in a hospital bed having been in a car crash, but with no memory of the event -- or of the previous three months. What's more, in that period, he apparently left his girlfriend and met and married another woman, who is now a complete stranger to him. And Jonty, who prides himself on his honesty, now seems to be working for a major local criminal.
I love this sort of mystery (yes, I'm the kind of person who enjoys all the plot twists in programmes like Lost), and the situation only gets stranger as Jonty looks further into it. Couple that with the enthusiasm for language evident in Brenchley's prose, and Dispossession was shaping up to be a treat. And then Brenchley drops in an angel, an angel named Luke: not a 'friend' of Jonty's -- Luke isn't that kind of being -- but someone he can go to for sanctuary. Brenchley treats Luke's existence in a very matter-of-fact way: Jonty's wife knows about him, and nothing feels contrived about the way he's introduced. I had to smile at such a delightfully casual use of the imagination.
As I said, a great start to the book as far as I'm concerned. But I don't think the rest quite matches it. Essentially, I found the solution to the mystery less interesting than the mystery itself (which may be why I've written so much much more here about the latter). But I'll still be investigating Chaz Brenchley's other novels.
I don't tend to read much in the way of novelisations these days, but I won this one in last year's FantasyCon raffle, and Mark Morris is a safe pair of hands, and the new series of Doctor Who was starting, so I thought I'd read this to get me in the mood.
Of course, it's not autumn, but I couldn't expect the timing to be absolutely perfect...
It may not be autumn where I am, but it's nearly time for the Hallowe'en Carnival in the small American town of Blackwood Falls. And the monsters are coming out to play: nine-foot-tall ones with pumpkin-like heads and seemingly magical powers of possession and control. Along come the Doctor and his companion, Martha Jones, and the truth is revealed: the creatures aren't supernatural but (of course) aliens called the Hervoken, who crash-landed there long ago and became the stuff of legend. Their science looks like magic to us, and they draw power from human terror. They're planning to go home, but need large amounts of power to do so -- which is bad news for the people of Blackwood Falls. Can the Doctor and Martha save the day? Silly question!
Any story based on a TV series has to get the programme's characters right, and I think Morris captures the manic energy of the Tenth Doctor perfectly; his depiction of Martha perhaps isn't quite so distinctive, but I still found it easy to imagine David Tennant and Freema Agyeman acting out their roles in this story. It's also good fun, Morris writes some vigorous action sequences... That's the good news.
The bad news is that there isn't as much dramatic tension as there ought to be. Morris relies too much on the (apparently) endless functionality of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver as a means to get out of almost any difficulty; and he doesn't place enough restrictions on the Hervoken's abilities, either. In effect, both sides can do whatever they want -- and the story is weakened as a result. So, Forever Autumn is a decent enough romp, but that's about it.
Iain Banks is one of those authors whom I've read much less often than I think I have: I feel as though I know his work quite well, but I don't -- not really, because I've read only three of the Iain M. Banks books, and just one Iain Banks novel -- well, make that two now.
The wealth of the Wopuld clan was built on a board game, but now the family firm is about to be taken over by an American software company -- depending, that is, on the outcome of the Emergency General Meeting to be held at Garbadale, the Wopuld family's estate in the Scottish Highlands. The novel revolves around Alban, who fell in love with his cousin Sophie when they were both teenagers, and still holds a torch for her; whose mother committed suicide when Alban was a child, for reasons he doesn't know; and who quit the family firm, but is now persuaded to come back for the EGM -- at which he will confront the issues of his past, and the Wopuld family's future.
I'm not sure about this book. It's quite entertaining, but... Of course, the Wopulds' wealth displaces them from much of reality; but, even accounting for that, The Steep Approach to Garbadale feels a bit too unreal, as though the Wopulds were created to suit the requirements of the novel, rather than as a rich family that might exist in the real world (they probably were created that way, but it's the novelist's job to disguise things like that). Put another way, the Wopuld family would not be out of place in another book I read this year, Provender Gleed -- but that book was set in an alternate world, and was more engaging in some ways because of it.
Still, the plot of Garbadale grips well enough, though the climactic revelation is not particularly surprising. Not the best of Banks's that I've read, then, but no stinker either. Worth a look.
I intended to start this post with a quip about how, like the last book I read, The Grin of the Dark makes a good Jack Dannism. Then I finished the novel, and suddenly that seemed too flippant a way to introduce such a good book. But I like the quip, so I contrived to keep it in...
Moving on: Simon Lester is a former film writer stuck working in two dead-end jobs to make ends meet; then a commission to write a book expanding his university thesis returns Simon to writing. The particular focus of his research during the novel is Tubby Thackeray, a music-hall comedian and silent movie actor who has effectively been written out of history. And watching a clip of one of Tubby's films revels why -- he was far more disturbing than funny.
As Simon's research progresses, things get increasingly strange; he sees grinning faces everywhere, hears laughter coming from sources he can't identify, and eventually starts mishearing others' speech, and his own. At the same time, Simon conducts an online argument with someone known only as 'Smilemime' who has been posting inaccurate information about Tubby's films -- an argument that gains a whole new dimension when money starts disappearing from Simon's bank account.
The Grin of the Dark is a book that builds up slowly, perhaps a little too slowly in places -- at times I was willing it to move on after Simon glimpsed yet another grinning face, or overheard yet more mysterious laughter. But I'd strongly urge you to read this book and stick with it to the end; because once the momentum builds up and reality starts to unravel, the novel becomes something else -- and I mean that in more than one sense of the term. It's not a book that leaves you alone readily; I'm stunned by the overall effect. This was actually the first novel of Campbell's that I've read -- but it won't be the last, no way.
In Conrad Williams's novel, history is not as we thought it was: the Great Fire of 1666 was the work of flesh-eating creatures who were invited to cleanse London after the previous year's plague. They were then driven out of the city; but now, centuries later, these creatures -- who look human, but aren't -- are back for their revenge. A girl has been impregnated with their Queen; a man has been given the ability to read a map that will lead the creatures to their nest; a serial killer is coming out of retirement to take his place at their head; and people who aren't people begin to feast on the unsuspecting population...
As you may surmise, The Unblemished contains frequent gory moments; deeply unpleasant things happen in the book, and Williams does nor shy away from depicting them. But he doesn't dwell on them either; it's striking how distanced the blood, guts and disaster feel at times. This is part of what I like most about The Unblemished: the way the threat to society builds up in layers, as the characters realise that reality just will not behave. The cliché holds that what you can't see is much scarier than what you can; Williams's technique here made me wonder whether what you can see but can't understand is scarier still.
Admittedly I'm not as widely read in horror as I'd like to be, but I can't recall reading a story with quite the same layering effect. It tails off towards the end, as perhaps it must, because the novel needs a final confrontation. But it's the journey that makes it special. The Unblemished is not a nice read, but it is a good one.
It makes a good Jack Dannism, too.
James Lovegrove strikes me as a writer whose work is hard to feel indifferent towards; sometimes even I find it irritating, and I like his work. Lovegrove delights in words and wordplay (it's no surprise that he also compiles cryptic crosswords), which can lead him to go over the top; but he also gains some of his best effects from nearly going over the top. Ultimately, it's a trade-off, but I think it's worth it.
This novel is set in a world mostly like ours, but which has been dominated by the great Families since early modern times and the Borgia de'Medicis. The Gleeds are the premier Family in Britain; their heir is 24-year-old Provender, who has his doubts about whether the Families are such a good thing, and no current interest in perpetuating the line. He'd rather sit in his room and update his journal than attend the Gleed summer ball; quite sensibly, as it turns out -- when his mother finally persuades him to go to the party, Provender ends up being kidnapped. Carver, the Gleeds' faithful servant, hires Milner and Moore (a pair of detectives who solve crimes with anagrams) to find Provender before his disappearance causes a war; but the culprit may be closer to home than anyone imagines...
There are two characteristics of Provender Gleed that seem to me to be quite common in what I've read of Lovegrove's work; what's great is that he doesn't allow either of them to overwhelm the story. The first, as mentioned above, is wordplay. You'll find quite a few puns and other tricks within the text, which would normally be annoying (and actually is annoying at times), but here they contribute to the overall atmosphere instead. And, of course, there are the detectives and their anagrams. Lovegrove is canny enough to acknowledge that the idea of solving crimes by anagrammatising names and phrases is rather silly, and he leaves this aspect of the book as added texture rather than the hinge on which the mystery turns; so, when the climatic anagram does appear, it's more a joke than a 'damp squib' ending.
The second characteristic is a certain stylised Britishness (or perhaps Englishness) -- in this case, the stereotype of the old, moneyed family (or Family) with a country pile, only writ larger than it ever could be in the real world. But the Gleeds in their bubble coexist with a harsh, gritty reality; Lovegrove's key achievement here is to make both of these feel as though they belong in the same world. It's a larger-than-life reality without a cushion of safety -- and it takes a sure hand to pull that off.
Provender Gleed isn't the most enjoyable James Lovegrove book I have read (that would be Days which, sadly, is now out of print); but it is good fun, and warmly recommended.
It's interesting how what you read about a book can influence how you read it. The Book of Revelation is probably not a novel I would have chosen to read if I'd seen it on the shelves, but I have wanted to read it ever since I saw this review on Infinity Plus by
realthog (you may like to read this post in conjunction with it). The way the review decribes the book as a 'rationalized fantasy' (a story that is, in theory, mimetic, but would never actually happen as depicted in the world we know) is what made it intriguing to me. And I must agree with that interpretation of the book; but I do wonder how I'd have read it if I hadn't seen the review first.So what's the book about? Well, it's set in Amsterdam, where a male dancer and choreographer is abducted by three women in hooded cloaks. For eighteen days, in an anonymous white room, they subject him to various humiliations, before releasing him. His girlfriend dumps him, believing he has been seeing someone else; he tries to explain the truth, but who would bellieve something so far-fetched? Over the following years, he goes on a desperate search for his kidnappers, when all he ever saw of them were things like scars and fingernails. The remainder of the novel demonstrates how a period in a distorted, displaced reality has distorted the protagonist himself.
By its nature, this book contains quite a bit of what you might, politely, call questionable material. It's to Thomson's great credit that this never feels gratuitous, but still retains its import. He pulls off a remarkable balancing act there. Having said that, a lot of the novel's events felt distant and unreal, which of course added to the general sense of 'fantasy' (again, perhaps I am unduly influenced by
realthog's review here). Then again, Thomson suggests in the novel that you don't have to have undergone some preternatural experience to feel displaced from the world, and he's quite right; even something as mundane as going on holiday or being laid up with a nasty cold can do that to you...I get the sense here that I am writing down thoughts as they occur to me; but The Book of Revelation is, to me, a novel for thinking about. It's the kind of book I would describe as 'interesting', which I mean as a compliment. Someone else, I guess, might react to it more at the emotional level; it all depends on how you read it.
Well, it looked interesting in the library...
Six twenty-somethings answer a job advert: 'Bright Young Things wanted for big project'. At interview, they are given drugged coffee; next thing they know, they're on a deserted island. There's nowhere to go, and no sign of why they're there; but there is a comfortable house with individual bedrooms, plenty of food, water, electricity... and, of course, five strangers for each of them to to get to know.
The biggest problem with Bright Young Things is that its six protagonists are barely distinguishable; many times, I had to flick back to when they're introduced, because I kept forgetting which was which -- and eventually, I just tended not to bother noticing who said something as it didn't seem to matter. You do get more of an insight into some (not all) of the characters, but they never became individuals to me -- and I don't need to tell you why having indistinguishable characters is a bad thing for any character study.
The second biggest problem with Bright Young Things is that it's very tedious to read in places. Near the beginning, the protagonists start asking each other, as they naturally would, about their favourite films, books, and so on; and end up having detailed discussions about soap plotlines and video games -- all of which are recorded in the book, in full. This goes on for pages and pages; I seriously contemplated giving up, but I persevered to the end -- and, on balance, it probably wasn't worth it.
It's not all bad: just occasionally, Thomas will write something that's insightful (on the twenty-somethings' attitude to danger: 'Jamie and the others come from a culture in which a fire alarm doesn't mean fire; it just means you get to go and stand outside and giggle for a while. But a prawn or a peanut could still kill you'), and you long for more of this and less of the discussions that could safely have been left out. As for why the characters were taken to the island -- well, by the time the author's intention became clear, I was too annoyed with the book to be sympathetic towards what she was trying to do.
And so, the lesson I take away from reading Bright Young Things is: if a book irritates me so much near the beginning that I feel like abandoning it, I probabaly should.
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