I have loved Sir Salman Rushdie's work ever since he fired up my imagination with the writing that bejewelled every page of Midnight's Children. And II have loved Sir Salman Rushdie's work ever since he fired up my imagination with the writing that bejewelled every page of Midnight's Children. And I've since hoped that he might one day match, or even eclipse, his crowning achievement. Did Rushdie achieve that with Victory City? Let's just say that he gave Midnight's Children a run for its money.
The opening sentence promised much: "On the last day of her life when she was two hundred and forty-seven years old, the blind poet, miracle worker and prophetess Pampa Kampala completed her immense narrative poem and buried it in a clay pot sealed with wax in the heart of the Royal Enclosure, as a message to the future." "Yes!" I shouted, putting on my MC Hammer pants and gliding sideways across the room. "Sir Salman is back on top form and I am loving it!"
Inspired by a once-flourishing medieval Hindu kingdom in Southern India, the author brings us an allegorical fairy tale in which Pampa Kampala (who ages as slowly as an oak tree) propagates a living, breathing city from little more than seeds and whispers. The scope of Rushdie's imagination and the magnitude of his world-building is still astonishing: it's an Indian Game of Thrones; it's Sinbad and the Arabian Nights; it's The Odyssey and War and Peace with just a hint of Benjamin Button thrown in. It's brilliant! I must admit that I quite enjoyed Rushdie deliberately taking liberties with the dialogue - as magical realism permits - by wryly adopting an Errol Flynn*/Basil Rathbone* manner of speaking. *(those of you fortunate enough to be favoured by youth and peachy complexions may need to Google these two actors).
And the old maestro has lost none of his impishness: "In the evenings at the time of the sunset promenade, it was possible to see couples of all sorts taking the air and holding hands without embarrassment: men and men, women and women, and yes, men and women too."
Sadly, despite my initial excitement, the story (for me) didn't quite live up to its breathtaking promise. Because Rushdie has long ago transcended his craft, and has become a global cause célèbre, I feel he might be resting on his laurels and that I might now be reading his books just to purr over the quality of his writing, rather than his storytelling.
But his exuberance lights up every page, I adore his writing, and still tip my hat to his virtuosity. So, despite the irresolute storyline, it can only be five radiant stars!...more
"I expected to splinter into shards and tinkle into a pile on the floor. I wondered if anyone would think to sweep me up."
This profoundly moving s"I expected to splinter into shards and tinkle into a pile on the floor. I wondered if anyone would think to sweep me up."
This profoundly moving story is told in the first person by Delia Spencer, a mother who is abjectly unable to move on from the unanticipated deaths of her two teenage daughters.
Sara Steger brings us an intimate portrayal of one woman's hermitic descent into the deepest depths of anguish and personal guilt. The author's pictorial style of writing complements the rawness of the subject matter, focussing on the unravelling relationship between two devoted parents as they each become strangers within the vacuum of their grief. The story reveals its chronology slowly, and we gradually begin to piece together a succession of connected events. Very clever staging by Steger; a story told almost in reverse! The author has an observant eye and conveys human mannerisms with discerning ease, the dependability of her elegant prose putting me in mind of her near-namesake, Wallace Stegner.
In an attempt to exorcise her demons, Delia makes a clean break and goes back to her roots, eschewing city life for a simpler existence. She soon finds that she can't hide from her torment as it has an unbreakable hold on her soul. It is here that Steger draws symbolic parallels as Roscoe, a stray dog, and Carly (something of a stray teenager) tentatively learn to trust Delia in the same way that she must learn to put her trust in the quiddity of love and human kindness.
This is a gratifying and deeply affecting story that had me captivated to the extent that I rarely left my armchair. Steger writes from the heart and constructs telling sentences with effortless ease.
Will Delia find solace in the most serendipitous of ways? And will the guilty secret that haunts her be finally revealed? Read the book to find out.
A moving, yet uplifting, read. Sara Steger is a wonderful writer!...more
This sweeping saga won the Pulitzer Prize in 1964 for its depiction of a dynastic white family in rural Alabama at a time when prejudice and racism liThis sweeping saga won the Pulitzer Prize in 1964 for its depiction of a dynastic white family in rural Alabama at a time when prejudice and racism lived cheek-by-jowl with oppression and hypocrisy.
No sooner had the curtain lifted on the cryptic opening chapter than I was purring at the innovative descriptiveness of Grau's prose. The tale unfolds slowly, like a lazy summer afternoon, the author using alliteration to great effect: Wobbling waddle; blotched brambles; beetles bumbling; wings whizzing; silvery and shining; leaf-littered; the wind whimpers; the sluggish spring; the gentle grey-eyed girl…
The story itself serves as a social commentary hidden within a fascinating family drama that focuses on the frowned-upon relationship between William Howland and his black housekeeper, Margaret Carmichael.
Though impactful and full of purpose, the story does drag at times (it would be too boring for many) and is only saved by the author's evocative writing and the couple's uplifting love for each other. I also winced at Grau's ill-judged habit of apostrophising era denominations (1800’s, 1900’s, 60’s, etc.,). Yes, I know that a lot of people do this, but I'm crankily pedantic to the point that I'm even annoyed with myself for being so pedantic. Shut up, Kevin. You're an idiot! I know I am. So, shut up then! Okay, okay, I will. : )
Nit-picking aside, I'm a sucker for great love affairs and brave storytelling, and I also loved William and Margaret, so I gave this lyrical masterpiece all of the stars!...more
"Reading Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov is comparable to pushing a beautiful grand piano up a very steep hill." —Kevin Ansbro
Why, oh why, in a wor"Reading Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov is comparable to pushing a beautiful grand piano up a very steep hill." —Kevin Ansbro
Why, oh why, in a world filled with endless opportunities to enjoy oneself, did I think it was a good idea to embark on a 19th-century book that's almost the size of an electric toaster? I have friends, I have a wife, I have a life. Heck, I even have one of those home television sets that you so often hear about…
The Brothers Karamazov is by no means a galloping read. It is a whale of a novel that requires the reader to drop anchor and bob about on Fyodor's ocean of esteemed eloquence for as long as it takes. It was a slog at times and I'm ashamed to say that I almost jumped ship on a few occasions.
Dostoevsky threw everything but the kitchen sink at this, his magnum opus. He plucks random details from the alcoves of his mind and scatters them like confetti, and there are more characters here than you could wave a stick at. His imagery is vivid without being overdone, the writing is tight and beautifully paced.
The story focuses on Fyodor Karamazov, a boorish and wicked father, and his three dissimilar sons. Collectively, the eponymous brothers are perhaps designed to represent all of us. Philosophical and theological discussions abound; the existence of God, morality and freedom of choice are the author's themes of choice.
I certainly have no complaints about the writing, which is rich and expressive. Any quibbles I have say more about me as an easily-distracted reader than they do about Dostoevsky's incontestable skill as a writer. I dare say the novel would be a godsend to a bookworm who has chosen to live off-grid for a month. I don't know how long it took Dostoevsky to complete this, but his writing hand must surely have resembled a sloth's claw by the time he'd finished it!
Does The Brothers Karamazov harbour a captivating story to rival the likes of Great Expectations or Les Misérables? I think not.
Is this venerated novel worthy of the widespread admiration it receives? Absolutely....more
"Because in the end there's always death, and always broken hearts. Happy stories, at least, get to hold the air of magic." —Billy O'Callaghan
Brill"Because in the end there's always death, and always broken hearts. Happy stories, at least, get to hold the air of magic." —Billy O'Callaghan
Brilly Billy O'Callaghan has an all-seeing eye and a poet's soul. In this poignant collection of short stories, he uses symbolism and metaphor to great effect while exploring themes of love (though never the romantic kind). He writes about the love that invites death; forbidden love; doomed love; lost love; unrequited love, and the raw, heartbreaking desolation of love. There is an immediacy to O'Callaghan's words; he finds grandeur in the prosaic and his evocative descriptions of limitless Irish skies and etched landscapes are a thing of unfading beauty. To further enhance my reading fun, I entered into a three-way buddy read with Australian possums and fêted bookworms, Nat and Collin, with whom I would heartily and unequivocally advocate a lively readage à trois.
Back to Brilly Billy, who not only has his finger on the human pulse but is also a master at capturing moments in time and filming them with words. In truth, not all of the stories were feathered with excellence. There were a few stocking fillers (even in the claustrophobic confines of a short story, I would prefer a narrative arc). But this doesn't detract from the high quality of the collection as a whole. My favourite tales were 'The Boatman' (it really floated my boat, man), 'Love is Strange', and the cinematic 'Last Christmas' (such a clever piece – an author fond of feeding the reader with enough prompts for them to be able to write their own endings).
This is a compelling collection of thought-provoking reads made all the more enjoyable by sharing the experience with my wonderful Aussie amigos (my vote for *star reader* goes to Nat for exhibiting a prescience that would have bested Nostradamus). We didn't always concur, but all agreed that this was a meritorious read! 4.5 stars...more
This is a prepossessing short story, the reading of which takes less time than it would to disinfect a sweaty face mask. And it's free! So why not givThis is a prepossessing short story, the reading of which takes less time than it would to disinfect a sweaty face mask. And it's free! So why not give it a try? https://jmwwblog.wordpress.com/2019/0...
The prose is sparse but vivid: "voice thin as paper" "raising a penciled brown eyebrow..." And there's a hush to the piece that lends a sense of reverence and longing; an altogether hollow, gnawing quality that succeeds in making it hauntingly beautiful.
My thanks to Sara for bringing this little literary treasure to my attention - by way of Cheri and Angela. : )
I finished this at the end of last year but lost the entirety of my scribbled notes. I've held off writing a review in the vain hope that the notes woI finished this at the end of last year but lost the entirety of my scribbled notes. I've held off writing a review in the vain hope that the notes would magically materialise. They haven't. I do recall that the writing was picturesque but the story stumbled along aimlessly....more
Almost my entire life, I have been magnetically drawn to Indian literature, from Riki-Tikki-Tavi through to Midnight’s Children; so this one leapt froAlmost my entire life, I have been magnetically drawn to Indian literature, from Riki-Tikki-Tavi through to Midnight’s Children; so this one leapt from a shelf and into my hands without me having any say in the matter. And it soon became abundantly clear that Chaudhuri has writerly magic at his fingertips; his prose is wonderfully poetic and each incidental detail is lovingly observed. Yet the story itself is languorous and moves without any discernible purpose. On top of that, even I, the Sultan of Similes, thinks he should have kept his trigger-happy simile gun holstered for longer periods.
In summary, the book was beautifully written, but it dragged indolently like a Calcutta heatwave. D’oh! Someone please take my simile gun from me before I shoot myself in the foot!
What a great start to a book! A dead Tasmanian mother returns to her family two days af"Everything changes, nothing perishes." —Ovid, Metamorphoses
What a great start to a book! A dead Tasmanian mother returns to her family two days after they'd spread her ashes, and no-one bats an eyelid. This phenomenon isn't unusual within the McAllister clan, for a procession of deceased relatives routinely reappear, albeit amalgamated into the flora, fauna and flotsam of the locale in which they were scattered. Yes! Yes! YES! I was seduced by Robbie Arnott before he'd even bought me flowers. This is an earth, wind and fire kind of book and I was up and ready to groove tonight! For some strange reason, the mythical, folklorish inception of this story put me in mind of the nymph, Daphne, turning herself into a tree so she could evade the lustful advances of Apollo. I love shapeshifters.
Magical realism, if done well, is my favourite genre and Arnott's avant-garde storytelling is backed up with picturesque descriptions of the wild Tasmanian landscape: glistening green gorges, thistle fields, hateful gorse, mudflats and reedy wetlands; whale spray rising from the ocean, beneath a clotted sky.
This, my fellow bookaneers, is an author whose imagination outshines most others'.
Now, this doesn't mean that I was totally won over… The story takes too many routes and becomes lost in the Forest of Fabulism that Arnott has planted. Not only that - why, oh why was the dialogue italicised? And there weren't any blimmin' speech marks either (one of my pet peeves). This ill-considered modus operandi frustrated me from start to finish. I felt as if I was bearing witness to a coven of superhumans who could all communicate telepathically with each other.
The good news is that Arnott's inventive imagery and extravagant storytelling continued to delight me throughout. He conjures up a wealth of extraordinary characters: salt-rinsed fishermen, census-friendly families (now that is a genius line), a flinty, androgynous kickass female detective and the world's finest coffin maker (who was a hoot!). The author even presents us with a Moby Dick-style trope involving a wombat farmer's maniacal quest to kill a malevolent cormorant.
The biggest compliment I can give Robbie Arnott is that his spellbinding book is like nothing I've ever read. And that, dear reader, is a very fine achievement!
"No man is free of his own history." —Anita Brookner, Latecomers.
Two Jewish boys, Thomas Hartmann and Thomas Fibich, strangers to each other, but b"No man is free of his own history." —Anita Brookner, Latecomers.
Two Jewish boys, Thomas Hartmann and Thomas Fibich, strangers to each other, but both refugees from Nazi Germany, are billeted in an English school where they form an unbreakable bond. The book is essentially an insightful portrayal of their friendship, lives, marriages and their unswerving loyalty to each other, forged in the horror of their shared experiences.
Into middle-age, Hartmann, he of the beautifully-cut hair, expensive suit and manicured nails, is depicted as a hedonist, his raison d’être being the pursuance of life's simple pleasures. Fibich, on the other hand, is rather more uncertain and abstains from self-indulgence, due to the survivor-guilt that gnaws away at his being. Other than the common denominator of their troubled background, the two men have nothing in common, yet their being together brings them an unexpressed comfort.
Brookner was an author in total control of her craft and most modern-day writers couldn't hope to rival the elegant clarity of her prose. Fact. But here's the thing… Although it would be remiss of me to award this insightful novel anything less than five stars, I also wouldn't break into a gallop to recommend it. I view Anita Brookner's work as I do Alan Hollinghurst's; their storytelling just doesn't hold a candle to their peerless writing. In truth, the main characters lead unremarkable lives and nothing exciting or beguiling happens in the entire book! : (
Brookner was a self-possessed, perceptive writer and this introspective story conclusively showcases her subtle wit and keen powers of observation. Her sophisticated prose, as I've said, is indisputably a thing of beauty to be admired and appreciated. But those who prefer their books to take them on an uncertain-yet-absorbing journey might want to give it a swerve....more
I was convinced to read this gentle coming-of-age story by an inundation of five-star reviews posted by wonderful Goodreads friends. I would like the aI was convinced to read this gentle coming-of-age story by an inundation of five-star reviews posted by wonderful Goodreads friends. I would like the aforementioned friends to remain as such, so I'll get my main gripe out of the way and then move onto the good bits. : )
THE BAD BITS Repetition of the word 'and': >Thin and angry and blind and lost and shut up behind< >trustworthy and loyal and thrifty and brave and clean and reverent< >Forster's terns and black terns and great blue herons and egrets and bald eagles and warblers and other birds so ordinary and profuse<
Then there’s this little beauty: >And I turned back and entered the shadow of the sanctuary still smiling and suffered the glaring condemnation of the congregation and sat through the long service in which Albert Griswold held forth in his impromptu and interminable sermon about the need to impress godly values on the youth of the day and when it was over I walked back to the house and found Jake upstairs in our room and I apologized.<
Holy bad editing, Batman! Eight 'ands' and not a comma in sight! Is the use of commas expressly forbidden in Minnesota?
These are just a few examples. I had to stop highlighting any others (there were several), as it was spoiling my enjoyment of the story.
THE GOOD NEWS Clumsy writing/editing and run-on sentences notwithstanding, the story is a pleasant, inoffensive read and much of Krueger's prose is beautifully poetic. There is a strong narrative perspective and the author has a clear voice. I felt that there was a Sunday afternoon, black and white movie atmosphere to the read; a 'To Kill a Mockingbird'-meets-'Stand by Me' vibe. It flows slowly and gently, like a lazy river, wonderfully depicting how children can often see things that adults miss because they have inquiring minds. My favourite character was Jake, the younger brother who has a stutter. Because he is often uncommunicative, he listens keenly and possesses intuition beyond his years. I also warmed to Gus, who's an honourable, stand-up guy.
OVERVIEW I prefer my books to come bounding in with some grit and pizzazz. There were no 'Omigod!' moments in this read and it was far too wholesome for my liking.
Please note that my inconsequential opinion is very much the minority one. This book has charmed almost everyone who has read it, so you can treat my review with a great deal of scepticism.
"It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight." —Tristan Sadler’s father.
God, I appreciate you, John Boyne; with your head"It would be best for all of us if the Germans shoot you dead on sight." —Tristan Sadler’s father.
God, I appreciate you, John Boyne; with your head as smooth as a baby's bottom, your sparkling pixie eyes and your creative bloody genius. You were my go-to author when I hit a run of lamentable reads and you didn't let me down, you wonderful man.
The story begins in 1919, post-WWI England, in my own city of Norwich (I don't actually own it, I just live here). Tristan Sadler is the custodian of letters that were sent to his wartime buddy, Will Bancroft, by Bancroft's sister, Marian.
Told in alternating time periods, we learn of the men's kinship, forged in the tyranny of army training. Truths are implied, rather than divulged, allowing the reader to anticipate what is to follow. In fact, Boyne uses the 'show and not tell' technique to great effect for much of the story. Revelations are drip-fed as slowly as coffee through a Gaggia machine; themes of repressed homosexuality, unrequited love, betrayal, and an army's pack mentality are tossed into the bear pit of war. Boyne's signature dish is a serving of flawed main character. Tristan is one such character: as stubborn as a mule; doesn't think outside the box; is ruled by his heart; is petulant and jealous; is sometimes brave, yet sometimes cowardly. Oh, it's all here, folks: the foul, sludgy, shitty, rat-infested, murderous horror of the trenches and the complexities of human relationships in an era when anything more than a handshake between men would have elicited feelings of revulsion. This mini-epic held my interest throughout. It was thought-provoking, anger-inducing and at times searingly heart-breaking. And prepare yourselves for one devastating moment… Gasp. So cataclysmically moving ... please, please... NO-OOO!!!
John Boyne doesn't do tedium. He writes gutsy, emotive books that you miss when you're away from them. And the ending was befitting, revelatory and clever.
Three cheers for John Boyne and his absorbing storytelling! Hip, hip......more
Propaganda is a monologue that is not looking for an answer, but an echo." —W. H. Auden
I feel duped. This overhyped book was advertised thus: "A litPropaganda is a monologue that is not looking for an answer, but an echo." —W. H. Auden
I feel duped. This overhyped book was advertised thus: "A literary read ... dark and gripping ... a shocking twist ending!"
To amuse myself, I was going to type my review in the truncated style in which the book was written (at times it more resembled an eye chart than a piece of literature), but Mark Monday has beaten me to the punch. : ( Mark Monday's review I was expecting a literary tour de force: a book that would have me purring over its erudite prose as it dragged me into its diabolical depths. Alas, it was as thrilling as last year's Penguin-Counting Competition in Antartica.
And as for the 'shock twist', (view spoiler)[I assumed 'something' to be the case early on - and anticipated a far juicier twist to come. Alas, the 'thing' that I'd already taken for granted WAS the twist! (hide spoiler)] *sigh*
"All her bright golden hair, tarnished with rust. She, who was young and fair, fallen to dust." —Oscar Wilde
For Me-me, the girl who named herself.
Oh,"All her bright golden hair, tarnished with rust. She, who was young and fair, fallen to dust." —Oscar Wilde
For Me-me, the girl who named herself.
Oh, my! A poignant, hugely emotive short story of a unique little girl (Me-me), whose sparkling imagination elevates her from the grim reality of the London slums in which she resides. This snapshot of a tale is told from the POV of her older brother, Sammy, who has a rather more jaundiced view of the world they live in. Yet despite himself, his little sis provides him with the spiritual guidance he so sorely needs. She is Sammy's inspiration as well as his entertainment. In her beautiful spontaneous mind, Me-me pirouettes like a ballerina, living her disadvantaged life to the full and enriching the lives of those around her. And she enriched mine too for the duration of this soul-stirring story.
Thanks to Angela M for drawing my attention to this touching, almost parabolic, tale. It would move a statue, so it would.
"I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable." — Franz Kafka
Taking bedbugs to a whole new level, travelling salesman, Gregor Sam"I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable." — Franz Kafka
Taking bedbugs to a whole new level, travelling salesman, Gregor Samsa, wakes one morning to find himself transformed into a giant beetle. Rather than waving his legs and antennae in the air, screaming, "Omigod! Omigod! I’ve turned into a frigging cockroach!" he keeps his composure and goes about his daily business with a selfless determination. His family, by way of contrast, are a selfish, unpleasant bunch and merely see Gregor as vermin. It has oft been said that angsty Kafka might well have been channelling his own real-life feelings of worthlessness (i.e. him toiling as a writer when he could serve his family better by securing a ‘proper’ job). That being so, this poignant story is ostensibly one of alienation and guilt.
Many readers focus on the story’s inherent sadness, but (as is the case with Kafka’s The Trial), the author lessens his existential load with a generous dollop of dark humour. His writing is a little laboured at times, but this might have more to do with my reading of a translation, rather than his original. Overall, from its genius premise to its allegorical ending, Metamorphosis is an entertaining, pity-inducing, thought-provoking read. Despite its dark exoskeleton, this anthro-podcast has a soft abdomen and is a whole lot of fun!...more
Now I don't read Booker Prize-winning author Alan Hollinghurst for his storytelling. In truth, the lyrical beauty of his flawless writing almost negatNow I don't read Booker Prize-winning author Alan Hollinghurst for his storytelling. In truth, the lyrical beauty of his flawless writing almost negates the need for a story. So my five-star rating is solely for his penmanship (though he doesn't employ synonyms for the word "said". The repetition of "he said/she said" dialogue tags is hard to ignore). Alas, the story, such as it is, drags itself along like a beached turtle. This ambitious (and lengthy) novel is rather difficult to describe; an English upper-class/middle-class love triangle with a smattering of homoerotica thrown in – a Brideshead-meets-Atonement hybrid, but without a plot. I felt as if I was witnessing an evolution, rather than anything resembling a story. So, in truth, it was tedious. The author, like Ian McEwan, is undeniably one of Britain's finest writers and, as is true of McEwan, it's his elegant prose that steals the show. Hollinghurst is an artist in command of his craft but the whole, unfortunately, was less than the sum of its parts and if I were to rate the actual story, it would only merit a measly two stars.
Still, Hollinghurst is a highly gifted writer. Most authors out there would hate to have him peering over their shoulders while they’re tapping at a keyboard, so who am I to award him anything less than five lustrous stars?
Nonexistent story ... two stars Top-tier prose .... five stars Writing wins!...more
I was drawn to this arid Australian crime thriller by a desert storm of five-star reviews, not to mention the fact that this was The Sunday Times CrimI was drawn to this arid Australian crime thriller by a desert storm of five-star reviews, not to mention the fact that this was The Sunday Times Crime Book of the Year. Hmmm… *Folds his arms and sighs* I'm not saying that this was a bad book … it was OK … though the storyline (for me) was flat, improbable, slow-paced and bereft of suspense. Apart from that, it was fine!
Bland federal agent, Aaron Falk, returns to the small Outback town of his childhood for the funeral of his best friend (and also his best friend's immediate family) and is drawn into an unofficial investigation as to how they really met their deaths.
Here is a list of just some of the things that niggled me:
1) The book is titled The Dry. It's set in the swelter of the Outback in the middle of the worst drought to hit Australia in a century. Yet I didn't get any real sense of the suffocating heat, nor do I remember flies being swatted from any number of sweaty faces.
2) Aaron Falk is in town and just happens to be on the financial intelligence side of criminal investigation (how very convenient for the purpose of the story).
3) The dialogue was unconvincing. I mean, don't rough, tough, leather-necked Aussie men in the middle of the Outback ever use the f-word? I know Crocodile Dundee didn't, but come on!
4) I guessed who the killer was the moment he/she was introduced! As subterfuge goes, that's pretty average.
5) I found it difficult to connect with any of the characters; most were portrayed as small-minded and insular.
So, for me (and I seem to be swimming against the tide), this novel was several shrimps short of a barbie. But almost everyone else likes it, so please, please don't take a blind bit of notice of anything I've said!...more
"Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." —Albert Einstein
Small-town teen, Cathy Wray, finds herself in the family way. (I"Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." —Albert Einstein
Small-town teen, Cathy Wray, finds herself in the family way. (I'm a poet, yet didn't know it). She is also desperate to escape her parents, who want her pregnancy kept secret and the baby given up for adoption. But then a serendipitous moment occurs; a highlighted ad in a newspaper’s situations vacant column: a position at a toymakers’ store, Papa John's Emporium, in London. As if guided by a deity, Cathy hightails it to the capital with a swollen belly and a runaway's dream of motherhood. She discovers the joint to be every bit as magical as she'd hoped; a place where saluting tin soldiers rub shoulders with eager Russian dolls, and where a pyramid of ballerinas stand en pointe, hoping to be bought. The emporium is out of step with the outside world and the toys therein burst wonderfully to life in the imagination of customers, and readers, alike. To make the toys work, their creators, Emil and Kaspar, retain a child's perspective and I was lapping it up - a cynical adult once more flying the magic carpet of his childhood, or Robert Loggia dancing on a giant piano keyboard with Tom Hanks.
The book was subtly magical and so beautifully written.
In fact, up until the 40% mark, I was already declaring it to be my best read, thus far, in 2018.
Sadly though, like a toy bear that has lost much of its stuffing, the story began to sag in the middle. The character development required fresh batteries and the slow pace of the story would have benefitted from a new winding mechanism. This began as an epic tale of sibling rivalry; two brothers competing for their father’s (view spoiler)[(and Cathy’s) (hide spoiler)] affections in a Legends of the Fall/Twelfth Night kind-of-way but, by the end, it had morphed into a Willy Wonka/Chitty Chitty Bang Bang piece of nonsense! Such a shame, as it was initially so-o good, and promised much.
It’s only Dinsdale's exquisite prose that has stopped me from slinging this novel into three-star jail!...more
"Shame is like everything else; live with it for long enough and it becomes part of the furniture." —Salman Rushdie (excerpt from the book).
Oh, Sal"Shame is like everything else; live with it for long enough and it becomes part of the furniture." —Salman Rushdie (excerpt from the book).
Oh, Salman, my beardy bunnykins … gah! You’ve only gone and let me down AGAIN! *sigh*
I revere Rushdie. I even proclaimed him to be one of my favourite authors, right here on my profile page, alongside Dickens, Márquez and dear old Dumas. But, alas, here’s another book of his that cannot hope to rival the magnificence of Midnight's Children.
Set in a country that’s 'not quite Pakistan' (but nevertheless bears an uncanny resemblance to it, nudge, nudge, wink, wink), Salman cooks up a modern-day fable infused with a bouquet garni of religious taboos, social prejudices and bizarre relationships. Illegitimate Omar Khayyam (named after the famous poet) is brought up by a triumvirate of bonkers sisters, one of whom is his mother. He has the pick of six nipples as each sister takes turns to breastfeed him (for some reason this put me in mind of she-wolves suckling either Romulus or Remus). They guardedly hide him away from the spiteful world outside within the faded elegance of a grand house (think Miss Havisham and Estella in Great Expectations).
Omar, who later becomes a man fatter than fifty watermelons and devoid of shame, falls in love with simpleminded Sufiya, who conversely siphons up all the shame there is in the world and then morphs into a mythological beast who goes on to behead a flock of turkeys and a small number of humans!
Rushdie is his usual playful self and, in a postmodern way, even invites himself into the narration, almost as if he was telling his story to people sitting around a campfire. Now, I love Mr Rushdie's gift for sharp-witted wordplay, but in this case, an overabundance of resplendent prose only succeeds in damming the narrative stream. And I absolutely know I'm not the sharpest tool in the box, but the story became so rambling, so complex and so 'out there' that I found it hard to keep up. In fact, for much of my read, I didn't have a Scooby* what was going on!
There were memorable moments, of course there were: the scene in which the three sisters each adopt hear-no-see-no-speak-no-evil-positions on receipt of bad news was pure comedy gold!
Salman, I know you’re reading this (he can't get enough of my stuff), but can you please stop swanning around glitzy cocktail parties and instead write something worthy of your amazing talent? Come on, buddy, make me proud of you again. I know you'd like that. At the risk of seeming contradictory, it was still better than most books out there - hence the four stars.
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