Forfatter: Mirthful

Man and Boy – Tony Parsons

Mirthful

In which it is necessary to remind the reader of the importance of tissues.

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I’ve just swallowed Tony Parsons’ Man and Boy whole. Not literally, obviously, or I’d be in the hospital right now, but in as few hours as is compatible with thorough reading. I read the first few pages (20? 30?) a week or maybe more back and got distracted, but this afternoon I picked it up again, and I couldn’t put it down. This was absolutely not what I was meant to do this afternoon. I was meant to do some work and maybe fix that bunad (17th of May looming larger on the horizon every day), but alas, alack.

So. Man and Boy is a compelling read. I suppose that’s established. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, the ending, for example, has left me a bit deflated. This is not to say it’s bad, just that it could have been better. Still, I am near enough convinced that I will be reading every other Parsons book I can lay my hands on, so I suppose the publishers will be happy.

31 Songs

Mirthful

In which we have a singalong.

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I bought his book on World Book Day, 23 April. Not so much because it was World Book Day (though that’s always a good excuse) as because I happened to see it mentioned somewhere on the net that day and I had not previously been aware that Hornby had a new book out – and obviously I had to have it immediately.

31 Songs is not, as you might be able to guess, a novel. It’s a collection of little, hm, well, not really essays, essayettes? Well, whatever. It contains 27 chapters that all in all deal with 31 songs (in fact, rather a few more songs are mentioned), songs that Hornby for one reason or another likes and about which he feels he has something worthwhile to say. I’m a little sorry that it is not a novel, novels being my staple diet and Hornby being such a master chef, but it’s hard to wish this book were a novel instead while reading it, it’s such an extremely pleasant read. Despite having heard very few of the songs and a few of the ones I have heard I don’t particularly like (Nelly Furtado’s I’m Like a Bird, for example), I found myself nodding in agreement and recognition a lot of the time. Part of Hornby’s «purpose» is a defence of pop songs as a valid, grown-up, genre, in face of the dismissal the pop-fan will inevitably receive from jazz-buffs and afficinados of classical music (whether genuine or not).

Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don’t listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and force other people to listen to them, and get cross when these other people don’t like them as much as I do (…)

As someone who prefers Alanis Morissette to Carmen for emotional affirmation (not that I don’t like Carmen, it’s just not a CD that ends up in the player very often, whereas it’s rare for a week to go by without one or other of AM’s songs bursting from the speakers at full volume), this sort of sentiment is bound to endear the author to me. But to be honest, I’m pretty sure I’d still have enjoyed this book even if I’d disagreed with every opinion Hornby has, I am too much of a fan of his writing, his way of expressing himself, to actually be much bothered about the subject.

Now that you’ve got that off you chest, could we please have another novel from you, Mr. Hornby?

The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency

Mirthful

In which we amble pleasantly.

no1ladiesAlexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency is said by people who ought to know to paint a fairly accurate picture of life in Botswana. I have no idea as to the veracity of this, but it seems likely to be true. There is a wonderful sense of unhurriedness in this book, about Precious Ramotswe, who, following her father’s death and her inheritance of his amassed «fortune» – cattle, which she sells – becomes the first Lady detective in the country. It is not a detective novel in the sense of western European literary traditions. There is mystery, definitely, and crime and cruelty, at least potential cruelty, but there is no temptation to turn to the last page to check «whodunnit». In fact, there is an amazing contradiction in the «feel» of the book, for while it feels unhurried and relaxed, like a good cup of tea in the shade under a tree, there is also a drive to the story which makes the pages fly by.

Highly recommended, by both me and Pia (who lent me the book), which ought to be more than enough for you. Go read it!

Hitchhiker – Simpson

Mirthful

In which hitchhikers are advised to hide in the bushes until the car has passed.

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I enjoyed Simpson’s biography of Douglas Adams, entitled Hitchhiker, however, unless you’re a die-hard fan who needs to read everything by and about DNA my advice to you would be to pass it by. Though well-researched and reasonably (though definitely not brilliantly) written, the book focuses rather more on the «negative» aspects of Adams’ career than on the positive. No-one who waited 10 years for the promised next novel (known for most of that decade as Salmon of Doubt, not to be confused with the collection of odd bits and pieces published under that name) can be unaware of Adams’ inability to meet deadlines. Simpson, rightly, you could argue, spends quite a bit of energy on this subject – so much so that it becomes rather tiresome, and he completely fails to see the funny side of this trait (or if he sees the funny side, he fails to convey it). He also spends rather a lot of time retelling some of the good stories Adams told, and then saying «However, that’s not stricktly true.» This also gets quite repetitive, and though the thorough examination of the embelishments and results of faulty memory is no doubt excellent scholarship, I’m not sure I really care (at least not quite so many pages’ worth).

However, I mostly enjoyed it. I did not, however, enjoy the last chapter. Simpson seems intent on convincing his readers that Adams’ heart attack happened because he was fundamentally unhappy – all because the H2G2 film again seemed to have sunk into the Hollywood quagmire. Not only does this seem somewhat unreasonable to me – here’s a man with a wife and daughter and a happy family life, with millions of fans worldwide, with major successes behind him and the safe knowledge that if someone locks him in a hotel room for an adequate number of weeks he will quite definitely produce another blockbuster (he could write, he just had to be forced to sit down and do it) and I could go on and on – and even if Simpson is right, I would just much rather not know, thank you very much. I am still upset about Adams’ untimely death, I do not need to be further upset by the thought that he was miserable when he died.

All in all, you’d be much better off reading Neil Gaiman’s biography.

ROFL

Mirthful

I am finishing Simpson’s biography of Douglas Adams at the moment (more of that when I have finished), but it’s a pretty cumbersome volume, and so I brought The Secret World of the Irish Male to read on the bus this morning. By page 5 or so I had already startled my fellow passengers by chortling uncontrollably and I was well and truly hooked. With sentiments such as these:

You never know what’s going to happen in real life either, but some things you can be relatively confident about. The truth will always hurt, half your socks will always disappear in the washing machine and John Bruton in full flight will always be strangely reminiscent of Kermit the Frog in The Muppet Show.

(…)

After a while the police arrived [to remove students from an office they were occupying]. They were quite angry. They said thay would «do whatever was necessary» to get us out. They repeated the phrase a few times. We scoffed, heroically. We’d be here, we said, until all of our demands had been met. They asked us what these demands were. There seemed to be a bit of confusion at this point. Personally, in addition to having Ireland immediately declared a 32 county socialist republic, I wanted to have a regular girlfriend and «Brideshead Revisited» repeated on a Monday night.

How could I be otherwise?

I’ve just glanced at the amazon reviews, by the way, and it’s a long time since I’ve seen a book that people either love or hate, not one «ok, but not very exciting» comment to be seen. It came highly recommended to me, Linda put it into my hands saying «Here. Borrow this. I almost died laughing.» so I will persist in looking forward to the rest of it…

Wizard of the Pigeons

Mirthful

In which we are enchanted.

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Wizard of the Pigeons has been lying in my tbr pile for a while, waiting for a little time and breathing space. I finally found the time and can now report that it is lovely. I think I may have held my breath throughout the last third. Though surely not, as I am still alive. It felt like it, in any case.

Not the End of the World

Mirthful

In which we exclaim: So short, so short!

I’m not a big fan of short stories in general, but I have just devoured Kate Atkinson’s Not the End of the World, despite thinking after the first couple of stories that «This is the sort of book to dip into, it’s far too rich to do justice to all of it at once.» Well, perhaps I did not do justice to it. I suspect I will have to reread it at some point.

Though they stand perfectly well on their own feet, the stories intertwine, and so to some extent I suppose there is something to be said for reading the whole thing as a book rather than one story at a time. The richness comes from the balance – or, at times, deliberate confusion – between what we would normally recognise as reality and something else, something not quite defined, or indeed, definable. It’s rather refreshing to see an author so cheerfully ignoring the rules of probability and realism within the confines of «contemporary fiction» rather than the genre-specific conventions of «fantasy», for example.

Go read!

West from Home

Mirthful

In which we want more.

I’ve just read a biography about Laura Ingalls Wilder which was so pointless I can’t be bothered to remember who it was by. Pointless because it told you very, very little you wouldn’t already know if you’ve read «the Little House books». The author spent 200 pages recapping what Laura herself says more than eloquently enough and then about 40, as a sort of afterthought, about what happened next.

Much more satisfying, then, to go back to reading Laura’s own words in West from Home, which I finished today. It contains letters from Laura to her husband written when she travelled to San Francisco to visit their daughter and see the grand exhibition in 1915, and is delightful reading.

Aubrey/Maturin

Mirthful

In which we finish at last.

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I just put down Blue at the Mizzen, which means I am done with this year’s reread of O’Brian. For a few weeks now I’ve really been itching to read other books, but somehow I just can’t stop reading the Aubrey/Maturin books once I’ve started. Oh, I wish there were 20 more, of course, but as there aren’t, I am very happy to be done.

But, if you have not yet read any O’Brian, then shoo. Off with you! Go read Master & Commander. And come back in a few days when I»ll have something else to write about.

Gosh. Time flies.

Mirthful 1 Comment

I’m still reading O’Brian. I’ve got to The Far Side of the World, now, which is half-way though the canon and is the book Peter Weir has based the upcoming film on. I can see his point about it being filmable, however, considering how much they have reportedly changed the plot, I can’t quite see why they couldn’t just have started at the beginning and changed the plot of Master & Commander in order to make it filmable too. But then I’m not a film maker, maybe I’d see things differently if I were.