In which we learn about the rules of engagement.
Or was it travel? Having finished Tony Hawks I thought some more travel-in-Ireland was in order and therefore reread Pete McCarthy’s McCarthy’s Bar, where, amongst other things, he lays out a few of the rules of travel. The one that gives the book its name is ‘8. Never pass a bar which has your name on it.’ An admirable sentiment, though somewhat more useful if your name is Pete McCarthy than if it’s Ragnhild Sandlund. Never mind.
I seem to have concluded that I will not be able to reread both A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses before I go to Ireland. Considering the fact that it’s now only 75 hours before I leave for the airport, this is probably a sensible conclusion to come to (especially as I’ll have to subtract at least 12 hours for work and hopefully 22 for sleep).
So I’ve been rereading Tony Hawks’ Round Ireland with a Fridge instead, which is less intellectually snobbish, but at least as much fun.
Hawks somehow gets himself into a bet that he can’t hitch-hike the circumference of Ireland with a fridge, and as absurdities go, this one’s quite good in itself and should make for an interesting read at least. Add then Hawks’ exemplary ability to get into contact with people and to relate conversations (something certain other travel writers should learn a bit from), and you’re basically in for a craic. Or something.
Anyway, I enjoyed it last time round, I enjoyed it this time round, and I’m really looking forward to getting to Ireland.
In which we have growing pains.
Finally got around to rereading About a Boy this weekend. I’ve been planning to ever since the film came out, I didn’t want to see the film before I’d reread the book. So now I can see it, though it’s no longer on at the cinema, obviously, which is a pity, but I guess it’s probably not the sort of film that needs the big screen, so I guess renting the dvd will be ok.
Anyway. It’s a lovely book. No surprises, there, really – well, I already knew I liked it, obviously, having read it before – since I have yet to come across any book of Nick Hornby’s that I don’t like. I suppose I could give you a rundown of the plot, but I don’t think I can be bothered. And I don’t really have anything intelligent to say about it other than that it is lovely and you really should read it if you haven’t. Not doing a very good job of this book review thingamagig, am I? Pathetic, really.
In which there is plenty of monkey business.
Having had a bit of a strange assortment of books in my tbr pile lately, I started Robert Sapolskys Junk Food Monkeys after finishing with Moore. Not a continuous narrative like A Primate’s Memoir, Junk Food Monkeys is a collection of essays all dealing with the bordeline between biology and personality. Bravely, Sapolsky even considers what possible connections there are between our bodies chemical reactions and our belief in God (or other religious beliefs). Personally, I found some of the earlier essays more interesting, especially those dealing with the biology of psychological anormalities – are there really purely chemical reasons why some people are schitzophrenics? And are a lot of people walking around with a milder version of the same chemical configuration, resulting in just mildly odd or eccentic behaviour rather than actual illness? He also relates some interesting stories of how the availability of corpses for scientific research though the centuries has resulted in some very wrong conclusions and some serious errors in the treatment of patients. And can testosterone really be blamed for all the fact that all men are agressive idiots?
Sapolsky writes intelligently and readably (is that a word? probably not), and manages to balance the «populistic» aspect (this is a book anyone could read) with enough «meat» to make it interesting even if you know a lot on the subject already (or so I’ve been told by someone who does), and certainly makes it challenging enough for us mere mortals not to make me feel like I’m being talked down to, which is nice.
In which Robin fails to laugh.
I found Stupid White Men in a Stockholm bookshop at a reasonable price (the shops here seem to have marked it up, for some reason), and it was pretty quickly devoured. It’s hard to know what to say about books like these, I think. It’s very good, of course, and Moore definitely has a point or two (or a hundred). I am puzzled, though, at how it can be described as «funny». The quote on the back from the San Francisco Chronicle is pretty typical of the sort of thing you hear about Moore: «Hysterically funny. The angrier Moore gets, the funnier he gets. Sensational.» Well, I mean, no, not really. I think I might have laughed once during the whole book. That’s not what I’d describe as hysterically funny. The Observer seem to have got the point, though: «Caustic, breakneck, tell-it-like-it-is… He’s a genuine populist; a twenty-first-century pamphleteer.»
I am not being very helpful about this, am I? Well, here’s some advice for you: Read this book. It’ll make you think even if it doesn’t make you laugh.
I’ve just reread Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights for a bookring at bookcrossing. I remembered the first book as being the most enjoyable the last time I read the «his dark materials» trilogy, and I guess I would probably still feel the same way. I’m not sure that I’ll reread the other two – at the very least I will try to read Paradise Lost first, as I remember too much of Pullman’s plot to make a reread fruitful without having some new aspect to investigate. Those of you who know my reading habits will know that this is not necessarily a compliment (I reread practically every book I enjoy at least once).
In which we have a singalong.
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?
In which we amble pleasantly.
Alexander 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!
In which hitchhikers are advised to hide in the bushes until the car has passed.
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.
In which we are enchanted.
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.