Kategori: Authors

Sult

Mirthful

I finally managed to finish Hamsun’s Sult (Hunger). I started it months ago for a group read on the Scandlit list, but have been struggling to finish. Not because it’s not engaging, rather because it’s too engaging. It made me feel physically sick, and it was quite impossible to eat while I read it. As I tend to eat and read at the same time, it was therefore left on the side a lot. Very, very good. Very, very disturbing.

Hamsun, of course, is a complete embarrasment to any Norwegian. An extremely good author, but also extremely vocal in his support for the Nazis. Help! What do we do? Well, I admire his books and despise his political views and I really can’t see that there is much else you can do…

Evelina – and more

Mirthful

I have been chastised for writing about Norwegian books in Norwegian. Well, I suppose that’s fair enough, especially as it’s been slim pickings here recently. I’m back to English, now – partly because I’m also back to reading English.

Over the weekend I reread Fanny Burney’s Evelina. It’s well worth the trouble, and in parts it’s laugh out loud funny (though I wouldn’t be willing to bet on it always being intentional). I was intending to read it rather slowly and follow the group read on the Austen-List (the McGill Austen mailing list), but once I got started I somehow couldn’t put it down. I suppose I can still join in the discussions, I just need to remind myself which part we’re looking at each week. Well, anyway, what I wanted to comment on was that someone on that list «lamented» that Austen abandoned the epistolary form, reasoning that it would have been interesting to know what she would have made of it (that she had mastered it is plain from Lady Susan). I really can’t bring myself to agree. One of the things I missed most in Evelina was any sort of comment upon Evelina’s way of expressing herself. And what Austen excels at, more than anything else, is the narrative voice, and the way the narrative voice manipulates the reader into thinking and feeling exactly what the authour wants him/her to be thinking and feeling. In Evelina, I had to make up all the commentary myself. And, delightful as I find my own conversation, it’s not quite as satisfying.

Why do all the authors I like die young with too many books left to write? It is not fair.

I finished Evelina Saturday evening and found myself at a loose end. Somehow I had managed to pack just the one book. After a search through my grandparents’ bookshelves, I settled on Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped – it’s a classic, I guess, and one has to read classics. The major drawback was that it was (naturally) a Norwegian translation, but I took my chances. It’s a quick read, at least. I can’t help suspect that it’s lost some weight in the translation, but maybe not. Not all classics are breeze blocks, after all. I’m not quite sure what to think of the story. It wasn’t what I expected, somehow, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It was riveting enough while I was reading it, but very easily forgotten afterwards. It also ended very abruptly, before the story had come to a satisfactory conclusion (satisfactory to me, that is). Does the original, I wonder? Does the protagonist still have the possibility of a trial and a hanging hanging (bad choice of words…) over him at the end of Stevenson’s unmeddled-with work? I guess I’ll have to have a peek at the last page of a «proper» edition just to check. If it does, I can’t help but feel that it’s a bit overrated, for the time being, though, I reserve my judgement.

Whodunnit?

Mirthful

Ok, so now I’ve raced through the Harriet Vane novels (Strong Poison, Have His Carcase, Gaudy Night, Busman’s Honeymoon and Thrones, Dominations) but as I’ve talked about them before I don’t think I will bother you with them now (except to say they are still excellent). I had something less of an existential crisis this time around, no doubt being a mite prepared for what awaited me helped.

I then went on to a long-awaited book by a Norwegian author, and therefore the rest of this is in Norwegian…

Så kom det ENDELIG en ny Varg Veum bok! Trilogier er vel og bra Staalesen, men det er nå bøker som Som i et speil jeg helst vil ha da (men du skriver kanskje ikke bare for min fornøyelse, eller?).

Feilen med å «anmelde» krimbøker er selvsagt at det blir så vanskelig å si noe meningsfylt uten å røpe noe om handlingen. Skal vi se… Veum blir som vanlig hyret til noe som ser ut som en ganske harmløs, eller i hvert fall enkel, sak – men som viser seg både å ha røtter lengre tilbake i tid og å involvere flere mennesker enn det Veums klient gir inntrykk av. Nei, vet du hva. Du får stole på meg: Boka må du lese så det er meningsløst for meg å si noe mer om handlingen.

Addendum:
Ok, ok… Here’s a quick translation: «So there’s FINALLY a new Varg Veum novel! Trilogies are all well and good, Staalesen, but it’s books like «As in a mirror» I prefer (though possibly you don’t write for my pleasure only?).

The problem with writing about crime fiction is obviously that it is so hard to say something meaningful without giving the plot away. Let’s see… Veum is, as ususal, hired on a case that appears to be pretty harmless, or at least straightforward – but which turns out to have roots stretching further back and to involve more people than Veum’s client wants to let on. No, sorry. You’ll have to trust me: You need to read the book anyway, so it’s pointless for me to say anything more.»

I’ve also done a quick search and it seems at least one Staalesen book has been available in English, at least amazon.co.uk has a listing for At Night All Wolves are Grey. So I guess there’s hope for all you non-speakers, too. Or you could just learn Norwegian. Staalesen is worth it.

Breakfast in Brighton – Nigel Richardson

Mirthful

In which we go rambling.

I finished The Road to McCarthy last week. A somewhat more rambling account than the author’s previous book (McCarthy’s Bar), but none the worse for that. Not the sort of book I would advise for reading on the bus if you are at all shy about people staring, it is frequently laugh out loud funny.

I then picked up a book I found in a charity shop in Glasgow, Breakfast in Brighton, by Nigel Richardson (or Nicholas, whichever amazon entry you believe – very strange that). In rambling terms it gave Pete McCarthy a run for his money. I’m still not entirely sure what the book was all about. However, it was a very pleasant read. A little knowledge of Brighton and Sussex may be an advantage, but I suspect the book is quite as enjoyable if you’ve never been anywhere near the place.

I’m obviously into writing long and profound analyses of books at the moment…

«Pleasant read». Hmph.

Watermelon – Marian Keyes

Mirthful

Having a break in Middlemarch (because I couldn’t be bothered to carry it to Scotland with me), I reread My Family and Other Animals and The New Noah by Gerald Durrell, partly because they are both good, but mainly because I had spare copies which meant I could «lose» them along the way. Hopefully they’ll be picked up and enjoyed by someone else.

While on the last chapters of The New Noah, I conveniently found Marianne Keyes’ Watermelon in a PDSA charity shop in Helensburgh on the 26th and had read it by the 28th. It’s a very good read, entertaining and reasonably light (without being Mills-&-Boon-fluffy) and definitely of the feel-good variety. However, I don’t think it’s one I’ll want to reread (as opposed to Sushi for Beginners), so I left it in the B&B in Dufftown. My bags were stuffed in any case.

I came home to find The Road to McCarthy in the mailbox. I had completely forgotten that I ordered it from The English Bookclub to avoid receiving the editor’s choice, and so was A. pleasantly surprised and B. mightily relieved that I had not bought it while in Britain (despite looking at it in bookshops several times, I kept thinking «Nah, later»). Middlemarch will have to wait while I laugh my way through this on the bus.

84 Charing Cross Road – Helene Hanff

Mirthful

In the meantime, 84 Charing Cross Road popped up in two quite unrelated discussions during the last week. So guess what I reread yesterday? My paperback copy has The Dutchess of Bloomsbury Street in the same volume, so that’ll be my reading for tonight. After that, it’s back to the search for the perfect book about Scotland. Only eleven days to go before I will be there myself.

The King is Dead – Sarah Shankman

Mirthful

In which we’re somewhat lonesome tonight.

A little sick of unsatisfying travelling companions, I followed Native Stranger with a Sarah Shankman (her of I Still Miss my Man but my Aim is getting Better fame) novel I picked up in Fjærland called The King is Dead. It’s a sort of a crime novel, and very entertaining. It reminded me, not only of how much of my reading has concentrated on the British Isles, but how much of what isn’t British is set in either the midwest (Minnesota and such) or in the Pacific north-west (Oregon, Washington, British Columbia). The southern themes of Shankman’s novels feel almost alien at times (what with all the Elvis impersonators, it almost is). The dialect certainly is. I also find myself getting the characters mixed up because of the similarity (to me) of their names, as if they were all called Billy-Sue and Billy-Bob (though, in fact, there wasn’t a single Billy). I hadn’t realised before quite how the regional nature of names actually affects the «feel» of a story. It’s the literal equivalent of «all chinese people look identical» – a fallacy which is true only in cases of unfamiliarity (did that make any sense whatsoever?). Whatever. I want to read more Shankman. I also want to read more «Southern» books, once I get over this Scottish phase. It was a timely reminder of how large (and diverse) the North American continent is. I have been thinking that I ought to read more books not written in English. Evidently, I ought likewise to consider some of those traditions in English literature that I have obviously been ignoring.

So much to read, so little time.

Notes and natives

Mirthful

brysonIn which we look for travelling companions.

Following Faintheart, I succumbed and reread Bill Bryson’s Notes from a Small Island, despite the fact that very little of it concerns Scotland (Scotland being the topic I’m supposed to be covering). It really is an excellent book. I think one of the reasons I like Bryson som much is that he’s as batty about Britain as I am. And in precisely the same way, too. We may complain about the plumbing (or ask «What plumbing? You mean they have plumbing?») and we may be bewildered by bus queues and picnics on the beach in a gale, but we love even the plumbing and the queues and the picnics, simply because Britain wouldn’t be Britain without them. (Cue the librarian walking into a B&B and exclaiming with delight: «Look! Separate taps for hot and cold water!» though if someone suggested she install such a system at home she’d be horrified, naturally, just think of the impracticality!) Which doesn’t mean that Bryson likes every place he visits, and it certainly doesn’t mean he doesn’t say some pretty cutting (though mainly quite funny) things about people and places, but at least you get the feeling that, on the whole, he actually likes travelling. What a nice change from Mr. Jennings.

I then ventured on Native Stranger, my other haul from amazon. This one is written by a Scot (his name, in fact, is Alastair Scott), and is as much an examination of how history has affected the Scottish mind and the Scottish landscape as it is about travelling, as such. I learnt a lot. On the whole, a very interesting account, but again, I found something lacking. I have no reason to think that Scott did not enjoy his trek, he seems interested in the people and places he meets, but the contrast to Bryson is there: he doesn’t convey any enthusiasm to the reader. Bryson can make me want to go places I had never even contemplated before. Having read Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, only a strong dose of self-discipline kept me from packing my bags set off to walk the Appalachian trail just as soon as I could find a travel agency willing to sell me an airplane ticket. In fact, I was this close to just up and walking there, I was in Detroit at the time and it seemed like the experience would be worth a walk across a couple of states…

So I guess maybe that’s what I am missing. I am missing the ability in the author to make me sigh «I wish I were there too!» Not, like Jennings, «I wish I were there instead!» I want the author to give me the impression that I would like him/her as a travelling companion, and I guess a measure of enthusiasm is one of my prerequisites for travelling companions. And with that in mind, statements like these put me off:

«Lunchtime would se me turn Viking, invading a grocer and pillaging milk, pies, cheese, bananas and Mars Bars; and stocking up with Cup a soups, tuna and spaghetti for the evening. My diet seldom varied. Since I began travelling the taste of food has ceased to have much importance and my tolerance for monotony usually lasts a journey.»

Fine, so food isn’t the be-all and end-all (at least, interesting food isn’t) of life in general or travelling in particular, but one of the joys of travelling is to sit down to a good meal at the end of the day, with a good companion (a person or a book, I don’t mind either way). Or to have a picnic consisting of slightly dry bread and flat fizzy water on a cliff in a downpour. The food doesn’t have to be good, but it has to be part of the experience. I don’t know. Somehow, that one comment about food set the mood of the whole book for me. I never got in tune with the author after that.

Still, as a grounding in Scottish history and modern sensibilities it was a good read, not to be sneezed at.

Bill Bryson, if you ever read this (I don’t know why you should, but if you do), please, please, please write a ‘Notes from a Small Island 2’, and spend a little more time in Scotland and a little more in Wales.

I Still Miss my Man, but my Aim is Getting Better – Sarah Shankman

Mirthful

shankmanIn which we go south.

Just finished Sarah Shankman’s I Still Miss my Man, but my Aim is Getting Better. It has to be one of the best book titles ever, which is a bit of a pity in way because it leaves the poor little book a lot to live up to. And it doesn’t quite manage. That said, it’s highly entertaining. The novel’s set in Nashville, and centres on Shelby, who’s left her good-for-nothing husband to come there to make it big as a songwriter. Take an ex-husband who just doesn’t understand the phrase «it’s over», add at least three jealousy-dramas, a crookster with nothing to loose, a kidnapping, an old star who’s been in hiding for 30 years, rather a lot of Smith & Wessons and kitchen knives and two angels, one good, one bad, who have their separate ideas of how the story would best turn out, and you’ve got yourself a rippin’ good yarn. I can think of worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. And now, pretty much inevitably, I’m listening to Patsy Cline and wondering whether I can get hold of These Boots are made for Walking.

Update

Mirthful

(Here is one I prepared earlier, i.e. last night:) This is not good. The diary seems to be stopping me from updating this reading log (would that be a rlog or a glog, I wonder?). I will try to improve the frequency, especially because this is going to have to be some post to get me up to date…

Hornblower… Finished the series. Thought once again what a pity it was that there are only 10 books. Reflected that I am glad there are 20 Aubrey/Maturin books (O’Brian), especially since they are infinitely better than Forester’s books, although there should have been more. There should always be more books, good ones, that is.

Read some more Sayers. Thrones, Dominations arrived, so I dropped everything to read that. Kjetil was a bit miffed, as he was visiting that week, and I became rather engrossed. Lovely book. I don’t think I would have noticed that it wasn’t all Sayers’ work if I hadn’t known (it was finished by Jill Paton Walsh), and also suspect that the bits I did wonder at were probably Sayers’ own. At least considering JPW’s statement that the majority of the letters she’s had saying «that’s not the way Sayers would have wanted it» actually referred to Sayers’ own passages.

And, of course, I’ve been reading No Logo. It really is highly recommended. Even if you don’t want to get involved in actual activism, and even if a boycott of all the brands that deserve being boycotted is virtually impossible (unless you start producing everything yourself), knowing why others become activists and exercising a little bit of consumer awareness when shopping is no bad thing. And if you think, as I vaguely did, that the main focus of the book is the exploitation of the «third world», you really should read it. The main impression I am left with is that the so-called globalisation is not only an economic and ecological threat, first and foremost it is a cultural threat. Corporate thinking is taking over our cultural space. That can’t be good. Read the book!

On a lighter note, I got hold of India Knight’s (my favourite columnist) new novel, Don’t You Want Me. It is a vast improvement on her first, My Life on a Plate, and that is very good, so this is rockin’. The most enoyable parts of Don’t You Want Me are, in fact, the parts that are most like her columns, rants of various kinds on any topic that happens to be remotely related to the plot. There are also a couple of hilarious scenes when the main character takes her toddler to an extremely PC playgroup. I suspect, however, that the reason I liked it so much more than the first one, is that this has a perfectly happy ending of the «and they lived happily ever after» sort. I like happy endings.

The new job gives me plenty of bus-time to read. It makes up for the fact that getting to work now takes 45-50 minutes instead of 20-30. So I read Populärmusik från Vittula on the bus. Risky stuff, as it’s of LOL quality, and that sort of thing tends to startle the other passengers. Apart from being side-achingly funny, it is a very enjoyable book on many levels (though enjoyable might be the wrong word, it’s rather tragic in a way), and fully deserves all the attention that’s been lavished on it in the Scandinavian media lately (and how often does that happen?).

This weekend I read Arthemis Fowl, after having put it off for ages, thinking I probably wouldn’t like it much. I finally caved in (due to the «what to read while waiting for Harry Potter 5» hype), hoping to be proved wrong. Unfortunately, I wasn’t. It’s decently written, but suffers from a severe lack of likeable characters. People talk about Harry Potter being immoral and bad for children, well, what about a twelve-year-old criminal mastermind? How moral is that. Ok, so he loves his mother and he has a soft spot, preferring not to kill people (or fairies), but that really does not make him sympathetic. And the other characters aren’t much better. By the end of the story I was rooting for something to go wrong and blow up and kill everyone involved so the rest of the world could get on with it, and good riddance. NOT a book I will put on my «what to recommend to children (of any age)» list (notice that I have NOT linked to this book).

I’ve also read, of all things, a couple of so-called «erotic classics», The Story of O, which was more disturbing than erotic, really, and Uten en tråd (Jens Bjørneboe). I can see why the latter caused a stir when it was published in the latter half of the 60ies, but in a way I also wonder at it, because it is so obviously written to provoke. I thought I’d read Mykle next, the other serious Norwegian author tried in court for publishing obscene/pornographic material. Unlike Bjørneboe, Mykle apparently was caught unawares by the hullaballoo, he was simply trying to write good literature. Hopefully that will mean the books are better worth reading, and possibly have an actual plot (I like plots).

This Saturday saw me on the prowl for more Saxegaard books, and I had amazing luck at one of the second-hand book-shops at Majorstua, where I found the last Ina-book, Ina og Ingolf (which means I’m now down to missing only four Ina books to complete the collection). Obviously, that’s what I read Saturday evening.

I’m sure I’ve left something out, this doesn’t actually seem like a lot for one-and-a-half month’s reading. I’ve watched a lot of television, though (bad girl!), and I’ve read at least one trashy romance of average quality (no, I’m not going to tell you the title, there’s no point, they’re pretty much all the same anyway).

Right now I’m in one of those «too many books at once» moods, where I have a hard time settling down to one book, because there’s so many others I’d like to be reading at the same time. Consequently, I read a chapter of one and then swap to another one and then back and then to a third, and sometimes end up just turning the television on instead (which is quite stupid, really, as that’s just going to postpone the finishing of the books further). Anyhow, I am currently in the middle of the following:
Two Feet, Four Paws, the travelogue by a girl, Spud, who, with her dog, Tess, walked the coastline of Britain in order to raise money for Shelter. Very enjoyable, though I have not yet come to Scotalnd, which was what I was looking for when I bought the book (trying to read as much about Scotland as I can before I go in September).
The Port-Wine Sea, by Susan Wenger, fellow O’Brian fan and member of the Gunroom – the book being a parody on the beloved series. Immensely satisfying.
Hele verden er min, Annik Saxegaard – another of Saturday’s finds.
Big Chief Elizabeth, by Giles Milton, is reminding me why I so seldom read history. Despite being avidly interested in the subject, I tend to find «proper» history books too heavy going (remember I do a lot of reading on the bus and such places), on the other hand, «popularisations» like this are just too lightweight – I keep looking for more depth, more source references, more detail, more critical reflection (not PC condemnation of anything resembling racism and sweeping generalisations).
Sangen om den røde rubin (Song of the Red Ruby), Agnar Mykle – as mentioned above, I’m only a few pages in, though, so no opinions to vent yet.
Those, as well as several others, including Min son fäktas mot världen by Björn Ranelid, which I stranded in half-way through sometime around Christmas and still really want to finish (I was enjoying it before I got stuck), but can’t quite work up enthusiasm for. We’ll see. I’ve also got the Chaim Potok biography by Abramson on the table, and I want to get started on it in order to write a proper Potok page for the bookshelves – there is very little good information on Potok on the web, and I feel I ought to at least try to remedy it somewhat.

Updates will (probably) follow once any (or all) are finished.