Hour of the Star - Clarice Lispector

I don't know how to write about this novella (at 80 pages, it's barely a book), hence why I've put off blogging about it.  It was lent to me by Jane and I read it in a couple of hours.  I think it should have taken me longer - the curse of the speed-reader is the effort it takes to slow down when necessary.  I don't, however, feel moved to read it again.  Maybe in a year or so, but not now.

The first thing I had to get past was the oddness of the prose.  To begin with, I was grinding my teeth about the awfulness of the translation - why oh why are some books butchered by translation?  I'm never going to learn another language (or five, or ten) so I can read "in the original" but surely, in the 21st century, we can have good translations? (This is another reason why I love the Europa imprints.) Anyway, I unclenched eventually and just tried to go with it, turns out, when I read the afterword, that I was unfairly blaming the translator; Lispector reportedly engaged in significant amounts of correspondence with her editor, finally telling them that "...the sentences do not reflect the usual manner of speaking...The punctuation I employed in the book is not accidental and does not result from an ignorance about the rules of grammar." So that was me  (as well as the beleaguered editor) told.

And so to the narrative.  The Hour of the Star is narrated by a man "for a woman would weep her heart out". I was warned. The (reliable? unreliable?) narrator is Rodrigo, his aim, to "touch the invisible in its own squalor". The "invisible" girl is Macabea, the slum-orphan girl who thinks she has met the man who will raise her up from her blurry, washed out, grey world, into a world of clean lines, bright colour and happy ever afters.  Are you hearing echoes of fairy tales?  You would be right. Alas for Cinders/Macabea, Olimpico ain't no Prince Charming, but a man on the make, and the minute a better prospect comes along, in the shape of Gloria, Macabea's friend/colleague he drops Macabea like a hot brick.  Macabea is ugly, skinny, impoverished but, (hints are dropped throughout) she has a brain.  Or at least intellectual curiosity and a thirst for knowledge - if only she had been borne into another life.  As it is, her cognition is another strike against her in Charming/Olimpico's eyes. She's a terrible typist and her idea of heaven is a Coca-Cola, even though she is always hungry.  She is someone who is done to, she has no agency, no control, no self-determination. Her terrible passivity is one of the reasons I found Hour of the Star so difficult to read.

In an effort to grasp some sliver of control, Macabea visits a fortune teller, who tells her that her life will change.  She will be lifted up, exalted by a foreign man (of course!) she will have a fur coat "but you don't need a fur coat in the heat of Rio,"  "then you'll have it just to dress up!" And wealth and untold riches, never again will Macabea go hungry etc etc.  She leaves the fortune tellers "already a different person...just as you can be sentenced to death, the fortune teller had sentenced her to life".  She she steps off the pavement, Destiny enters, Macabea is struck by a Mercedes (driven by, you guessed it, a blond, foreign man), "her fall was nothing, just a shove" and she lies in the gutter, bleeding, and with onlookers doing nothing, she dies "finally free of herself and us". So lifted up by a wealthy man, in one sense, certainly.

And thus the novella ends.  Macabea is dead, our narrator "lights a cigarette and goes home".  I, as predicted, being a woman, wept my heart out.

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Purr-fection

Before you read this review, there are some things you need to be aware of. In my house, the cats run the show. We have two half-Siamese cats, who have their own personalities, their own voices, syntax and mannerisms. They have opinions, that are listened to and validated as much as the other members of the household (and read into that what you will.) They are also quite neurotic. And disgustingly spoiled.

For Christmas, Himself had the wonderful idea of buying me a Reading Chair. He then had an even better idea, which was to consult me and give me full autonomy of the type of chair I wanted, the style, fabric etc (proving that Himself has learnt the Right Way to do things!). Eventually I found a chair that met my spec, ordered it and awaited delivery, which was set for Valentine's Day. Happily, this is the day before my birthday and at the start of February half term, so I bought books, specified the sort of throw I wanted, dragged Himself out on a number of frustrating but ultimately successful hunts for the right reading lamp, and spent the intervening weeks fretting about whether the (large) chair would fit up the stairs. The Reading Chair, I stated to the world at large, will be in the bay window of my bedroom and it will be MY chair. A chair for ME. The chair I will go to when the Daughters are watching tv in the sitting room and Himself is gaming in the study and I want peace. To read in. It will be my Reading Chair. And I need not have worried about it fitting up the stairs as when delivery day dawned, the delivery chaps ran it up the stairs and placed it in situ, in the bay window. The next day I unwrapped the fleeciest, most snuggly throw ever made and my chosen reading lamp, as well as a number of books.

The cats came to have a good sniff, looked at the chair, covered in soft fleece, in prime position in the bay window, allowing excellent visuals of street, human and bird life and jumped and sat. Needless to say, the Reading Chair is now the Cat Chair. Occasionally, when they are outside, I can sit in it for up to five minutes, but I know that they will feel the tremor in the force and soon I'll hear the patter of paws and know that I will be moving imminently, unable to face their vocal outrage that I am sitting on the Cat Chair. And this chair was not cheap. It was expensive and it is now the Cat Chair. I may be slightly resentful of this, but the cats are indulged enough that I would never dream of chucking them off or not moving for them.

If the above paragraphs leave you shaking your head, dumbfounded then you will not understand Close Encounters of the Furred Kind by Tom Cox. Don't even try to read it. You won't get it. Unless you have pets (preferably cats, but I guess dogs kinda count too), or know (and love) people who do have pets and are down with them being family members, this book will have you making a WTF face throughout. If, on the other hand, you've got this far through the post with a wry grin, or a wince of recognition, then read the book.

This book has chapters with titles such as There is a cat who never goes out and I put a bell on you (because you're mine) and this is almost a selling point in its own right, frankly., because you got the references, right? It's a book that's nominally about the trials and tribulations of moving house...with cats, but really it's about owning cats and spending not insignificant periods of time creating an inner world for them, where they have rich, complex (and slightly tiring) lives. Tom's cats have very definite personalities (and I believe one or two of them have their own Twitter feeds). Shipley who can swear like a navvy (and does, a LOT), Ralph the wasted, aging God of Rock, Roscoe, the lone (I think) female, surrounded by men and trying her best to be a factual and sane, albeit slightly harassed voice of reason, George a stray who finally finds his way in but has something of a gentleman of the road sense about him and last but possibly most importantly The Bear. I'm not going to tell you about The Bear. You need to read the book!

It'a also about having a slightly bonkers parent (ahem) and about the joy they bring you, as well as about seeking out a place that feels like home, and what home really means to us all.

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Vermilion Sands, or a Love Letter to JG Ballard

Years ago, when I was in my early 20s, I picked a copy of JG Ballard's Cocaine Nights out of a bargain bin in a London bookstore. Over the years, it has become a book I return to; the spine is cracked, the corners are bent over, even the pages are slightly yellowed - all the signs of an oft-read and beloved book. I'm not sure what I expected when I purchased it, but it's silver cover, with the suggestion of a firework (or an explosion) and flashes of turquoise and fuchsia drew my eye. I'm sure that I didn't expect Ballard's utopian/dystopian visions of gated communities and the interaction/interdependence of community, crime and deviance.  For reasons that I don't know, and therefore cannot explain, and despite my love of Cocaine Nights, I didn't read any more of Ballard's works until a conversation with a colleague informed me that these themes were recurring features of Ballard's novels.

Fast forward a few weeks, and I was wandering the bookstores of Oxford on a biblophile's day out with a friend (and for bookstores, read Blackwells) when I came across a shelf of Ballard's books.  Having dithered for a while. trying to decide which one to go for, I eventually purchased Vermilion Sands.  This is the book that kicked my arse and made me want to start blogging about books. This first 'proper' post then, is for Ballard, for creating Vermilion Sands and for giving me an insane, vivid, richly textured world.  A world that I long to visit, but only if I'm certain that I can leave.

It's a world in which (anti)heroes fly gliders into clouds to sculpt them, for the entertainment (and dollars) of, as the blurb has it, faded movie queens and their retinue. A world in which florists breed plants (chloro-flora) for the music they produce, as much as for their foliage and blooms.  A world in which metal sculptures rampage and grow, Triffid-like, and even when destroyed and melted down, return in metal joists of new buildings, to wreak havoc afresh.

A world of seas and lakes made of sand, where yachts, inhabited by ghosts of Mariners and Dutchmen, sail the granular waters. A world where reefs grow from quartz crystals and sand rays fly through the skies and skim the thermal surf, encrusted with jewels and hunting on their mistress's command.  A world in which clothes are sculpted from fabrics that respond and reform in tune with the wearer's emotions (divas, beware!).

And the women. The women of Vermilion Sands. The damaged, beautiful, vain, lithe, fading/faded, bejewelled women.  The temptresses.  The child stars, now grown into young women.  Their eyes, their skin, their hair. All in chauffeured Rolls-Royces.  All accompanied by stern French secretaries. All searching. Women from myth and legend, drawn to Vermilion Sands and Lagoon West, living in mansions, surrounded by their art, sculptures, clothes.  Trapped by their wealth, their beauty, their admirers and by the echoes of who they had been. Such women, such creatures. Scattered with jewels, owners of pets carved from sound, muses of poets, femme fatales all.

And what of the men?  Heroes, villains, hedonists? Narrators and observers, certainly. Admirers and lovers, often. Scryers of decay and prophesiers of doom.  Cultural historians, reflecting on the past but unable to see a future, their vision obscured by the dust chased up by the Rollers, as the belle dames sans merci speed down the exit ramps leaving Vermilions Sands behind them, chasing their dreams or nightmares further down the coast.

Structurally, it's debatable whether Vermilion Sands is a novel or a collection of short stories with the utopian/dystopian Sands as the leitmotif, sounding its siren song throughout. It doesn't really matter though, read it in chapters, as individual stories, or in one sitting as a beautiful/insane novel.  Just read it and dream.

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In Brief

I'm not committed enough to write in-depth reviews of the books I have read so far this year, but I am a bit of a completionist and it would itch away at me if I didn't give them at least a mention.  What follows, therefore, is a quick run through of the ones I've completed, with  a few lines about them.

Fates and Furies - Lauren Groff

This was my reward for flogging myself through the Xmas festivities with a stinking cold! It was mentioned on a list somewhere (who know where though) of the best reads of 2015 and I downloaded it then spent two days on the sofa, being fed coffee by Himself and losing myself in this account of a marriage.  For those who know their Shakespeare inside out, this book must be packed full of references.  Even someone like me, who barely knows more Shakespeare than I had to learn for my GCSEs, could recognise tragic/comic elements within it. At it's core though, this is a skilfully written book about the inside of a marriage; visceral, painfully honest and a reminder, as we look at a world of happy couples viewed through the lens of Facebook et al, that the only people who really know how a marriage works are the two people enmeshed in it.

Strictly Between Us - Jane Fallon

Escapist trash for a weekend. I'd like to say that I found the premise of how women are their own worst enemy unbelievable, but we all know that unfortunately, it isn't.

The Buried Giant - Kauzo Ishiguro

Enchanting, heart-breaking and powerful. Recommended by Himself, so I was prepared to hate it, but as Ishiguro is one of the few authors we agree on, I gave it a chance. I'll never read it again, but it was beautiful. If you know your Beowulf, you'll get even more out of it than I did. Himself assures me that it's a book about war crimes, honour and loyalty and I'm happy to believe him, but to me it was a book about devotion and love.  Go figure.

My Revolutions - Hari Kunzru

A re-read as I can't get passed how realistic this book is, given that the author was barely alive for the events. Political, revolutionary (hah, bet you'd never have guessed) and downright worrying in parts, it deals with the double edged sword of committing to a cause and following your beliefs.  I curently have another Kunzru in the 'to read' pile, so watch this space.

A Pale View of Hills - Kauzo Ishiguro

One of his early novels, set in Japan. Ishiguro writes about terrible events so gently that the full horror of his denouements have even more impact (see also Never Let Me Go), this book made me cry, but the beauty and elegance of his writing makes the sadness worthwhile.

The Life and Death of Sophie Stark - Anna North

Similar to Paulo Coelho's Witch of Portobello, this novel led me to imagine how my friends and family would talk about me after my death.  Sophie Stark is many things to many people, but she's never easy.  North prods us to think about genius, art and whether this is an acceptable excuse to be a difficult individual.

That Thing Around Your Neck - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The first novel of Adichie's I read was Americanah  and it blew me away. I then read Purple Hibiscus, which made me weep.  Amongst the book Himself gave me for my birthday was this short story collection where Adichie writes about Nigeria, family, love and corruption as vividly as always.  I'm not usually a short story fan but her writing is so vivid and honest that I was happy to make an exception for this collection.

Animals - Emma Jane Unsworth

A cautionary tale, which answers any questions you may have about whether you made the right decision to settle down and grow up when you hit your mid-20s. I loved the way she writes, and this was another easy to read book that I got through in just over a day, but if you want feel-good times and a happy ending, this isn't the book you're looking for.

The Man Who Snapped His Fingers - Fariba Hachtroudi (Europa translation)

This is an important book. As the blurb says, Iranian female voices are routinely silenced, making this slim novel (I would call it a novella, but that doesn't seem right, due to the subject matter) really vital.  I made myself read this, gritting my teeth and getting to the end of every sentence, every paragraph, every chapter until the end. This was not enjoyable.  It was work. But it was necessary, for me, with my views about women, repression and feminism, to have read it. The comparison I can make is with how I felt after I'd watched Requiem for a Dream. I was glad I'd seen it, if only for the fact that I'd never need to watch it again.  This novel makes me feel the same way.

Petrionelle - Amelie Nothomb (Europa translation)
A witty novella about female friendship, books and champagne with a sting that I didn't see coming.  I'd be surprised if anyone who read it did. Nothomb's books are now firmly lodged in my mental 'to read' list.

Pictures From the Water Trade - John Morley
Despite the title, this book spends very little time examining the water trade, which is a good/bad thing.  Good because it was a riveting account of an Englishman's time living in Japan, totally immersing himself in it's culture, which even after years of living there he continues to find virtually impenetrable and unfathomable, but bad because I'd actually bought it to read about the water trade itself!

Satin Island - Tom McCarthy 
A Man Booker nomination (hah!) and another one that I'd read a review of and liked the sound of, then picked up in a bookstore jaunt.  It's post-modern and difficult to explain, not much happens so if you need your read to have a clear narrative structure, progression and a finale, well, don't read this. However if, like me, you're happy to read a somewhat rambling commentary on our current, technologically driven culture then you'll love it.

Moranifesto - Caitlyn Moran
Purchased by Eldest Daughter but snagged by me first ("I read a lot quicker than you do darling, let me at it!") this is essentially Moran's columns for those who won't give Murdoch they money so can't see behind The Times's pay-wall. I love Moran, she's witty, political and I wish I could be her write like her. Easy to read, but dealing with important topics she essentially expounds upon her view that the political arena should be, needs to be for everyone. Hurrah!

Troubling Love - Elena Ferrante (Europa translations)
Famed for the Neapolitan Novels, Ferrante writes about the female condition, female friendship, relationships and emotions better than anyone I can think of.  Troubling Love examines the relationship we have with our parents and asks us to think about how well we really know them.

Brooklyn - Colm Tobin
Now a film, Brooklyn is a sweet, gentle read about Irish emigration to America.  The heroine, caught between the 'old country' and the new, has to make choices and deal with consequences, but is so beautifully described, I found myself really rooting for her.

Cosmopolis - Don DeLillo
I started reading White Noise as DeLillo was mentioned on a 'Great American Novelists' article. Then a friend gave me Cosmopolis and I abandoned White Noise to read it.  It has been turned into a terrible David Cronenberg film (from what I saw of the trailer, anyway) but the book is gloriously, unapologetically, post-modern, dealing with some big questions in a fascinating (to me) manner.

Maestra - LM Hilton
Yes, this shows that I am going to be honest about the books I read. This is utter trash, EL James crossed with some equally poor noir, and totally unbelievable, but readable in a sort of train wreck way. I loathed the main character (who I cannot bring myself to refer to as a heroine) but I stormed through it in a day and it gave my brain a rest from some more weightier books. 

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Not just legere, scribere!

Having had a good shufti round Blogger, I realise that I haven't actually blogged about anything since 2012. Which means that I haven't really written anything since 2012 (other than a bazillion essays for my degree!) A four-year hiatus really calls for a fresh start, don't you think?  A clean slate.  A shiny new blog. One that contains something other than the detritus of my brain.

Books, then. Every year I set myself a challenge of sorts - it's usually to read in the order of fifty books.  Last year I just scraped through (I think the final total was a pleasing fifty-two, or one a week, if you prefer).  This year I'm trying to broaden my reading horizons by reading more translations and more books by non-white writers.  To this end, I have a spreadsheet (a surprise to no-one who knows me) where I can monitor how this is going, but a blog is more satisfying, isn't it?  Somewhere where I can actually write about the books I've read, in the hope that I will remember them, and be more able to recommend them, rather than saying something helpful like, "Hey Fred, I read this book that I know you'd love.  Oh, what was it called? Ummm, hang on it'll come to me.  Ok, I know the author though, he was called...ummm.  Dammit! Listen, you'll love it so when you manage to track it down, let me know what you thought, ok?"

I don't pretend to be an intellectual. Nor do I intend to read the Man Booker Shortlist every year (or even the winner, truth be told).  I read books because people buy them for me, because someone I know (or the internet) recommends them, because they catch my eye when I'm browsing a bookstore, or when I'm on Amazon or because someone lends them to me.  I read trash of the highest order when I want a break and an escape, and I read more meaty, weighty tomes when I feel like I need stretching. I'm more contemporary than classic and I'm a quitter.  So many books, and so little time means I have no qualms about giving up on books that I'm jut not feeling.  Expect one of my most oft-used tags to be giving up is for quitters.

I read more in the holidays and less during term time, so this blog won't be updated daily, or even weekly, in a regular manner. I can swing through a short-ish novel in a day when I'm holiday.  During term time, the same book'll take me a fortnight.

I have a number of books 'in progress' at any one time.  The number of books in my current 'to read' stack is approaching forty. I am still buying books. I can be obsessive, discovering an author and then reading their entire oeuvre, gorging on them until I'm satiated. Oh, and I'm not good with literary criticism.  Themes, allegory, foreshadowing, all the literary methods can usually be found sailing over my head.  I read fast and I rarely read deeply.  Do not expect deconstruction and analysis, please. I would hate to disappoint.

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