Books I Read January 10th, 2021

Hell of a first week, amiright? Given the demonstrated weakness of our institutions and national character is is fortunate for all of us that the man attempting sedition is of the basest idiocy and most contemptible character, or we really might be in trouble! I don't imagine many people reading my blog voted for Trump, but if you did, may you carry the shame and ignominy of your reprehensible foolishness until they lay your cold corpse in the unforgiving soil. If you ever read a book of mine, I dunno, Low Town or the Builders or whatever, and you thought – wow, that Warden is a cool guy, he's tough and wins fights and whatnot, let me clarify that the Warden would fucking hate Trump and everything he stands for and anyone who stood with him. Ditto the Captain, M from City Dreaming, everyone I ever wrote except for some of the villains and mostly even they were too intelligent or principled to throw their lot in with the obese ochre-colored conman that has been, appallingly, the supreme executive of my nation for the last 4 years. Fuck you.

So far in January I read the following books.

Night Boat to Tangier by Kevin Barry – Two aging criminals wait for someone in a grimy port terminal in southern Spain, recollect their wasted, tragic, sometimes beautiful lives in what begins looking like a fiercely nasty crime novel but ends up becoming something sadder and more plaintive. I've been a big fan of Barry's nostalgia-filled noir since I picked up the magnificent City of Bohane on a lark some years; frankly, I'm pleased to see the rest of the world catch up.

Staying On by Paul Scott – An epilogue of sorts to Scott's masterful, very long Raj Quartet, dealing with the decline of British rule in India, and the corruption and decay of the English culture on the sub-continent. It presents the story an elderly ex-military couple, two minor characters who have chosen to 'Stay On' in post-colonial India rather than return to the homeland, of their sad history and the experience of living on past one's time. Scott's focus on the forgotten players in world history makes for fascinating reading, and his oblique characterization is masterfully subtle if occasionally so dark that it makes for difficult reading.

Three Sumers by Margarita Liberacki – A trio of sisters from the rural elite enter womanhood in pre-War Greece. Largely due to NYRB Classics I find I've read quite a lot of books this broad sub genre, and so this might have suffered a bit by comparison (I'd prefer Joan Chase) but this was bucolic and charming and not un-erotic and worth your time.

Rock, Paper, Scissors, and Other Stories by Maxim Osipov – Short stories searching for the soul of Post-Soviet Russia. I enjoyed the focus on parts of Russian society outside of the Moscow/St. Petersburg elite, but for whatever reason these didn't really kick my head open. I gather this is Russians' most highly prized writer of short fiction so that might well be my fault but what can I tell you, it's also my blog.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl – The rare circumstance in which the movie is much better.

Crackpot Palace by Jeffrey Ford – Surreal literary horror. Sort of like a New Jersey Catholic Etgar Keret, but with more stabbings. If that doesn't get you going I don't know what to say.

Sunflower by Gyula Krudy – Melancholic Dual-Monarchy romance of the highest order. Krudy's Hungary is a land of moonlit trysts between faithless cads and cruel women, densely populated by the ghosts of old lovers, where death and love are so deeply intertwined as to be indistinguishable. Nimbly skirting parody, elegantly written and often laugh out loud funny, one of my favorite things I've read in a long time, strong rec.

The Spider's Palace and Other Stories by Richard Hughes – I couldn't really figure out if these collection of modern fairy tales were supposed to be for children, and not in a good way.

Books I Read December 31st, 2020

Excuse the delayed post, I've spent the last few weeks making food and then eating that food. The weather is lovely here in LA, and despite having no space left in our hospitals and the generally apocalyptic tenor of the times I manage to muddle along. Hope that you can say the same.

Down Second Avenue by Es'kia Mphahlele – Autobiographical vignettes from an early luminary of African letters. I found the early bits, detailing the author's childhood in rural South Africa (and later in a Pretorian suburb), his familial customs and struggles, to be particularly engaging, but then, 'vivid recollections of youth from people outside of my cultural milieu' is one of my favored sub-genres.

The BFG by Roald Dahl – Reading for a project. Actually quite charming, despite the endless far jokes. Dahl has a gift for funny language which is one of (the?) main asset for a writer of children's books.

All About H. Hatterr by G.V. Desani – A series of comic misadventures/religious commentary relayed by an Anglo-Malay neer-do-well in vivid and hysterical bazaar English. Even the bits that made no sense at all to me were fun to read.

My Uncle Oswald by Roald Dahl – Snippets from the ostensible journal of the author's uncle, a modern day Casanova. Absolute unmitigated trash. Just horrible. Genuinely one of the worst things I've ever read. Not erotic, resolutely unfunny, the entire plot consisting of a single joke stretched out interminably; that it is also misogynistic and racist is the least of its sins. Avoid.

By Night Under the Stone Bridge by Leo Perutz – Linked vignettes from the Prague of Rudolf II, who reigned over a vibrant and cosmopolitan city soon to be destroyed in a riot of religious violence. Really excellent. Perutz was the last generation of the Dual Monarchy, and uses the plight of the Prague Jews (and the horrors of the 30 year war) to evoke the tragic violence which destroyed the Central Europe of his youth. Worth your time.

The Odyssey (T.E. Lawrence Translation) – Re-reading this for who knows how many times I was struck by the grand emotion of the players. The idea of masculinity at this point in Greek society owes nothing to the sobriety of Socrates or the Stoics—everyone is always wiping away a tear, or running over and hugging people and whatnot. It's also really Bro-y – there's some monster fighting here and there but more of the narrative is like, “Joe, my dear friend, oh I missed you so let's exchange tripods and cry about our dead friends.' Also, this was the first time I'd read the Lawrence translation and it's just complete fucking garbage, all of the poetry and weight of the language is lost.

Ulysses by James Joyce – When I first read this some six or seven years ago while backpacking around somewhere or other I remember feeling that I understood about 30% of it and also that it was my new favorite book. In contrast to other competing works of genius (St. Petersburg, Confidence Man, The Recognitions) Joyce's novel seems a perfect fractal, so infused with spirit that to unlock a corner of it is to offer some access to the enormous bounty beyond. Coming back to it years later I was pleased to feel that certain sections I had found impenetrable proved, like Molly herself, more willing to yield to my attentions, and that fundamentally my opinion (commonly held but still) that this is the foremost work of English letters remains intact. The fecund beauty of the thing, the fabulous stir of the language (which is such a joy to read even when you can barely grasp the content), but most of all the fundamental sense of optimism which underlies the work, its affirmation of the glory and beauty of human existence – 'yes I said yes I will Yes.'

Indeed. Happy New Year.

Books I Read Chanukah Edition

Last weekend I was having a conversation with a fellow homeless outreach worker who started volunteering post-Covid and whom I have only ever seen masked. A clever, forceful brunette, she nevertheless betrayed her goydom by suggesting that that, unveiled, I would struggle to determine her relation to the Second Temple—which is, of course, meshugenah. A yid is a yid is a yid.

Vos makht a yid? He gets by. Anyway, in honor of our least important holiday I decided to read exclusively fellow Hebrews this week, and if I have to wade through any more wry witticisms, maternal guilt and sexual neurosis I’m going to lose my shit. What follows are the books I've read this week along with how Jewy they are.

Fly Already by Etgar Keret – Even a not-my-favorite-Keret is a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. How Jewy is it? More Israeli than Jewy in the American sense. 5 out of 8 candles.

Pictures of Fidelman: An Exhbition by Bernard Malamud – A Bronx-born artist (Jewish, obviously) travels to Italy to pursue his craft, descends into penniless madness. A thoughtful commentary on the life of the Artist as depicted through Malamud's brand of dreamy absurdity, thoroughly enjoyable. How Jewy is it? Surprisingly not that Jewy, apart from a little bit of Freudian stuff. 3 out of 8 candles.

Shine On, Bright and Dangerous Object by Laurie Colwin – The early death of her WASP husband leaves our protagonist, a bright but underdeveloped Jewess, struggling to create a new identity amid the wreckage her life. A lot of thoughtful depictions of emotional states, but something about it left me kinda cold. How Jewy is it? Really not that Jewy, maybe 2 out of 8 candles.

The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon – In an alternative reality where the state of Israel died stillborn and a colony of refugee Jews built a shtetl city in Alaska, a brilliant but self-destructive noir archetype investigates the murder of Mashiach in a Jewish colony. I dig Chabon, especially his genre stuff, and this is an excellent, engaging work of neo-noir. How Jewy was it? It was pretty fucking Jewy, 7 out of 8 candles.

The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. by Adelle Waldman – An uncannily and discomfitingly accurate depiction of the romantic misadventures of a caddish if not entirely horrible Baltimore born Brooklyn based novelist. Ms. Waldman has an impressive degree of insight into the mindset of one of these sad breed, and this made for engaging if kind of cringy reading from my end. The versions of this story that I've read – all written by men – tend to be more cynical and crueler to their surrogates, as if to demonstrate the gap between the craven behavior of their protagonist and the author himself. Perhaps because she is free of this burden, Ms. Waldman manages an impressive sympathy for her characters, and genuine insight into the struggle of love in the modern day. How Jewy was it? However Jewy I am, that's how Jewy this book is—let's say 3 out of 8 candles.

The Escapement by Lavie Tidhar – Lavie is a friend, which means that I got to read an advance copy of his book. Normally this also means that I have to say nice things about it, or at least keep my mouth shut, but the thing about Lavie is that in addition to being my friend he is also that sort of Jew who is comfortable with a high degree of awkwardness (incidentally, this is one of the qualities which has made us such fine salesmen over the centuries, bargaining being (largely) a willingness to endure the discomfort involved in insisting on an unreasonable price). This makes him an occasionally irritating dinner companion, but it also means that you can walk up to him and say (as I have said) I think your last book wasn't nearly as good as the book before and he'll basically shrug it off because he, at bottom, just doesn't care that much about any opinion that isn't his. We have a lot in common.

Anyway none of this is relevant because I actually did quite like this book, which is going to come out at some point in the future by some or other publisher or something. The Man With No Name travels through an impossibly alien world peopled by brutalized clowns, superhuman bounty hunters, and titanic monsters indifferent to human suffering—although being a Lavie Tidhar book, there's a step beyond the main story that I'll avoid revealing. A blurb from me being at worst harmless, I will comment for the record that 'Tidhar's brand of surreal pulp continues to be one of the few truly distinctive voices in genre fiction.'

How Jewy is it? By Lavie's standards, really not that Jewy. There were, for instance, no Nazis, which must have been a real struggle for him to manage, good job on that. Actually, thinking on it this is far and away the least Jewy book that I read this week. I'm going to go with 1 of 8 candles

Herzog by Saul Bellow – In retrospect I do wonder what could possibly have led me, in high school and early college, to make a fairly comprehensive study of Saul Bellow, the most middle-aged writer who ever ran a hand through his thinning hair, took a look at his zaftig lover and had a thought about Nietzsche.. And the weird thing is like, I remember loving this book. I remember feeling like I really identified with Moses Herzog, despite having undergone literally none of the life experiences which consume him. Very odd.

Anyway my current incarnation found it to be a mixed bag Some of the internal soliloquy really sung, but basically all the characters that aren't Herzog are pretty crudely sketched. Not just the females either (though it is worth noting they span the gamut from 'Highly Sexed Current Lover' to 'Manically Sociopathic ex-lover') but the guys likewise—and not in a 'Herzog is self-obsessed' way either, more like a 'no one who ever lived talked like that' way. How Jewy is it? Enormously. Really very, very Jewy. Full marks, 8 out of 8.

Fleishman is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner – A critique on the above Bellow, along with the 'Highly-Strung Self-Obsessive New York Jew Loses His Shit' genre more broadly. In theory I would be well-primed for this sort of meta-commentary but in practice I found this tedious enough not to want to say anything else about it—except that, for what it's worth, the entire Tinder subplot was off base entirely. It's also possible I just don't need to read any more books about wealthy New York intellectuals. How Jewy is it? Not that Jewy, maybe 3 of 8 candles.

Books I Read December 6th, 2020

One chugs along, despite the packed hospitals and the threat of Christmas wildfires. I have to get this done quick because I'm remote baking biscotti with my mother. It's been a weird year, maybe you've noticed. This week I read the following books.

Lake Like a Mirror by Ho Sok Fong – A collection of short stories set in modern day Malaysia. Always interesting to read fiction from a part of the world with which you're unfamiliar but this didn't do a ton for me personally.

Lexicon by Max Barry – A secret international cabal of mind-controlling magicians trouble the wrong borderline street girl in this enormously engaging sci-fi thriller. A marriage of excellent if undemonstrative writing with a propulsive pace. Tons of fun.

The Lehman Trilogy by Stefano Massini – The history of a family of Jewish immigrants/the rise of modern capitalism rendered as an epic poem by an Italian. Brilliant. The writing absolutely sings, with hidden complexities and clever contrivances that don't interrupt the rhythm of the blank prose. The characterization is deft and depiction of some two hundred years of American history surprisingly nuanced. For for a goy (I assume) he understands the tribe. Strong recommendation, one of my favorite things I read this year. (Update: Wait, they made a play out of this? What? I'm confused.)

White Tribe Dreaming: Apartheid's Bitter Roots as Witnessed 8 Generations Afrikaner Family by Marq de Villiers – The history of the Afrikaner people as told through the writer's ancestors. Fascinating and peculiar stuff, effective both as a general overview of the subject and as a meditative and thoughtful contemplation as to the complexities of ethnic identity. Check it out if you have any interest in the subject.

The Vanished Birds by Simon Jimenez – The hard-bitten captain of a space ship cares for a child with strange powers, though this thumbnail sketch fails to do justice to the richness and complexity of the plot. The world building is evocative without being tedious, and Jimenez demonstrates skill in a number of narrative styles. This is one of those enormously rare work of genre fiction which is fundamentally human, that is to say reflective of one's own experiences and concerns. Really, really good. Strong recommendation.

Books I Read November 29th, 2020

Happy belated Thanksgiving. I cooked a lot, which is a thing I do now because I have the capacity for self-growth. Also, I read some. I actually read a little bit more than the below would indicate, because I read one book I didn't like so much that I figured there was no point in putting it up. In any event, the books that I will admit to having read this week follow.

Take Me Apart by Sara Slisar – A noir in the Gone Girl mode. Not for me.

Fathers and Sons by Turgenev – These kids today, with their rock and roll music, and their efforts to educate the serfs. They don't care about nothing, not the Tzar, not the Russian Orthodox Church, nothing but Germanic nihilism and tight pants! Back in my day...

The Looking Glass War by John Le Carre – An out of date army intelligence unit sends a spy into east Germany. Like Graham Green, Le Carre (Carre? How do you do that one?) is fascinated not so much by spycraft per se than on its effects on the men who practice it, their false loyalties and self-destructive patriotism—less, that is, the lies they tell others than the lies they tell themselves. This one in particular is very strong, sharp and sad, worth your time.

The Anti-Death League by Kingsley Amis – The sexual, psychological and philosophical shenanigans of a group of soldiers involved in a secret atomic experiment. Part spy novel, part cold war farce, part theological discourse, with each component realized skillfully. Amis is a delight, as always.

Books I Read November 22nd, 2020

No reviews for three months, and then one the next week? Yeah, it's called self-improvement motherfucker, it's my jam. Lather it on a nice fresh chunk of sourdough and eat it with my morning coffee. It's kinda winter here? We're all going to be back in lock down in a couple of days. I'm adjusting to the idea of doing nothing fun over the holidays. It's OK, I've had fun before. The Seventh Perfection was on Kirkus's best of the year list, that was cool. You should buy it, if you haven't. Here are the books I read the last week.

The Root and Flower by L.H. Myers – Dostoevskian intrigues in a dreamlike, deliberately inaccurate depiction of the early Mughal empire. Lots of conversations about religion, and long passages depicting characters emotional state. This is probably not my favorite subgenre of novel, so I can't say I loved it, but I could recognize the craft, and I enjoyed the aesthetic and some of the subtler flourishes.

A Dance to the Music Time (Volumes 1-12) by Anthony Powell – Very big books have to be judged differently than regular books. It is not enough to say of one that it is skillfully executed, or has admirable aspects, it has to justify the enormous expenditure of time and energy required to complete it, as well as to satisfy the implicit narrative ambitions of so audacious an undertaking. Writing this review, I'm torn on whether I feel that Powell's 12 volume epic depicting London society between the wars and shortly after met this high bar. There is an enormous amount to like about it. It is truly epic in scope, with a cast comparable to War and Peace, all well-realized and skillfully drawn, moving in and out of the narrative with their own unexpected but authentic rhythm. Their development over the course of the several thousand pages feels extraordinarily authentic, perhaps more so than anything else I can remember reading. Powell has a genius for depicting the untidy aspects of human life, its unexpected developments and certain tragedies, its refusal to adhere to a convenient narrative. The attempt to chronicle a lost epoch, combined with the exactness of its observation, recalls Remembrances of Things Past, but whereas Proust's surrogate is at the heart of his work, the hero of A Dance to the Music of Time always remains for us somewhat opaque. His primary function is to detail the maneuverings of his associates, and we only gain knowledge of his own history and emotional state obliquely. The result is a masterful and enticing subtlety that lingers throughout the work. So, with all of that, what's on the other side of the balance? It is fucking huge, if that wasn't already clear. I read the first volume three-odd months ago, while quarantined in a flat near Tottenham, and I just finished it the other night (although obviously I read a lot of other things in the interim). Someone with a normal amount of time to commit to reading might do well to finish it in six months, and that's a lot of time to demand, time which might be better put towards some similarly epic text, assuming that's your bag. I also find the ending curiously weak, although I would be open to having someone argue me out of this opinion, if you happen to feel that and want to correct me in the comments. Considering the matter, I think my relative dislike of this last 12th of the narrative has unduly prejudiced me towards the previous 93%. This is a pretty spectacular artistic achievement, if anyone has a mind to giving it a go.

The Face in the Frost by John Bellairs – An adult fantasy by (one of) my favorite YA author. Bellairs has a delightful aesthetic but this was kinda slapdash.

Empress of Salt and Fortune by Nghi Vo – The ascension of the last Empress of a fantastical kingdom is chronicled in a series of objects. The clever framing device allows for an engagingly rapid movement through the story, recreating a 1000 page epic fantasy in a small fraction of the space. Vo has a gift for the small asides which, for me, largely make or break fantasy-- her names are really good, for instance, and the throw away mentions of weather magic, and the briefly but skillfully limned northern peoples, who collect ambergris and ride war mammoths into battle. Fun stuff, well worth the read.

Ficciones by Jorge Louis Borges – I enjoyed this about as much on its 20th reading as I did on the first. Actually that's not true, the first time I read this I think I was like 15 and I was all – 'this is fantasy? Why aren't there more swords?' so let's say I enjoyed this about as much on its 20th reading as I did the 2nd. Some of the most engaging and wondrous short fiction ever written. Obviously, you all should have read Borges by now.

Books I Read Mid November

What can I tell you, I don't always feel like writing these. I had a book come out. I went to England for a while, during which I mostly just wanted to read mediocre histories of the 'people hit people with sword' type. Then there was that whole election thing, I was kinda busy last month worrying about the fate or the Republic/world. This has not been a great year reading wise, what with everything, but I'm gonna turn it around, you'll see.

The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano – There is always some danger in re-reading a book that you loved, the fear that, with the cruel benefit of hindsight, you might need to walk back high praise and answers on online dating profiles. I am pleased to report that no such revisionism is required here. Bolano's masterpiece remains to me as horrifying and beautiful as when I first read it some seven or eight years ago, a cri de couer, a searing demand to lead a life of vibrant sincerity in the face of the world's cowardice and inevitable decay. There's a reason I got Cesária Tinajero's poem tatooed on my chest.

A School for Fools by Sasha Sokolov – The ruminations and warped biography of a mentally infirm man. Also a lot of other things. This is a weird, wild, very odd novel, large portions of which could only loosely be understood as a narrative. But it was witty and interesting and I basically enjoyed it.

The Anarchy by William Dalrymple – An overview of the East India Trading company's rise from its humble trading origins to the state-corporate monstrosity which overwhelmed the weakened Mughal Empire and devastated the Indian subcontinent. Dalrymple is a first rate narrative historian, but I thought this topic perhaps a little too broad to cover even in this substantial volume. Which isn't to say it's not excellent, only that it's not quite as spectacular as some of his other stuff.

In Pursuit of the Essex: Heroism and Hubris on the High Seas in the War of 1812 by Ben Hughes – Deathly dull.

How the Dead Live by Derek Raymond – Our unnamed detective investigates the disappearance of an old woman in a small town, discovers tragedy and corruption. It's a little one-note in its despairing noir nihilism (false nihilism really) but it is effective and well-written.

Free Day by Ines Cagneti – The thoughts of a bitter impoverished French girl during the course of a skipped day of school. Sad, and predictable.

History of Scotland by P. Hume Brown – I always think it's kind of fun to read a history which has become a historical document, and I think this breezy, conversational early 20th century history of Scotland counts. There's no real reason for anyone to read this but I can't say anything too terrible about it either.

The Steel Bonnets by George MacDonald Frazier – The author of the Flashman series overviews the violent history of the Scottish/English borderlands. I enjoyed mulling this bloody history of raids and counter raids from the small English cottage in which I spent most of September and which rested in the heartland of what was once violently disputed territory, entertained by the thought that the stolid English elders who drank cider in village pubs and walked glumly through the endless the rain are the descendants of such brutal bandits as Crack-spear and Hob-the-King.

Soldier Sahibs by Charles Allen – Narrative history discussing the generation of soldier-bureaucrats who conquered the Punjab and put down the Sepoy Rebellion/Indian Mutiny. Engaging enough on its own merits but I found myself somewhat discomfited by the unwillingness of the author to consider the larger moral and political issues endemic to the story, particularly having just finished Dalrymple's above.

Scourge and Fire: Savonarola and Renaissance Italy by Lauro Martinez – A biography of the Rennaisance friar who led Florence into pious anarchy and was burned by the pope for his troubles. Dull and pedantic.

No Room at the Morgue by Jean-Patrick Manchette – A French Phillip Marlowe investigates a woman's murder. This lacks some of the raw nastiness and genre-bending satire of the author's later/better works, but even a second-rate Manchette is worth its weight in clipped copper.

Tarka the Otter by Henry Williamson – Episodes in the life of a south English otter. Reading this it occurred to me I never read nature writing and don't really love it, but that's purely down to predilection and I imagine most people would have enjoyed it.

The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan – I read this book.

The House with a Clock in it Walls by John Bellairs – This was one of my favorite books when I was about 6, I guess, and I was feeling autumnally nostalgic and went back and re-read it. Still fabulous! It's got a charmingly weird aesthetic, and manages to incorporate magic in a way which is weird and fantastic and horrifying and not a rote recitation of fake Latin. Our chubby, cowardly, kind-hearted protagonist is likewise far more engaging than the pompous earnest perfection of the Boy Who Lived and his million precursors/clones. Edward Gorey and I give this our seal of approval.

The Figure in the Shadows by John Bellairs – Yeah, also good, although the edition I downloaded had this horrifying awful updated pictures. Anyway, read these to your kids or whatever they'll enjoy them.

The Cobra's Heart by Ryszard Kapuściński – Engaging ruminations on Africa by a Polish emigre.

High Crimes by John Westermann – Two fuck up cops get in over their head in this (mostly) engagingly unheroic thriller. Imperfect, but authentic feeling in its depiction of crime in a small city and I didn't feel like I'd read its take on police life a thousand times previous.

In Corner B by Es'Kia Mphahlele – Short fiction by the grandfather of Black African English literature. Excellent. The language is discrete in its bluntness, and the stories that fabulous uncertain quality which is the hallmark of the best works in this genre. Reminded me of Naipaul in its use of a traditionally Western format to comment on and critique a non-occidental culture. The one about the dogs is nuts man.

Shella by Andrew Vachss – A nameless super-killer tracks down his single love, kills a lot of people in the process. Enormously readable but kind of repetitive. I mostly liked the pared down noir narrative but sometimes felt like it was an excuse for lazy world-building. He does have a talent for depicting nastiness, however, and there are some pretty sharp throw away lines.

Books I Read July 31st, 2020

Right. What can I tell you, I got kind of sick of this exercise, and stopped keeping track of the books that I've read. Maybe you noticed. Probably you didn't. Anyway, I'm fine, I write and bake bread try not to get Covid (but not that hard) and since the world went insane I've read the following works of literature...

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare – Not bad.

War Music by Christopher Logue – An incomplete recreation of the Illiad, brilliantly capturing the spirit of this foundational human text in vivid colloquial English. Enormously enjoyable to see the the classic figures of myth reworked, with Athena a spoiled, precocious child and Ulysses crooked as an elbow. Alas that it's unfinished, and the best bits never made the page. Still worth your time.

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel – Engaging historical fiction, though I confess I didn't find it to be much more.

The Dragon Waiting by John M. Ford – In an alternate history where Byzantium expanded to the Atlantic (is it alternate history when magic exists, or is that just fantasy?) a rogues gallery tries to keep England free. Probably one of the better fantasy books (I'm going to go with that) I've ever read, Ford has a real talent for plotting, his language is strange and not at all bad, and his take on Richard 3rd is the absolutely original. Lots of fun.

Machines in the Head by Anna Kavan – The collected rantings of a disturbed woman with indisputable literary talent. A lot of the surrounding text on Kavan talks about how strange and alien her writing is, but honestly I found it to be of at type with a lot of of other writers – a lot of Kafkaesque reworkings of her own mental health collapse. It didn't really blow my skirt up but what do I know.

Malicroix by Henri Bosco – A well-meaning but unformed youth finds adventure, himself while house-sitting the shack of a deceased misanthrophic kinsmen. Kinda like if Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote a Gothic romance, but you know, French. I thought it was lovely and weird and charming.

The Translator by John Crowley – A woman recollects 60s academia, her possibly supernatural experiences translating a dissident Russian poet. Some lovely lines, although I confess I tend to prefer Crowley at his more fantastical.

The Moving Target by Ross McDonald – I'll pretty much always read a Lew Archer book to be honest.

Petals of Blood by Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o – A murder investigation sprawls into an elaborate chronicle for corruption in post-colonial Kenya. The various viewpoints are vibrant and well-realized, but it's political message (if admirable) is heavy-handed and cuts against the complexity of the story.

Mr. Fortune's Maggot by Sylvia Townsend Warner – A well-meaning if ineffectual Englishman (a stand in for the race) is called to preach Christ on a Polynesian island. Warner has a beautiful style of prose, and there are some lovely and thoughtful passages contained herein. I couldn't help but feel, however, that (as with The Corner that Held Them) her clear contempt for Christianity makes the satire feel mean-spirited and somewhat trite.

He Died with his Eyes Open by Derek Raymond – Our nameless protagonist (I've done that!) investigates the brutal murder of a down and out writer (the author's obvious stand in). The crime bits are clever and nasty in the best sort of ways, but a great deal of the book consists of the detective listening to the victim lament the hypocrisy and brutality of human existence, a form of writing which tires me quite quickly.

Book I Read April 30th, 2020

A few low days but I got my Covid second wind and breeze alongcomfortably, a childless man with a freezer full of chicken and a profession which doesn't require him to leave the house. My score the second half of this month was affected by my current project of reading a Shakespeare play every evening (Julius Caesar awaits) about which you'll read more when I'm finished, by which point hopefully I'll be able to go outside again. We'll see. In any event, the second half of April I read...

Religion and the Decline of Magic by Keith Thomas – 1000 odd pages detailing the decline in magical belief in 17th century England at the expense of the comparatively rational Protestant faith. Exhaustive in its collection of magical beliefs and clear-headed in its thinking, if occasionally repetitive. Still, if you're looking for a doorstop of social history to wade through, you could do a lot worse.

Winter Trees by Sylvia Plath – Bitter and engaging.

Books I Read April 14th, 2020

I got things to write, music to listen to, weights to lift, walks to take, elderly folk to assist (email me if you want to help!) and of course, books to read. I'm hanging on, and I hope you're doing the same.

I read these books the first two weeks of April...

Empire of the Sun by J.G. Ballard – Re-read for a thing I'm writing. Still great.

High-Rise by J.G. Ballard – Disturbingly appropriate.

The High Window by Raymond Chandler – Pitiless mothers, weak-willed sons, Chandler's archetypal noir protagonist, surely you can't fault a fellow for seeking literary comfort in these dark times.

The Thief's Journey by Jean Genet – The scattered reflections of a minor thief, thug, and homosexual prostitute, some bizarre amalgamation of Edward Bunker and William Burroughs. As a youth Genet set out to explore the darkest and most sordid corners of the human psyche, in part as a deliberate reaction against conventional human morality and in part just because it seems to have given him a kick. It's weird and disturbing and kind of amazing. I'm not sure I'd recommend it to everyone but if you can force yourself through all the nastiness it's worth your time.

The Singapore Wink by Ross Thomas – A stunt man is drawn into an elaborate web of criminal conspiracy. I turned the pages quickly enough but can't say I got tons out of this.

The Queen of Katwe by Tim Crothers – The story of a bitterly impoverished Ugandan girl rising in the ranks of woman's chess made for a fabulous long form essay and an an absolutely interminable 200 pages.

The Blacks by Jean Genet – A surreal symbolic depiction of the plight of black folk in the West. I guess it must have been staged at some point, but I can't imagine how that would have went.

Triggernometry by Stark Holborn – Fair warning, Stark and I are old friends, but this brief story of a mythical west where mathematics have been outlawed and rogue academics rob trains was thoroughly enjoyable and well worth a few hours of your time. Lots of fun.

Winter Mythologies and Abbots by Pierre Michon – A delightful series of interlinked vignettes discussing god, belief, the power of story and faith. The prose is lovely, the narratives surreal and clever. Reminded me of Borges. Lots of fun, I'm going to check out more by Michon soon.

Family Life by Akhil Sharma – A man recalls his childhood emigration from India to America and the tragic results that befall his fractured family. Didn't do much for me personally.

Books I Read March 31, 2020

Right—so I'd like to blame the slow start to this year book wise on the apocalypse, and whatnot, but that's got nothing to do with it, really. I had a friend here for a while and apart from that I was pretty much spending all my energies on pushing through a first draft of a new WIP. But that's with my agent and we can't go outside and my weight set hasn't arrived from Amazon and there's nothing else to do but read and mull, mull and read, with a dash of despair for seasoning. Anyway. Here were the sad handful of books I read the last two months, while I was wondering about LA and then stuck inside my cell-like apartment, very resolutely not having a cigarette.

All She Was Worth by Miyuki Miyabe – A detective investigates a woman's disappearance, the corrupt credit system of early 90's Japan. It was kinda slow.

Birth at Dawn by Driss Chraibi – A brutal warlord leads the Muslim expansion into Spain, dreams of a better world, is disappointed in its reality. Lyrical, violent, short, excellent. I liked it and will pick up more by Chraibi.

Play It As It Lays by Joan Didion – A morally bankrupt Hollywood hanger on commits to her self-destructive decay. Didion can write, this is sharp and mean, but also kind of one note? I appreciate that life is often an open wound, but still I wish so much of contemporary literature wasn't dedicated to poking at it. That said it's a quick, well-written and funny if you've got a nasty sense of humor—which, if you don't, maybe you shouldn't be reading Joan Didion.

The Largesse of the Sea Maiden by Denis Johnson – A collection of short stories about death, drunkenness, bad decisions and generalized regret. Johnson's novels don't do a shit ton for me but his shorter stuff is generally very strong, if maybe a little bit one note.

You Are Free by Danzy Senna – Short stories about motherhood, race, gender, modernity, yuppies, etc. Which, frankly, could be the description of about 100,000 collections released in the past ten years, although very few of them are anywhere near this good. There is a sympathy and complexity to Ms. Senna's writing which marks her as a cut above her fellows, and these stories are genuinely thoughtful rather than overtly didactic. Good stuff.

Last Friends by Jane Gardam – The final installment in the Old Filth trilogy sees us explore the peculiar life and end of Terry Veneering, who's bitter childhood tragedy drives him into a career in law in the orient. Gardam has a peculiar talent for plotting, with lots of obfuscations and seeming irrelevancies revealed ultimately as being critical to the narrative, and basically I enjoy reading anything she's written. Can't help but think this would have been stronger as a single novel, though, rather than chopped up into thirds.

Havoc by Tom Kristensen – The very model of a bourgeoisie intellectual makes a more or less conscious decision to devolve into a drunken lout. An existentialist trope that frankly I'm kind of tired of by this point, so maybe I wasn't the best audience for this. Anyway, didn't do a lot for me.

March Violets by Philip Kerr – A private detective tries to find some jewels during the Berlin Olympics, as the growing Nazi menace makes questions of personal morality largely irrelevant. Swift, engaging, a decent enough potboiler in an interesting setting. Occupied my mind briefly during our bubbling apocalypse.

The Medieval Castle by Phillip Warner – A book about castles. I dunno, I can't really remember why I read this.

Triple Jeopardy by Rex Stout – My first foray into the apparently gigantic history of Nero Wolfe, a lazier, rotund Holmes, and his Watson analog Archie Goodwin. These were breezy and fun, I imagine I'll work my way through a few more while I'm stuck in my cell-like apartment or an indeterminate amount of time.

Margery Kempe by Robert Gluck – Contrasting tales of a medieval saint's adoration of Christ with the author's own obsessive affection for a younger man. Is this a clever idea or is kinda on the nose? Hard to say. It's also the kind of book where some of the lines are really fabulous and some of them are just total duds. But it's quick and it's weird and I thought it was kind of funny and ultimately this was firmly in the like column.

A Journal of the Plage Year by Daniel Defoe – Thematically appropriate!

A Theft by Saul Bellow – I've been going back and dipping my toe into Bellow to see if he holds up 20 years after I was obsessed with him and I...still can't tell? He manages to imbue his creations with a great deal of mythical energy, but sometimes this gets a little bit much, with every side character being an oil magnate or a faded drunken ex-Hollywood star, you get the idea. This is one of the few of his that I can remember reading with a woman as the protagonist and it didn't work absolutely perfectly for me. I dunno, now that I'm quarantined maybe I'll have time to read something more significant by him.

Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler – Like all of Chandler's work it's disjointed, kind of incoherent plot wise, racist, sexist, and a little mawkish. It's also got some of the best prose you're ever going to find in literature—there's a bit about a pink bug crawling across a police desk which is pretty marvelous. And for that matter Marlowe's brief adventure with Red, the beautiful, violet eyed ex-cop is indisputably the most potent romantic interaction in Chandler's oeuvre. I think it's a ton of fun, for all his faults Chandler remains at the top of the heap.

The Inferno by Dante (Longfellow Translation) – There are a fair few classics of world literature that I can genuinely claim to enjoy but I just do not give the slightest shit about Dante. I appreciate his role in making Italian an acceptable language to write poetry in, but basically this book sucks, sorry. The best you could say for it is that it effectively depicts medieval Catholic morality, but as this is an utterly contemptible philosophy by the standards of most people reading it I'm not really what the point is other than to feel superior to our ancestors. Even trying to be forgiving it just doesn't make a shred of sense. Why are counterfeiters worse than rapists? For that matter, why is the 7th level as big as all the rest of them combined? Dante himself is the original Mary-Sue, a tiring asshole who's just so gosh-darn special that all of Heaven and Hell have to make way to show him a good time. A thousand pages of biblical fan-fiction the point of which mostly is to get back at old associates. It's like if you wrote a book about going to hell and kept putting in people you knew from high school getting their heads ripped open or whatever.

So, you know, that's my take.

Books I Read February 5th, 2020

I know it's been a while. You've been waiting, 'more patient than a Browns' fan.' But I got shit I got to do, boss. I write things and such. I talk to people. You know how it is. Maybe it's occurred to you I don't get paid none for these brief, semi-informed views on novels that came out a long time ago and no one else really wants to read. Still, as my brother texted me last night – 'quit tweeting about the homeless and do more book reviews.'

Ask, and ye shall receive. The following are the books I read since the turn to 2020.

The Beginning of Spring by Penelope Fitzgerald – An Englishman in Moscow during the waning days of the Romanov Dynasty is abandoned by his wife, contemplates the absurd improbability of the Russian character, human existence. I've come around on Fitzgerald, a subtle and funny writer, even if her neatly wrapped narratives can come off a little twee.

Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman – I liked the mean ones.

Beasts of No Nation by Uzodinma Iweala– An orphan is forced to become a child soldier by a sadistic, pedophiliac martinet. It's grim, it does what it sets out to do, I was never absolutely mind-blown by the depth of thought or the excellence of the prose. It's a heavy premise and I kinda thought that did a lot for it. Take that as you will.

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky – A starving student pays for taking Nietzsche too literally. What can I say about this justifiable classic of world literature? You read Dostoevsky to watch mammoth expressions of contradictory sentiment clash across the page, and not for like, coherent plot mechanics. He's his own genre, unique even 200 years on, and it must have been absolutely staggering to read him back in the day. I'm kind of embarrassed it took me 35 years to get to this one, but if Raskolnikov taught me anything it's that confession is good for the soul.

20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill – A collection of nightmarish short stories. I came in bluntly skeptical but there's some strong stuff here, Hill's got chops and generally does a good job of navigating between genre scares and broader literary concerns. I liked the one about the kid and the cardboard box fort, and the Cape, which is straight nasty.

The Gathering by Anne Enright – The expectedly unexpected death of her miscreant brother forces a woman to reflect upon the failings and tragedies of her large, Irish family. I've got nothing bad to say about it but it failed to stick around in my head to any degree.

Beasts by John Crowley – In a broken America, a leonine crossbreed becomes a symbol for humanity's redemption. At once a striking and original adventure story and a brilliant allegory for our increasing divorce from the natural world. Crowley is a master.

First Love and Other Shorts by Samul Beckett – Beckett's neurotic, miserable, possibly insane everyman considers his lost love and miserable childhood, plus a couple of wackily incoherent shorts that I likely lacked the literary understanding to appreciate. The eponymous story is excellent, however.

The Judges of the Secret Court by David Stacton – A fictionalized history of the events surrounding the death of Abraham Lincoln, with particular though not exclusive focus on the Booth clan. An engaging and evocative thriller about the roles we play, and our complicity in the show that unfolds around us. Very good.

By Force Alone by Lavie Tidhar – (Full disclosure—every couple of years Lavie and I end up in the back of a bar saying mean things to one another, so I can't pretend to be entirely unbiased here) A re-telling of the Arthurian legend serves as Tidhar's opportunity to shove all his genre interests into one violent, funny, absurd epic, with Guinevere as a cold-blooded hitwoman and Lancelot a wuxia master. Tidhar remains an utterly original voice contemporary fiction, a pulp master striking out boldly in unexpected directions.

The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz by Russel Hoban – A middle-aged cartographer, disappointed with his life and family, flees his village for the city, pursued by his son and an invisible though not imaginary lion representing the vigorous potency of existence and its helplessness in the face of implacable death. I became convinced this month that Russel Hoban is one of the mpre original and underappreciated voices of 20th century literature, and this is exhibit A. Magical realism at its finest, strange and evocative and beautiful. A strange delight, worth savoring.

Lancelot by Walker Percy – A southern lawyer laments sexual modernity, the consequences of his wife's infidelity, while locked in an insane asylum. A funny, bleak, tortuously nasty insight into what would now be called toxic masculinity, peculiarly prescient given these incel heavy days. I really liked it, but its ugly.

Mr. Pye by Mervynn Peake – A would-be saint gets caught between heaven and hill, and the consequences of righteousness and sin, while trying to bring happiness to a small Channel island. It's weird, it's funny, it was nice to read something by Peake which didn't mostly involve descriptions of rumbling masonry.

Novelties and Souvenirs by John Crowley – A nearly universally excellent series of shorts by maybe (probably?) the best living fantasist. Excellent, well worth your time.

Pilgermann by Russel Hoban – A castrated Jew meets Jesus, joins the first crusade. A spiritual, one might even say mystical novel, about sin and God and meeting God and meeting characters from Hieronymous Bosch paintings. Didn't really do it for me but it certainly demonstrates the man's range.

Mr. Rinyo-Clacton's Offer by Russel Hoban – An infidelite (I made up that word but it should exist) sells his death to a sadistic billionaire. Weird! Dark! Obscene and disturbing! Like Ian McEwan if Ian McEwan didn't kinda suck.

The Mark of the Warrior by Paul Scott – An officer trains the younger brother of a soldier he lost in battle during WWII, contemplates the essential qualities of the warrior archetype, in this short novel by the author of the Raj Quartet. Scott was a great talent, with a distinct genius for illuminating the side corners of great human events. Good stuff.

Remake by Connie Willis – In a sci-fi Hollywood that never came to be (or hasn't yet), deep-fakes of old actors are digitized into new movies, and a hack editor falls in love with a would-be dancer. Both a prescient satire of the Hollywood machine and a clever whodunnit, my favorite thing I've read by Ms. Willis thus far. Weird and fun.

McGlue by Ottessa Moshefegh – A brain damaged alcoholic in 1851 tries to figure out if and why he murdered his best friend and lover. Lots of body horror and descriptions of the Dts. Skillfully written and deliberately horrid. I confess I don't really understand the literati's affection for repulsion, which seems not that difficult a reaction to evoke in a reader, but what do I know. At least it was short.

Difficult Loves by Italo Calvino – Some Calvino hits me and some don't, this was the latter.

The Last Days of New Paris by China Mieville – A revolutionary struggles to survive in a ravaged Paris in which a supernatural Nazi plot has raised the devil and brought to life surrealist imagery of the age. I think probably my favorite thing I've read by Mieville. A fast paced, tightly written genre exercise full of fabulously weird visuals and free of any bloat (except to the epilogue which didn't really add anything.) Lots of fun.

The Parking Lot Attendant by Nafkote Tamirat – A second-generation Nigerian grows up in Boston, becomes embroiled with a charismatic conman. A solid and engaging examination of the immigrant experience—the depiction of Ayale, the eponymous attendant and all around hustler, was particularly strong, a character I feel like I've met a couple of times in real life but never saw so well illuminated in fiction. Good stuff.

Your Republic is Calling You by Young-Ha Kim – A North Korean deep-cover spy operating in Seoul is given twenty-four hours to return to his homeland, comes to realize he's always been playing a role and so has everyone else in his life. There are a lot of books that try to do this sort of thing but not many I can remember doing it as well. Even in translation Kim is a strong writer, and has a rare talent for broader human examination without abandoning the genre tropes that give this story of story its structure.

The Deep by John Crowley – An alien amnesiac crash lands in a medieval world. In two hundred pages Crowley limns an epic fantasy then upend it. Fabulous stuff, Crowley (as I've mentioned earlier) is one of our best. Both this and the earlier Beast are fascinating in that they show his range as a writer, eschewing the pageantry of his later writing in favor of a style which seems boiled down to its barest essence, telling in a few pages what could plausibly be expanded to five or ten times its length. Excellent.

The Old Capital by Yasunari Kawabata – The adopted daughter of a kimono wholesaler meets her twin, searches for love. Didn't do it for me. Lots of descriptions of flowers and festivals about flowers.

A Way of Life Like Any Other by D'arcy O'Brien– The son of an ex-Western star and a mercilessly selfish dilettante grows up too quickly, learns to hate his parents. A very funny depiction of neglect. One of my new favorite books about my adopted homeland.

The Dying Gaul and Other Writings by David Jones – A rambling collection of essays by the author of In Parenthesis. I have no idea why I read this.

In Hazard by Richard Hughes – A merchant ship gets caught in a terrible storm, the crisis illuminating the characters of its diverse and peculiar crew. Disaster stories don't do a ton for me but Hughes utilizes the set-up for a fascinating series of digressions about the various shipmates, sketching their histories in vivid if brief detail, then wrapping the whole thing up in deceptively unsatisfying fashion. You can tell I liked it.

The Dancing Girl of Izu and Other Stories by Yasunari Kawabata – Several lovely stories about youth, yearning, love and disappointment, and a bunch of strange, short parables. I was gearing up to not like this because the Old Capital wasn't really my jam but I was happily disappointed. These were varied and excellent.

Four Freedoms by John Crowley – The lives of a handful of idiosyncratic shop workers in an airplane factory during WWII. Crowley is a beautiful writer, the prose is a joy and it has a strangely effective eroticism. It didn't really seem to quite go anywhere, though.

The Flemish House by Georges Simenon – Obese, discourteous detective Maigret (I've gotten really good at coming up with two line descriptions of him after writing so many of these reviews) investigates a possible murder by a family of shady Belgian bourgeoisie. I've kinda come around on the Maigret stuff, they're breezy but also pitilessly mean.

Favorite Books of 2019

Another year in the books. You will forgive any lack of thoughtful ruminations on the passing of time, the death of youth, societal fragility, and grand struggles of the heart; I have a splitting headache. In 2019 I read 368 books, of which the arbitrary 10 follow.

Riders in the Chariot by Patrick White – A collection of misfits engage in spiritual warfare against the grinding forces of bigotry and human cruelty. Stunningly written, unique in scope and execution, a genuine masterpiece. I loved this fucking book.

During the Reign of the Queen of Persia by Joan Chase – The memories of a group of formidable, complex, troubled women in a small Midwestern town. Chase was a real marvel, a fabulous writer of prose with a keen insight into gender relations and the inexplicable ties of family.

A Single Man by Christopher Isherwood – A day in the life of a widowed homosexual college professor. Bittersweet, perfectly written, justly recognized as a classic.

The Fifth Head of Cerberus by Gene Wolfe – Wolfe's death earlier this year deprived us of genre fiction's most frustrating and captivating author, evidence for which can be found in this suite of short stories, puzzle-box ruminations on the nature of humanity in a vastly foreign future.

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson – There are few things rarer or more valuable than a genuinely hopeful work of high art, and Marilynne Robinson's beautiful meditation on fatherhood, family, love, death, and God, was the single best thing that I read in 2019.

The Children Of Dynmouth by William Trevor – William Trevor was one of my best discoveries of 2019, a writer of formidable technique and wide imagination with an oeuvre of impressive depth, but this bleak but not hopeless depiction of a sociopathic youth in a small Irish town of hypocrites stands out.

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf – The collapse of a family is told in Woolf's maddening, brilliant, oblique prose. If you didn't read this at at some point during your schooling, you should do yourself a favor and pick it up now.

Riddley Walker by Russel Hoban – A boy grows to manhood in post-apocalyptic England. A masterpiece of world-building, written in a bizarre but coherent future patois, a distinctly brilliant work of science fiction.

Silence by Shusaku Endo – A Portuguese Priest sneaks into a Tokugawa Japan, spreads the gospel, discovers uncomfortable complexities in his pursuit of righteousness. Subtle, thoughtful, excellent.

In Parenthesis by David Jones – An epic poem set in the trenches of WWI. The prose is luminous and alien, the sentiment penetrating and tragic, excellent stuff, if a little difficult.

Books And Tunes December 31st, 2019

I spent the end of December at London Christmas Markets, wandering briefly through New York, playing chess with my little brother, holding young children, and returning, finally, to the blissful warmth of Los Angeles. For those following along at home, this is not my end of year post, that comes tomorrow.

The Ruined Map by Kobo Abe – A detective tracks down a woman's husband, illuminates the limitations of identity, truth, and reality. Haruki Murakami very much read this book—if that sounds like a good thing to you, then you could do worse than give it a read. In fairness, it does seem to have come a rough half-century before the high point of esoteric pseudo-noir, in which style and mood are substituted for plot and narrative coherence, though frequent readers may recall that this is generally not my bag.

Monday Starts on Saturday by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky – An everyman coder finds himself working for the National Institute for the Technology of Witchcraft and Thaumaturgy in this early urban fantasy/satire of scientific existence. Even the lesser works of the Strugatsky Brothers are kind of interesting simply by virtue of showcasing a form of foreign genre fiction—I'm going to bet this was a big influence on the Night Watch series—but it's basically altogether lacking in plot or conflict, and apart from a few fun asides probably isn't worth the time.

Nobody Move by Denis Johnson – A gambling addicted crooner shoots a guy, gets involved with a femme fatale, in this swiftly moving, admirably realized comic noir. It's not bad! It's not amazing! It's OK! OK is what's between not bad and not amazing!

The Magician of Lublin by Isaac Bashevis Singer – A drunken, licentious stage magician struggles with the age old question of whether or not to sleep with a Shiksha. Well written line to line but taken altogether its a little bit half-baked.

Heat Wave by Penelope Lively—A woman watches her daughter's marriage collapse, remembers her own marriage doing the same, considers the eternal war between the sexes, makes her own contribution to the fight. Excellent. The writing and characterization are subtle but strong, and it's got a great sting. Good stuff.

A History of Warfare by John Keegan – While back in Baltimore over Christmas I broke out this classic of military theory, in which Keegan rebuts the Clausewitzian paradigm of war as a political activity, arguing instead that mass combat is best understood as an emanation of a particular culture and moment. Looking back in on it ten years after I read it last it pretty much stands up, and though I would quibble with a few of his examples I basically found the thesis compelling. Probably if you have any interest in this subject you've already read this book, but if not, maybe get on it.

The Recognitions by William Gaddis – Writing a review of Gaddis's 1000 page post-modernist ur-text – initially maligned by critics before ultimately going on to take a place in the modern canon – is a daunting prospect. William Gass, in the introduction, more or less accuses anyone not loving the book of being a philistine and probably an idiot. It is unquestionably a work of brilliance, an investigation of the nature of authenticity through the perspective of fraud in the world of high art. Apart from its linguistic complexity, Gaddis has a genius for a peculiar sort of world-building, in which themes and stylistic distinctions gradually accumulate to give weight to the whole. That said, and Mr. Gass's challenge not withstanding, I didn't particularly enjoy this book and probably wouldn't recommend it. Like a lot of writing of this sort the characterization is terribly flat, with characters operating more as stylistic flourishes than as fully rounded people. A lot of it amounts to an ill-tempered and ultimately exhausting skewering of the artistic and cultural elite, which, fair enough, who the fuck likes them assholes, but around the seventh parody of a Manhattan literary party one wanders if we haven't reached diminishing returns. In short, this is the sort of book which demands rereading but maybe doesn't actually warrant it, and while I admire Gaddis's intelligence I couldn't help but wish it was put to a less sterile end.

The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester – A space-wrecked savage seeks vengeance on those who wronged him. Pleasantly bizarre, with a focus on economic and cultural exploitation which would go on to influence a lot of 80's sci-fi writers, but it's kind of incoherently structured and the narrative basically didn't function that well for me.

The Epic of Gilgamesh – Mankind's first hero learns to hate death. How does one review a foundational text of human civilization? It was not good as the Illiad. I tell you, if I was writing cuneiform in 2500 BC, I'd have done a fuckton better job. Lotta repetition, man, lotta repetition.

Books I Read December 15, 2019

Writing this on a chilly day in Oxford, at the house of my dear, old friends, while drinking a glass of mulled wine. There are so many lovely things in this world that it is terrible we are ruining it at such a breakneck pace.

Human Voices by Penelope Fitzgerald – An idiosyncratic love affair takes place amid the claustrophobic auspices of the BBC during WWII. I've been lukewarm on the other Penelope Fitzgerald that I've read, but I'm glad I kicked forward, because this was a great delight. She has this peculiar style of misdirection, where it takes you 2/3 of the way through the book to figure out what the main narrative is about, and a rare capacity for limning characters in a handful of lines. Lots of fun.

Triumph of the Spider Monkey by Joyce Carol Oates – The scattered, psychedelic, horrific recollections of a 1960's serial killer, and a companion novelette of similar nastiness. Skillfully written, and disturbing in both its content and confused form. An effectively nightmarish little trifle, though I'm not exactly sure who I could recommend it to.

The Dark Side of the Sun by Terry Pratchett – Science fiction parody, or bad science fiction? Try as I might, I think Pratchett is not for me.

The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen – The classic novel of the 30 Year War, an inverted bildungsroman in which an exaggerated innocent is led to greatness and ruin by the corrupt and strife-ridden Germany in which he lives. Written several hundred years before the development of the Western novel, you couldn't really pretend that this functions as a story in any conventional sense. Valuable as an historical object, and because it framed how the 30 Yer War was remembered for centuries thereafter, but probably not really of much interest for any average reader.

A Summer Bird-Cage by Margaret Drabble – Two hipster sisters are horrible in 1960's London. Well-observed but kind of mean-spirited. Which is the point but still.

The Exchange and Other Stories by Yuri Trifonov – A pair of novellas chronicling the spiritual failures and bitter concessions required of the post-war Soviet citizenry. Thoughtful in its depiction of the the tortured motivations of its subjects, intricately written, excellent all around. Really good stuff.

The Gunslinger by Stephen King – Roland Deschain pursues the Man in Black across a horrifying wasteland. I read this as a child and still retain an affection for it as being emblematic of King's best qualities as a writer, a hallucinogenic nightmare as brief and intense as the effects of the drug which surely is responsible for its creation. Midway through reading this version, which I picked up from a friend's shelf, I realized it was a revised addition, lots of unnecessary bloat and awkward references to the back story revealed in later sequels. This isn't really the place to go into what a terrible failure the Dark Tower series ending up being, but suffice to say it was harder for me to enjoy this with the weight of the rest of the books hanging over me.

The Corner That Held Them by Sylvia Townsend Warner – A fictional history of a convent in medieval England. It's a fascinating premise, and Warner is a talented writer with a comfortable and engaging mastery of her subject matter. But it does have that unfortunate quality of being a book about religion written by a writer who seems to be utterly contemptuous of religion. Among the dozens of nuns who pass through the convent there isn't one who seems to have any sort of genuine conviction, indeed the narrative seems not even to allow for the possibility that such a creature might exist. It ended up feeling kind of mean-spirited to me, and sort of insincere, in a way that cut against the undeniable quality of the work.

A Kestrel For a Knave by Barry Hines – An impoverished, brutalized youth escapes the miserable circumstances of his life through his kinship with a raptor in what I gather is a high school classic of English literature. Effectively sad, is mawkish and predictable.

The Noise of Time by Julian Barnes – An apologia for the Russian composer Dmitri Shostakovich, who fought against, then made corrupt peace with, the Soviet regime. A well-written meditation on the moral concessions required of artists and humans more generally, though it does have that kind of staid quality common to books written about the Soviet Union 30-odd years after the fall of the Soviet Union, where you're kind of like 'wow Stalin was a bad guy shit who knew.'

Books and Tunes November 30th, 2019

Sitting in a pleasantly ratty cafe in a bustling back corner of London, enjoying a too strong filter coffee and that sort of chilly winter light one can't find in Los Angeles. I hope you're happy, and well.

I mean, probably. I don't actually know who you are, maybe you're like, a Nazi, or someone against whom I have some terrible personal dislike. But, probably, all in all, I hope you're happy, and well.

Call for the Dead by John le Carre – Le Carre's first, semi-canonical Smiley story, similar to the rest of the oeuvre, our graceless, phlegmatic, unhappy protagonist struggling with Soviet spies, the muddled morality of the modern world, all in about a quarter the space of some of the later books. If you were going to read these by now you probably already have, but if you might, and you haven't, you should. Or something.

Apaches by Oakley Hall – A rebellious cavalry sergeant presides over the death of the last free Native Indians and a too-moral gunslinger in another of Oakley Hall's sweeping depictions of a mythic west. Hall was a talented writer working in a sub-genre which tends to be critically dismissed, and you could do a lot worse than reading this book, though you'd do better to start with the genuinely brilliant Warlock, probably the best Western written not written by Larry McMurtry or Charles Portis.

A Murder of Quality by John le Carre – In a peculiar deviation from form, Smiley solves a murder in a toney English public school, basically le Carre doing P.D. James. It's interesting to watch Smiley out of his 'normal' element, and le Carre provides an adequate English-style mystery, with a lot of expectedly unexpected turns, but since I basically don't like English-style mysteries this one didn't do as much for me as some of Smiley's other glum misadventures.

The Thirty Years War by C.V. Wedgewood – An absolutely masterful depiction of Mitteleuropa's greatest pre-20th century tragedy, in which religious and political differences within the Holy Roman Empire incite a pan-European conflict. The wars of religion have long been a source of fascination for me, one that I'm returning to in preparation for a thing I'm working on, and I've read quite a bit about this era—duplicitous Wallenstein, desperate Frederick, cunning Matthias, and the brilliant Adolphus—so I can say with a reasonable degree of certainty that there is no better work on the subject available in English, despite it being some 90 years out of date. One might quibble over some of the author's particular conclusions – I think she tends to give the various Emperor's a bit too much of a pass – but this is an indisputably masterful work of popular history on a complex subject largely unfamiliar to modern readers. Highly recommended, assuming you have some interest in the topic and the energy to cram through 600 pages.

Woman with a Blue Pencil by Gordon McAlpine – A Japanese writer on the eve of internment is forced to abandon his literary mystery for shlocky, jingoistic pulp in this nested, complex narrative. A clever enough premise to sustain its brief length.

Last Witnesses: Unchildlike Stories by Svetlana Alexievich – Another in Alexievich's polyphonic histories, this time detailing the experiences of children during the Great Patriotic War. This is basically a four-hundred page gut punch, repetitious (though not tedious) recollection of tanks streaming through orchards and parents disappearing forever. As a whole the reminisces are, appropriate given the age of the children, less coherent narratives than impressionistic depictions of the maddening, confused horror of modern conflict, and I think somewhat less affecting than some of Alexievich's other woks. Still, well wroth your time.

Scenes From Village Life by Amos Oz — A cycle of short stories depicting ennui and lingering despair in a small Israeli town, just to the coherent side of magical realism. Strong stuff, all in all, Oz is a talented writer and these are subtle and disturbing, without completely forgoing sympathy for the characters involved.

When I Was a Child I Read Books by Marilynne Robinson – Another of Robinson's broadsides against modernity, vigorously if politely defending her brand of thoughtful, empathetic whitebread Christianity against the oppressive and barbaric influences of capitalism, thoughtless leftism and mass media. As always I find Ms. Robinson's brand of thought a tonic for troubled times, although I will also admit that some of these essays read a lot like some of the other essays from her I've read. Take that for what it's worth.

Babe in Paradise by Marisa Silver – A suite of short stories depicting the scuzzy, bitter, lonely realities of life in Los Angeles, where everyone imagines themselves two steps from blissful good fortune and would elbow their mother down an escalator to get there. I'm about half-kidding with that depiction, and while some of the stories do feel like every other story written about Los Angeles ('the air quality is terrible and I was going to visit a pornographer in the valley') the prose is strong and the occasional moments of human kindness feel earned and authentic.

Summerlong by Peter S. Beagle – The arrival of a mysterious woman upends the relationship between two elderly lovers and their child, in this pleasant if fairly predictable modern fairy tale. Beagle's a solid writer, lyrical if occasionally overwrought, and this is solid stuff if its what you're looking for, although personally I kinda felt like it could have used a few more curveballs to keep me on my toes.

Maud Martha by Gwendolyn Brooks -- The impressionistic experiences of a black woman in Chicago, common in her decency, misfortune, and earthy optimism. Strong stuff, Brooks has a talent for writing lines that feel like lines you've never read before, and the relative complexity of the prose provides an interesting counterpart to the deliberately prosaic narrative.

The Man Died: Prison Notes of Wole Soyinka — Memoirs of the three-odd years that Soyinka spent imprisoned by the Nigerian state, mostly in solitary confinement. This is quite marvelous; Soyinka's prose is excellent, his motivations admirable, his struggle to avoid madness uplifting. This stands among the better examples of what is, alas, a distinctly popular 20th century subgenre.

The Little People by MacDonald Harris – A dreamy, dazed American goes to live with friends in an English country house, meets fairies, maybe goes crazy. MacDonald can write, and he has a talent for winding you up with a lot of lyrical prose and then punching you in the gut with something really nasty. All the same this felt a little...languid to me, which is sort of the point, admittedly, but still, it felt a little dull.

The Silence in the Garden by William Trevor – The mysteries of an Irish manor and the small village it neighbors are revealed in a series of nested narratives, as sin and misfortune slowly work their way through several generations. William Trevor is, as I've had occasion to note, an absolutely masterful writer, marrying subtle but fabulous prose with a natural grasp of narrative rarely found outside of genre fiction. This is, like the ten-odd other books I've read by him this year, fabulous.

The Alchemist by Hanz Holzer – So I got this from the library thinking it was a thoughtful biography of Rudolf II, the melancholic art collector and Hapsburg Emperor who did very little to stop the 30 year war from burning down his country, only to discover that it was, in fact, an enormously sloppy work of popular 'history' written by a writer whose dozens of other credits seem to involve investigating ghosts and pretending astrology is true. But since I was reading about Rudolf for this project I'm working on, itself a rather slapdash work of historical fiction which nakedly sacrifices accuracy for fun, I thought this might be worth my time. It wasn't, however. It was stupid. People who believe in astrology are stupid. Also, magic. Magic isn't real. Get over it, kiddos.

The Grass by Claude Simon – A woman tell her lover about her husband's aunt, who was a lovely woman, and lived a life like any other life, which is to say pregnant with hushed meaning, tragic in its quotidian reality, sublimely beautiful, and largely without the benefit of the period, a form of punctuation which, it must be said (must it be said?) Simon rejects on basic principal, because he has read too much Proust or is just very French or perhaps because it beat him as a child, the period, I mean, coming on him at the schoolyard or perhaps at home by his writing desk (the oak one, the one that faced out the window, the one beside the yellow wallpaper) and delivering such vigorous and forceful cruelties that our author (Simon) chose to eschew them (periods as a form of punctuation) throughout his long career as a writer, a career which included winning the Nobel prize, not that there's anything wrong with this style of writing, which allows (forces?) the reader basically amount to push one's mind through the complex series of exercises required to make heads or tails of the prose, prose which is beautiful but often, after all the navigation, the deciphering, the wandering about, proves to be, say, a description of a fat woman's blouse, a blouse which, like every other blouse, is a fractal, proving some essential and indelible truth about the nature of the world, a sad world, a world we inhabit against ourselves, a world which, once again, must avoid ending its sentences as it would throwing a baby out the window, and heaven forbid someone calls you while you're reading or you want to stop and scratch your armpit or something, because as soon as you break the flow of the sentence it takes another five or ten or twenty minutes to get back into the groove, which, fine, some people like, even I like, sometimes, but not all the time, and not here as much as I have in other works of Simon's that I've read.

The Owl Service by Alan Gardner – Three adolescents in a decaying house in rural Wales are forced to recreate a tragic mythic rite. Gardner is widely regarded as one of the best Y/A writers of the 20th century, but the things that I've liked by him (this and the bizarre, horrifying, very clever Red Shift) are barely Y/A at all. The narrative and conflicts in this book are as far as possible from the 'special child discovers how special he is' plot of most modern Y/A books (and, for that matter, Gardner's to my mind overlauded Wisestone of Brisingamen (or whatever it's called, I'm in an airport and can't be bothered to look it up), the characters well-etched and sympathetic, if often unpleasant. Anyway, this is a roundabout way of saying this was very good, and it would be worth trying to trick your niece or nephew into replacing it for whatever Harry Potter clone they're currently choking on.

Futureland by Walter Mosley – Interlinked short stories about an improbable dystopian future. Pedantic and on the nose, this is one of the weaker things I've read by the author.

Conundrum by Jan Morris – A brief, lovely account of the authors transition from male to female, a lifelong journey which Morris chronicles with great charm and lucidity. Thoughtful and genuinely engaging, Ms. Morris comes off as an enormously likable person who bravely and optimistically faces, and overcomes, the bitter circumstances of her birth. Excellent and engaging.

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman – Short stories by a late 19th century feminist, critiques of the patriarchy which, with the exception of the fabulously weird eponymous story, are clever but kind of soft.

Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez – A small Colombian town is universally complicit in the honor killing of a young aristocrat. A short novel by Marquez that doesn't focus on pederasty! This is strong stuff, full of the odd digressions and rich side characters that made Marquez so fun to read, but with less of the hyper-stylized impossibilities that tend to grate on me. Then again that seems to me to be what a lot of readers like about the man, so maybe ignore me.

Books I Read, November 14th 2019

Autumn has finally come, such as it is in LA. Sometimes you have to drag the days behind you. But you do it. The last two weeks, I read these books...

Concrete Island by J.G. Ballard – An executive suffers a traffic accident, is forced to survive in a trash strewn borderland between several highways, recreates the essential evils of capitalism among the vagrants he finds there. One of Ballard's slim nightmares, taking an absurd premise and working it with vigorous practicality into a vicious indictment of modernity. Ballard was a raw and unique talent, and belongs in any list of the 20th century's best writers.

The Greatest Thing That Almost Happened by Don Robertson – The conclusion of the Morris Bird III trilogy, which chronicled the growing moral sense of a Cleveland everyman (boy?) from early childhood, takes an abrupt and unexpected turn here, such that almost any description would serve as spoiler. Rather than offer that I'll just say I found this funny and sad, stylistically unremarkable but extremely readable and genuinely affecting. Taken together they serve as a really lovely, unassuming bildungsroman that should be better known than it is.

Love and War in California by Oakley Hall – A college-student and would be writer suffers through his first love, goes to fight in Europe, spends the rest of his life obsessing over the aforementioned in this uneven triptych. It gets a little loose in the third section, but the bulk of the book is compellingly readable if perhaps not staggeringly original. It didn't change my life but I also didn't throw it out the window at a passerby.

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf—A woman plans a party, thinks thoughts, in this classic of modernist literature. Quite fabulous, I'm sorry I put off reading Woolf for so long, but glad I finally managed it. The soaring prose, the peculiar structure, the sharp insight, it's always nice when the cultural establishment elevates a writer to a deserving position.

Bloodchild and Other Stories by Octavia Butler – Maybe not for me.

The Low Road by Chris Womersley – A junkie ex-doctor escorts a gut shut hooligan through the Australian countryside. In it's favor, its both nasty and short. I can't say I got a ton out of it apart from that.

Volcano by Shusaku Endo – A petty scientific functionary retires, grapples with his meaningless existence and horrible family in the shadow of a volcano which may or may not erupt. Endo was a great talent, and his status as a Christian offers a peculiar and distinct insight into the nature of Japanese society. Less grand than his period pieces, but with the same fine sense of—not subtlety, exactly, this is after all a book in which an active volcano serving as a metaphor for life's subterranean passions—but appreciation for the complexity of human agency. Good stuff.

Hellstrom's Hive by Frank Herbert – A government agency discovers an underground cult-nation of humanoid-bug creatures, in this sci-fi thriller by the author of Dune. It is...not Dune.

The Journey of Ibn Fatouma by Naguib Mahfouz —A traveler passes through a loosely veiled parody of the third, second, and first worlds. Sort of a modern, Islamic take on Gulliver's Travels, lyrical but a little heavy-handed.

The Taiga Syndrome by Christina Rivera Garza – An out of work private detective tracks a man's ex-lover through the Russian wild. In so far as there is a plot, I mean, which there basically isn't. Probably there's a name for this contemporary sub-genre, with its esoteric, unstructured paranoia, or at least I feel like I've read a bunch of books like this. It evokes a mood effectively, but its an easy mood to evoke. I didn't love it.

The Balloonist by MacDonald Harris—An obsessive explorer battles the Arctic elements, his patriarchal limitations, in this gorgeous and peculiar novel. Lyrical descriptions of nature interspersed with a compelling an idiosyncratic romance. Excellent stuff, I'll be looking for more from the author.

The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury—A collection of short stories by one of the most beloved fantasists of the 20th century whom, I confess, I had not actually read prior to last week. These are a somewhat mixed bag, and occasionally I tired of the underlying conceit that the far future is exactly like middle-America in the 1950's, but there's some hot fire in here, and a real willingness to go nasty which I tend to find admirable. I'm not sure I think he's Borges, but this is stronger than most of the stuff I can remember reading by his contemporaries.

When the Emperor was Divine by Julie Otsuka– A tightly written description of a Japanese family's internment. It's narrow, but it owns the ground it stakes, and the language is compelling.

Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn—A reporter returns to her home town to investigate the murder of a young girl, revisits the tawdry and awful circumstances of her upbringing. Probably everyone already read this, or I guess saw the adaptation, I know I'm late to the game. Also, I have nothing particularly relevant to add to the torrent of acclamation which it enjoys. This is very strong stuff (although the ending didn't land perfect), Flynn is an excellent writer, with a disturbing and authentic viewpoint on gender relations, sexual misbehavior, adolescence, evil generally. It's always hard to compare a contemporary writer to their predecessors, but if I made a list of best crime writers of all time, I think I'd probably have to put Gillian Flynn on it.

Books I Read October 31st, 2019

At the moment the fires here in LA are not so much 'spooky' as they are 'nightmarish harbingers of a global apocalypse'. My Halloween costume is, 'Man in Suit', which, hey, I don't wear suits a lot, so for me they're kind of like a costume, just one that you don't need to purchase at a seasonal outlet store.

Morte D'Urban by J.F. Powers – A worldly member of a minor ecclesiastical order is sent to work at a modest retreat in a midwestern backwater, wearies of its unpleasant duties and banal personalities, struggles to reconcile his ambitions with the moral obligations of a man of the cloth. Less a book about God and more a book about priests, if that makes sense, far from the searing religious melodrama of a Power and the Glory, for instance. That said, it's solid work, the characters are well-drawn, not always likable but basically sympathetic. Small but well-made, let's say.

Hard Rain Falling by Don Carpenter – An orphan with anger control issues grows up on the streets, struggles to escape his destiny in a penitentiary and to become capable of love. Not quite a prison novel, there is a feel of authenticity to its Pacific Northwest poolhalls and juke joints, and a shaggy sort of structure which likewise seems to honestly depict the misadventures of a certain sort of protagonist, one outside respectable society but not given to the forms of vigorous criminality which make for melodrama. Sad but honest, strong stuff, worth your time.

Silence by Shusaku Endo – A Portuguese Priest sneaks into Shogunate Japan, tries to keep the gospel alive among converts being brutally hunted by the authorities, is forced to confront the depth and meaning of his faith. Fabulously strong stuff, a great psychological novel. The writing is neat but effective, the moral complexities of the situation feel uncomfortably and honestly messy, the characterization is fabulous. A strange, thoughtful, and sympathetic take on the demands of the righteousness and the nature of sacrifice. Very strong stuff, deservedly venerated.

My Friends by Emmanuel Bove – A cowardly, ineffectual everyman searches for understanding in the back streets of Paris. I read it late at night in an airport and confess it didn't leave much of an imprint.

The Moon and the Bonfire by Cesare Pavese – Returning to the Italian countryside in which he was raised an impoverished orphan, our unnamed protagonist loosely investigates the fascist history of his village, discovers death, brutality and betrayal. Combines a wistful, Proustian sort of nostalgia for youth and love and passion mixed with an effective, oddly believable mystery. Sly and subtle, good stuff.

On the Abolition of All Political Parties by Simone Weil – Simone Weil thinks it would be better if democracies didn't have official parties, is probably right, doesn't have any real clear on idea on how to set that up practically. Weil was a fascinating and admirable character, but there's not a ton of meat on this bone.

Rock Crystal by Adalbert Stifter – Two young children get lost in the Alps, in this slender, excellent work. The story is, obviously, very simple, but the writing is magnificently vivid, the descriptions of the glaciers and mountains being powerful enough to lower the reader's body temperature a few degrees. A lovely little fable.

The Life and Opinions of Zacharias Lichter by Matei Calinescu – Tales of a Bucharesti holy fool and his attempts to live entirely free of cant or dishonesty and in naked service of the immediate reality of existence. Records of his speeches, stolen snatches of his poetry, depictions of the strange friendships and enmities which he has formed, largely without any sort of story. Obviously this sort of thing lives or dies on the naked strength of the author's prose and thought, and Calinescu proves himself the rare sort of talent who can manage this kind of novel. Lichter himself is a strange delight, a modern day Diogenes who rejects all forms of insincerity, down even to memory, in favor of a furious attachment to a sort of pre-conscious conception life itself. I thought it was funny and moving and thoughtful, though I concede it won't be to everyone's taste.

Alfred and Guinevere by James Schuyler – The story of two young siblings, told in diary entries and snatched of dialogue. Schuyler has a great talent for depicting the passionate and confused state of childhood, its jealousies, passions and follies. The structure alone is worth your trouble.

Black Leopard, Red Wolf – Props to Marlon James for just straight up writing an epic fantasy, but this didn't do it for me.

The Old Man and Me by Elaine Dundy – An American party-girl with a dark secret seduces a middle-aged Englishmen of modest renown. A lot of the Anglo-American feuding kind of bored me, and in general I didn't feel like the comic prose was as funny as it should have been. The noirish bits are much more interesting, but like in The Dud Avocado Dundy ultimately shies away from it, committing to a less interesting romance that ends kind of neatly.

Blindness by Henry Green – A tragic accident blinds a gadabout public school boy, messes with his family and loved ones, highlights the broader tragedy of the human condition. Green wrote this when he was still in undergrad, and it kind of reads like it. He's still a clever writer but this is kind of over-emotive line to line, a far cry from the devilish (sometimes exaggerated) subtlety of his other works.

Duffy by Dan Kavanagh (Julian Barnes) – A bisexual private detective investigates blackmail. Competently but unexceptional.

The Bitter Honeymoon and Other Stories by Albert Moravia—Italian men of various ages make poor decisions while in love. Well-written and engaging, if fixated on a fairly singular theme.

Mona Lisa Overdrive by William Gibson—The final book in Gibson's Sprawl Trilogy sees a collection of addicts, celebrities and general losers caught up in a lots of criminal/corporate shenanigans, an AI singularity. The weakest of the three, but still strong, and as a whole I have to say these are pretty masterful. The setting is enormously clever, and Gibson has a gift for pacing and structure, lots of fast moving stories a-typical to the genre but still fairly action packed. He's also a genuinely good writer; he knows what not to say, and for all the metal arms and weird guns this is a deeply wistful quality to the story, a patina of sorrow which hangs over the story without overwhelming it. One of the handful of truly excellent works of sci-fi ever written.

A Posthumous Confession by Marcellus Emants—A chronically miserable misanthrope details his pointless life and terrible crimes in this confessional novel lying somewhere between Dostoevsky and Jim Thompson. Why are some men better than others? Are we constitutionally equipped for certain behavioral patterns, and if so, does this inborn identity not make a mockery of conventional morality? The confessional novel as a subgenre can get tiring pretty quickly, bogging down in endless description of petty grotesques, but Emants manages to pull it off pretty fabulously. The writing is lucid is bitter, the questions being asked thoughtful and sincere. Really very good, if, obviously, quite grim.

In Parenthesis by David Jones—An epic poem in the style of the Mabinogi detailing a company of Britishmen being slaughtered on the Somme. Genuinely masterful. The writing is sonorous and madly complex, rich with strange and disturbing imagery, colloquial conversation interwoven with allusion to myth and legend. It all serves to turn the comparatively familiar image of a WWI battlefield into a world that seems as alien as outright fantasy, treating war as a foreign country, horrifying and in some ways beautiful. Unquestionably a masterpiece, difficult but well-worth your time.

Miserable Miracle by Henri Michaux—A frenchman details his experiences with narcotics. I've never really understood the tendency people have of imagining that hallucinogens provide some pathway towards a more 'authentic' experience of reality, as if deliberately taking a substance the explicit purpose of which is to corrupt and distort your thought might lead to genuine insight. For that matter, Michaux seems like kind of a bullshitter. His depictions of the effects of eating hash, in particular, are so baffling peculiar as to make one question his veracity more generally; in thirty-five years I have never, ever heard of anyone having had 'visuals' from marijuana, and remain skeptical at the five pages or so he dedicates to his own fever-dreams after eating an undisclosed amount of 'Indian hemp', as he calls it. Ultimately, this has not done much to break my general opinion that there is nothing duller than listening to someone brag of their drug use.

A Death in the Family by James Agee—The unexpected death of the patriarch of a Knoxville family thrusts his child, wife and other relations into a desperate reconsideration of their own lives and limitations. A kaleidoscopic rumination on the weight, purpose and essential tragedy of family. Sad and lovely,

Consider Phlebas by Iain M. Banks—Far future space opera shenanigans. Not for me.

Green Mansions by W.H. Hudson – A Venezuelan revolutionary escapes to the jungles of Guyana, falls in love with a forest nymph. A throwback romance which seems more appropriate to 1890 than 1940, and there's some icky ethnic stuff, but despite a general lack of originality that is a well-polished gem of a story. Its melodrama but all works, Hudson has a talent for bucolic description and its just weird and subtle enough to work.

Books I Read October 14th, 2019

After several weeks of enjoying myself I got back down to the grind, though not quite quick enough to keep up with my appropriate monthly pace. Judge me as you must.

The Killing Gift by Bari Wood – A telekinetic woman who can kill with her mind!!! is pursued by a police detective to unclear ends. This felt like the kind of book that I sneaked off my father's shelves in middle school, which isn't really anything one way or the other as far as you're concerned. A competent if unexceptional 80's horror story.

The Givenness of Things by Marilynne Robinson – Essays on God, faith, hope, humanity by one of the better living writers working in English. Some of the theological stuff was outside my bailiwick but I always find Robinson's sober, sincere Christianity a balm to my troubled mind.

Venus Drive by Sam Lipsyte – A suite of short stories of the 'I used to be a scuzzy drug user' school. They're competently, sometimes even skillfully written, but bluntly this is an MFA sub-genre I've just lost interest in. It's got that unrelenting semi-comic bleakness which comes off as one note, not to mention kind of tedious from a reader's perspective since every story pretty much ends the same.

The Interpreters by Wole Soyinka – A group of young Nigerian intellectuals struggle to articulate meaning amid the general squalor of modernity in post-independence Africa. Very good. Soyinka was better known as a playwrite, but this is small masterpiece. The characters are rich, humorous and tragic, the style is difficult but evocative, the setting will be foreign to most readers (or most readers reading this blog); in short, everything you'd want in a novel. Worth your time.

The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter – A young woman and her orphaned siblings go to live with a tyrannical toymaker. I wanted to like it more than I did. There's a lot of artistry here, Carter's a skillful writer, but I felt like this was stuff I'd seen before, and not in a 'we're contemplating our collective gender archetypes through the medium of myth' kind of way (although we are) but more in a 'Barbara Comyns did this better' kind of way. That said, other people might react more strongly to it. What do I dunno, I can barely work my moka pot and I've had it for like two years.

Bonneville Blue by Joan Chase – A diverse collection of short stories, narratively sufficiently dissimilar as to leave me struggling for simple description. Thoughtful ruminations on the fault lines that run through human existence, how was that? Anyway, they're excellent, really, really good. Joan Chase was a fabulous writer; her prose is excellent, the narrative construction generally quite tight, and she had a genuine sympathy for her characters which you don't always find in these sorts of things. I'm saddened to have just discovered I've now read all her published work, and envy you the opportunity to check her out.

The Knox Brothers by Penelope Fitzgerald – Biographies of the author's father and three exceptional uncles, Victorians who distinguished themselves in a variety of fields. It's fine, I dunno. I don't have anything clever to say about this, sorry, maybe just move on to the next book, not that I can guarantee much insight there either.

Nada by Jean-Patrick Manchette – A group of fabulously unlikable leftists kidnap an American ambassador in 70's Paris. The characterization is a little spotty, and this might have been a better book at half again the length (I never, ever think this) but the end is Manchette in his usual masterful form, brutal noir serving as scathing satire for every element of French civilization. Very good, if not his best.

English, August: An Indian Story by Upamanyu Chatterjee – A pampered, cosmopolitan, aimless Anglo-Indian goes to work for the civil service in a miserable, backwards portion of his country, smokes a lot of pot, struggles to accept the essential necessity of labor as a condition of human existence. Very funny, very clever, like Soyinka above a novel which feels at once very much of its place and universal in its depiction of youthful ennui. Excellent stuff, I'm looking forward to picking up another by the author.

Too Loud a Solitude by Bohumil Hrabel – A drunken book-collector and paper pulper struggles to make sense of literature, his life, life generally, in this slender but compelling volume. I really like Hrabel's zany, stream of conscious style, and the text is richly marbled with allusion and literary subtext. Visceral and complex, worth your time.

Count Zero by William Gibson – Apparently I read this already, and actually don't seem to have enjoyed it that much, but maybe I was just having a bad week or whatever because I thought this was actually a ton of fun on a second pass. Apart from the fact that Gibson was genuinely inventing a sub-genre (and one which seems increasingly prescient as time passes) but the narrative is propulsive and mean but not too mean. I liked it, I'm looking forward to finishing out the series.

Books I Read September 30th, 2019

A short one today, but I spent the last few weeks otherwise actively engaged in adventure and merriment, so give me a goddamn break.

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf – The cataclysmic tragedy of human existence as revealed in the quotidian interactions of a wealthy intellectual family at their beach house in coastal England, as described by one of the better prose writers of the 20th century. Thunderous and profound.

The Wishing Tree by Christopher Isherwod – A collection of essays dealing with Isherwood's midlife conversion to Vedanta. Most of the stuff in this will be familiar to anyone with a basic knowledge of Hinduism, I can't really say that I took a lot from it.

The Collected Short Stories of Jean Stafford by Jean Stafford – Wide-ranging but unremarkable. I was looking forward to this after having really enjoyed the Mountain Lion, but the stuff in here felt flat, predictable or entirely without a proper sting.

I Served the King of England by Bohumil Hrabel – A licentious, charming cad serves as a valet during the wild days of prewar Mitteleuropa, sells his soul to the Nazis, redeems himself in philosophical old age. Surreal and funny, with the propulsive stream of consciousness that was Hrabel's house style. Lots of fun, worth a read.

Saints and Strangers by Angela Carter – Another collection of short stories by a talented writer that kind of bored the hell out of me. Carter has chops, but the stories were fuzzy and unstructured, at least to my tastes.

The Guide by R.K. Narayan – After a life ruined by greed and obsessive love, an ex-con finds himself ensconced as a self-styled guru in a temple in rural India. A swiftly paced, charming depiction of man's weakness before the demands of fate and the whims of instinct, kin in some interesting ways to Hrabel's two spots above.

A Dream of Africa by Camara Laye – A pessimistic satire of the plight of independent Guinea. I really liked Radiance of the King, but this didn't quite come together. Rushed and somewhat didactic.

The Second Book of Fritz Leiber by Fritz Leiber – I picked this one off a rack at Space Cowboy in Joshua Tree partly because I have kind of a soft spot for Leiber but mostly because the cover art was just so insanely bad (what is going on with the proportions to those arms, man? Fafhrd looks like Mr. Fantastic). It's fine, the short stories are clearly not his best stuff but some of the essays were thoroughly enjoyable.

Jakob Von Gunten by Robert Walser – The dreamy, dishonest son of a minor aristocrat chronicles his education in a servant's school in this nonsensical Bildingsroman. Or, maybe none of that happens, its the kind of book where you can't really be sure how much of the narrative (such as it is) is actually taking place. I gather this was a seminal text for a certain sort of German intellectual circa 1910, but the stream of conscience ramblings which must have been innovative has since become commonplace, and the emotive silliness bored me to tears.

Riddley Walker by Russel Hoban – In a distant post-apocalypse, a savage child from a tribe of hunter gatherers struggles to find redemption for the human race. Absolutely brilliant. Although presented in a peculiar, alien vernacular, with words written phonetically and concepts from the present reimagined in a dreamlike but entirely plausible fashion, it still manages a profound depth of insight. Quite simply one of the best works of speculative fiction ever written—I can't fathom why it isn't more universally regarded, except in so far as its a difficult if compelling read. Anyway, don't sleep on this, its tremendous.