Death in Her Hands - Ottessa Moshfegh

This is another book by Moshfegh that I've recently read. And this one I've actually liked, at the very least for the most part. 

At times it read a bit like Olive Kitteridge minus the humour, at times like The Lovely Bones with a smaller touch of paranormal. In general, it was compelling if not gripping. 

The novel is a nice exploration of solitude and ageing, but also of some people's innate yearning for adventure and thrills. Yet, by the end of it, the unreliability of the narrator made the novel unravel a bit too much for my (complete) liking. 

Leviathan - Paul Auster

 

With my most sincere apologies to 4 3 2 1 , I think this is the Paul Auster novel to end all Paul Auster novels. 

It is the first Auster's novel I had heard of (possibly the first that my parents read?), but, not being as ubiquitous in all second-hand bookshops as The New York Trilogy, also one that I hadn't touched until the Westminster library kindly gave me access to the e-book. 

Besides the traditional Auster trademarks (chance, mystery, fortuitous crossings of metaphorical paths) what particularly struck me of this novel is how relevant to today's world it still feels. Perhaps, after all, America and its identity (crisis) hasn't changed that much since the end of the Cold War...

The Passenger - Cormac McCarthy

  

McCarthy is 4895 years old (actually 89) and it doesn't show from this book. Either he's still extremely sharp, or he has a heck of a ghost-writer...

The Passenger is a beautiful story that makes the American South fascinating (unlike, well, Faulkner, as per my previous post). Bobby Western is the kind of troubled anti-hero that should be played by McConaughey, just like in Mud. And its pages on nuclear research are rather interesting for a non-scientist (in particular as I had casually read this and Giordano's Tasmania back-to-back). 

Oddly enough, at the time of reading I had also just finished advising a student on an essay about Thalidomide, so seeing Western's sister being pursued by "Thalidomide Kid" was bizarelly alienating.

The Maltese Falcon – Dashiell Hammett

Another book that I bought as second-hand despite the fact that I don’t think anyone had ever opened it (seriously, people these days can’t even read a short Hammett novel?!?).

While the years have led me to think that Raymond Chandler was maybe overrated (I still can’t get over the fact that Marlowe is a first-person narrator who finds all his one-liners extremely witty), I actually do think that Hammett was probably a really good writer (and dare I say it, the book version of The Maltese Falcon is probably better than its movie adaptation).

I’m not going to say that this is a masterpiece, because it’s probably not, but it does remain a very pleasant read after all these years – and Sam Spade is someone I’d like to get to know much more than Philip Marlowe (despite the fact that in my mind they both have Humphrey Bogart’s face, clearly!)

The Hound of the Baskervilles – Arthur Conan Doyle

Yes, up until now I had never read an actual Sherlock Holmes novel (only a few of his short stories, but even there not many) and I’m about to say something awful: it’s alright. Not great. Not bad. Alright, which probably means I deserve to be kicked out of this country for many.

The thing is, a number of the surprises (like the mysterious second character found on the moor) are not excessively surprising, and one thing is being smug, but Sherlock Holmes is just a wee bit too smug.

Unfortunately I must say that as far as Sherlock Holmes is concerned, I like his 21^st century alter ego (Gregory House) a lot better. And as far as Conan Doyle creations go, I enjoyed The Lost World immensely more. 

The Book of Illusions – Paul Auster

Quite possibly the best Paul Auster novel I’ve ever read, and I don’t say this lightly.  

Hector Mann, the real protagonist of the book, is as mysterious and fascinating a figure as Master Yehudi in Mr Vertigo (and his bizarre career path post-acting reminds one of Walt’s life in the same book). The love story between the narrator and Alma is a thing of beautiful delicacy, and by the end of the book the reader is happy to know that Zimmer has moved on, but also that he sees no need to tell us anything about who has taken Alma’s place. And it is always refreshing to read an Auster novel that is not set in New York (despite the fact that Zimmer lives there for a while, accidentally in Brooklyn – who would have ever thought…).

The fact that Auster went through the trouble of inventing not just a character, but also his movie plots and his entire body of work, is something that deserves a literary standing ovation (and they’re so realistic that I actually had to look up Hector Mann on Wikipedia, thinking he was a real – if a bit obscure – figure of the silent film era that I had never heard of…). 

What a Carve Up! – Jonathan Coe

One of the many books I snatched from Books for Free in Stratford before it closed (the reserves, unfortunately, are starting to slowly run out…). A few months ago I read – and really enjoyed – The Rotters’ Club, but found this novel to be on another level.

What a Carve Up is a cross between epic family novels (Solomon Gursky Was Here is the first one that comes to mind, because of the nature of the Winshaw family and the mischievousness of some of its older members – often more interesting than their kids), cheesy mysteries (Ten Little Indians) and the most enjoyable and ironic Alan Bennett works.

The constant alternation of styles, narrators and registers is obviously yet again a display of Coe’s considerable talent. And the fact that so much of the novel is set in Northern England is again a welcome departure from London-centred British literature.

Much like in The Rotters’ Club with Malcolm, even in What a Carve Up Coe kills off one of my favourite characters (Fiona) relatively early (I mean, not super-early, but the writing is on the wall from the start, so I don’t feel like I’m spoiling too much). Yet I don’t hate him for that. Although I really wish I knew what happened to Phoebe and Graham…

Gorky Park – Martin Cruz Smith

The greatest book ever written. Seriously.

Well, maybe not.

But without a doubt one of the most enthralling crime novels I’ve ever read. Sure, it does have its fair share of problems (for instance the fact that every time I saw the main character’s name “Arkady” I actually mistakenly read “Already” – and it does get annoying over the course of 560 pages! – or the fact that from the very beginning it is quite clear that the evil Pribluda isn’t going to kill our hero, and isn’t even going to be his main antagonist), but it remains pure entertainment.

It’s also really interesting reading it through Cold War lenses: the impeccably dressed FBI agents against their clumsy Soviet counterpart, Irina’s beauty ruined forever by KGB actions, but her marks can be masked with American make-up (something that reminded me of “James Bond's "Pussy" and Anglo-American Cold War Sexuality”, one of the most interesting academic articles I’ve ever read). 

But most of all, now I know a lot more about furs…

Gods Without Men – Hari Kunzru

The great thing about young writers is that you can be all smug and unreasonably proud for reading their complete works, or at least all their fiction books (as it’s the case for me and Kunrzu). Let’s just ignore the fact that at the end of the day Kunzru has only written four novels so far.

To me, nothing will ever equal the impact and the depth of My Revolutions, but Gods Without Men was a lot more enjoyable than The Impressionist (I liked it pretty much as much as I liked Transmissions, with the sentimental sections in this case replaced by wacky but entertaining mystic ones). The book has been compared to works by David Mitchell and Kurt Vonnegut, but I actually saw quite a lot of Philip Roth (American Pastoral) and Don DeLillo (White Noise).

As usual, Kunzru writes beautifully, and succeeds in making the story of Jaz and Lisa gripping and touching (In particular when he describes their lives in the public eye). However, I have the feeling that some of the characters are slightly too stereotyped (in particular the nerdy Jaz and the British Nicky, who just uses a few British idioms too many to be fully credible). 

The mysteries of the afterlife don’t interest me. Kunzru’s recounting of them, however, does. 

Puerto Escondido – Pino Cacucci

I read this book after watching a travel program on Mexico in which Cacucci was gallivanting around the country with a couple of Italian comedians. Now that I think about it, there isn’t much to say about the novel: it’s just a series of wacky adventures that lead the main character to end up in the Mexican village of Puerto Escondido.

It’s just that – not a masterpiece, not a work of great literature – but it’s absolutely lovely, and isn’t this what reading (at times, not always!) should be about?

Il Giorno della Civetta – Leonardo Sciascia

I have already talked about three books by Sciascia, but I just wanted to add a couple of words about this one. I took it with me when I moved to Canada, because in our little international high-school we were often asked to discuss what was good and bad in our countries, and I felt that Il Giorno della Civetta was a perfect picture of both.

In the novel Sciascia paints the Sicilian mafia for what it is, without romanticising it and without indirectly praising its principles (and its violence). I was also fascinated by the fact that Sciascia wrote from the viewpoint of a policeman from Northern Italy, a decision that I found extremely bold for someone as Sicilian as Sciascia. Had this book been published ten years ago, I would like to think that it would have enjoyed more success than Roberto Saviano’s Gomorra, but it probably wouldn’t have been the case.

One could easily teach Italian history through Sciascia’s books, but again that’s a risk we’re not going to run anytime soon...

Ten Little Indians – Agatha Christie

I remember reading this book during the summer between my first and second year of high-school. The girl I fancied back then lent it to me and so I just had to read it – it led nowhere, but at least I have no hard feelings towards her and we’re still good friends.

Agatha Christie’s books fall within the “great read without necessarily being great literature” category: while their literary significance is not particularly striking, it is undeniable that they are delightful to read, and Ten Little Indians is no exception.

For an impressionable fourteen-year old the realization of the meaning of the name U.N. Owen was a coup de théâtre like no others. And the message in a bottle at the end is actually a much deeper reflection of our need for confession – and a legacy – than I realized at first (Ten Little Indians should be used instead of the tree falling – soundlessly? – in a forest for sparking debates about the experience of reality!).

Philip Marlowe – Raymond Chandler

I’ve already mentioned how I started reading Chandler and Hammett because of Pulp Fiction’s poster.

Yes, Philip Marlowe is the epitome of cool: hard when he needs to, suave in the few cases when he should be so, gifted with women, tough with thugs, and – ultimately – always right, even when he’s wrong. But in Chandler’s books the narrator is (often, if not always – I don’t know as I haven’t read all his books) Marlowe himself. And to me that makes him sound, well, like he’s trying a bit too hard. I mean, if you’re trying to show how great you are, you surely don’t need to tell your reader how wonderfully witty your deadpan one-liners actually are, do you? Shouldn’t your actions do the talking for you, instead of your unreliably biased pen?

This is just a thought: Chandler’s books are wonderfully entertaining (although maybe not great literature), but a third person narrator would actually add swag (if it was ever needed) to his detective...

Off Side – Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

I should have treated Carvalho like I’ve treated a number of other protagonists of crime/mystery series (Montalbano, Maigret, Guerrieri): talk about my favourite book of his, or talk about all of them as one.

I have already mentioned my love for Carvalho in my post on Tatuaje, but Off Side deserves an extra line, because the last pages of Bromuro’s life are some of the most touching ones I’ve ever read.