Girlfriend in a Coma

Karen is 17 years old in 1979 when she suddenly falls into a deep coma. The night before, she gives her boyfriend a letter, telling him to only open it if something happens to her. In the letter, she talks of her fear of the future, her terror at what the world will become, from what she has seen in her dreams.

It is hard to write a review of this book without dropping huge spoilers, and as I always hope that some people will read the books that I review, I had better not!

So maybe I can talk about the world in 1997, and after, which the second part of the book covers. Within 18 years from 1979 when Karen goes to sleep, the world changes drastically. Perhaps more drastically than any other short period of time before that, in terms of consequential changes and irreversibility.

People spend all day in a virtual realm of computers and television. There is very little in the way of real ‘free time’, by which I mean really talking to someone, really experiencing something. People work more than ever, to buy what? There are hundreds of time-saving appliances and conveniences, but where does all the time we save actually go?

These are all questions raised in a very probing and innocent way in the book, with a real sense of shock and dismay at the way things have turned out. It is to Coupland’s credit that the questions that he raises are never infused with a sense of injustice, that people were promised a bright and beautiful future and the universe failed to live up to it. It is always the fault of the people, which of course is the truth. It is no one’s fault but ours that things are a terrible mess. We’ve poisoned everything; ourselves, everything around us. Coupland’s solution to the problem of our collective stupidity is beautiful and poetic and impossible, but ultimately very simple. In short, (but the long version is much better) to wake up and stop being idiots and take responsibility. In short.

This is a very wonderful book and everything it examines (14 years ago) is relevant now, but infinitely more urgent. On a day of strikes in the UK when people are standing up for something, it feels appropriate to recommend a book like this.

One Day

by David Nicholls

A good read about two very flawed people that sees them on the same day every year for eighteen years, while the author spins a ‘will they, won’t they’ web that draws you in. Once in a while I will read a book that's hugely popular, like this one, just to know what it's like, it's not as if my taste is particularly snobby or high-brow, it's just I don't seem to naturally go for the bestsellers...Although with this one I think the cover is a bit off-putting, it reminds me of an easyjet advert.

Anyway, Dexter and Emma are an ‘everyman’ and ‘everywoman’ for Generation X, who came to adulthood in the late eighties/early nineties.

I’m not sure if anyone has examined this one particular stand of the book, so I will try.

The most interesting thing about the book, I thought, was a buzzing undercurrent of political engagement and then, increasingly, disassociation.

Emma, the more politically engaged one of the main characters is described, in the late eighties as the book begins as ‘always boycotting something’, she goes to demos and reads difficult Russian and Scandinavian plays. She wants to be a writer (secretly) and ‘to change not the whole world, but the world around her, in a small way’. Her most exciting moment was ‘being struck by police baton’ in the poll-tax riots. The only thing is, it’s more about appearances than actual action, with Emma. It’s like this with most people, of course, we can’t all be Che Guevara, but it’s a very fine line from ranting on about everything that is in fashion, to thoughtfully living your life and trying to apply certain ideas to your reality. (I haven’t figured out where this line is myself, I know, so I am trying to not be shockingly hypocritical.)

What follows, is, in my mind, a perfect illustration of the state of Great Britain, in particular, and the political imagination of its people.

Emma moves to London, has to get a crappy job, which she stays at for two years out of fear, or ennui, becoming increasingly desperate and frustrated. Sound familiar? (I found myself becoming irritated, on Emma’s behalf, by it being hard for her ‘in the current economic climate’!)

Dexter, the other lead character, meanwhile has a decadent few years travelling and ‘teaching English’, roaming through Thailand, Italy etc etc.

The brassy glamour and excess of the nineties is vividly realised by David Nicolls and  is described by Dexter as ‘a huge relief from the gulag of the late eighties’, where people can finally ‘have fun’ and let off some steam, be young and free and careless.

However, it is with hindsight that we have now realised that these manic, pill-popping, boom years laid the foundations for what came to pass in the last two or three years, the recent financial breakdowns. The sagging of the grinning face of capitalism.  The nineties were the years of the slow extrication of the importance of politics from the minds of the British people.

There is a very telling argument that Dexter and Emma have towards the end of the book, in 2002, just after the 1million strong march against the Iraq war. Their opposing opinions are, I believe, representative of the two main bodies of thought on this abstract word: ‘politics’, which has lost almost all of its meaning.

Emma begins by bemoaning the fact that there was no opposition to the Iraq war after that large rally, surprised at the fact that the students are not more engaged/enraged. Dexter sighs inwardly and gets defensive, saying he has no interest in politics, that no-one cares, that it’s ‘over’. Emma tells him that ‘politics is people’, then Dexter reminds her that the fact that she isn’t doing anything, means that she doesn’t care, and maybe no else does either.

I really think that this was so relevant before these last three months. But now, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a whole new generation of students and young people has become radicalised. The new wave?

The monumental changes in Tunisia, and hopefully Egypt have given us a glimmer of hope that huge things are possible with action.

Maybe the kind of argument that falls between Dexter and Emma won’t be possible in popular fiction, won’t even be conceivable in reality, in the future. Maybe.

Never Let Me Go

*spoiler alert *

You can’t go two steps without bumping into a devotee of this book. I understand everything the devotees say — that the book is a meditation on the slow burn of friendship and love and the steadfastness of humanity… yawn. I understand that it’s meant to be a demonstration of people’s ability to get used to any sort of situation if they think it’s inevitable, plodding on indefinitely. The book’s subject of cloning and organ donation is rendered very plausible and I think Ishiguro did a great job there, but while the story is being told through the central character’s (Kathy) tunnel-visioned, uninformed narration, I would have liked to know more about the social implications of this alternate reality.

The characters are quietly resigned to their fate as farmed organ donors (free range).

But isn’t that sad? I want to read books about people that fight, people that shout in the streets, not people that shrug their shoulders and sigh.

I think some people will say, though, that this is the reason why the book is so tragic, ‘the heartbreaking acceptance of a sad fate’ and all.

But, I think that that is exactly the kind of thinking that epitomizes the state of mind of so many people, myself included sometimes, which seems to me incredibly negative. To not leave any room for rebellion (a dirty word in today’s times), resistance or indeed any strong emotion? I think that is much more heartbreaking than a colourless submission. Fighting and losing is to me more tragic than accepting and losing. The only part of the book with any extreme feeling was when Ruth confesses to Kathy and Tommy that she had kept them apart for many years, and Kathy breaks down in tears, but then it’s all back to ‘…we didn’t talk about it much afterwards…’ Gah!

I understand though, that in the long run if your future is mapped out for you so exactly then why should you protest? It is better for you if you get used to the idea, but I just didn’t feel like their futures were that inevitable (even though they were taught to think that way almost from birth), I felt that it was just too unbelievable that nobody in the book had any seed of wanting things to be different.

Well, I guess in the end I feel cheated when I can’t care about the characters. Maybe it’s because by trying to make them so hyper-realistic, Ishiguro actually ends up with characters that are strangely unreal, oddly cold.

Have a read of the book, it is well written and you do want to finish it (for better or worse!), would love to know what people think of it…

Moon Tiger

Claudia Hampton, infirm in old age, lying in bed, sets out to write a history of the world, and her own history in the process.

This book is about memory. The mystery of it, the way it develops and transforms over time. The way it can be deceptive, painful, vivid and generous all at once.

The narrative shifts between time and place effortlessly and fluidly. The narrative also shifts into the point of view of the other characters, telling one memory from the recollection of several people, illustrating perfectly how experience and subsequent memory of an event is only ever personal and always different according to whom you ask.

Penelope Lively writes wonderfully and the way that the book shifts is never uncomfortable.
It is very easy to follow, because of, not despite its fragmented nature. There are parts that are like a flash of an image, like some memories can be, there are parts that are remembered for an unexplained reason, parts that are richly detailed (particularly those parts where Claudia is in WW2-time Egypt), parts that are hazy and sparse. It is because of this fragmented nature that the book is not difficult. Instead, it is familiar, because this is the exact same way that most people remember.

Side note: if you are interested in films about memory, watch 'Amarcord' by Federico Fellini, filmed in a similar way to how this book is written, but about the director's childhood in a small town in Italy.

There was also a small but very interesting vein running through the book, that of collective memory. Claudia Hampton is a historian, so she mostly deals with this. Those facts and accounts that have become something everyone thinks of when they think of something they have not experienced for themselves. This is particularly relevant when she writes about the war in Egypt: from a human perspective, very biased.
That is something that collective memory can never be, violent and hot. Strangely enough when we talk of a memory of a people, wars and invasions in particular, the collective 'memory' is dulled and ground to the gray dust of numbers and impersonality.

I think this book is incredibly successful with its experimental style, I have never, until now, read a book that attempts so many stylistic devices and carries them off. It took me about three weeks to read, as sometimes I had to put it down because I had to think about what I'd just read (and I don't normally do this! Also I don't mean to sound horribly pretentious- just a bit maybe!).

This is a part that I particularly liked:

'...truth is tied to
words, to print, to the testimony of the page. Moments shower
away; the days of our lives vanish utterly, more insubstantial
than if they had been invented. Fiction can seem more enduring
than reality. Pierre on the field of battle, the Bennet girls at
their sewing, Tess on the threshing machine - all these are
nailed down for ever, on the page and in a million heads. What
happened to me on Charmouth beach in 1920, on the other
hand, is thisledown. And when you and I talk about history
we don't mean what actually happened, do we? The cosmic
chaos of everywhere, all time? We mean the tidying up of this
into books, the concentration of the benign historical eye upon
years and places and persons. History unravels; circumstances,
following their natural inclination, prefer to remain ravelled.'

Moon Tiger is also, by coincidence, being covered by the Guardian book club, if you wanted to read a bit more about it (better yet though, read the book!).

Eve Green

photo

One of the most beautiful books I have ever read. One that I go back to again and again when I need to be reminded that the world is a fantastic place. When I need to taste the countryside in my sometimes stifling urban environment. I mentioned this book in an earlier review of 'When the Earth Hums in B Flat', as that one was also set in rural Wales. Here it is written of in Summer also, when I think it is most bewitching and unexpected, as Wales is never really thought of without greenness and dampness as its definition.
Of course, love is here too. Eve Green is a girl born of a hushed love-making, her mother dies very young whereupon Eve is brought to Wales.

'...Did I cry? No. But a
secret part of me unfurled up on the ridge that afternoon.
My loss billowed out before me, snapping at itself and
pulling me with it, streaming out over the sheep hills like
a funeral flag caught in the strong Welsh wind.'

Susan Fletcher's writing is alluring and poetic. She was young when she wrote this book (it won the Whitbread First Novel Award) and the language is sometimes a bit self-conscious, but this really suits the book, it feels like Eve Green is so real. Some phrases are heart-stoppingly lovely, but have a strangely shy air to them, as if these are words that Susan Fletcher saved for a long time and reluctantly decided to share.
I am very glad she did. This is also a book of grief, and the universal truth that time passes, and wounds heal, and if they scar, that they don't hurt any more.
Highly recommended, I know that Rebecca at Teacups, Cupcakes loved it too.

My Ántonia

I had a bizarre experience recently, when I started reading a copy of 'National Geographic' and there was a brilliant article about recent attempts to conserve North America's tall-grass prairie, which once covered a massive proportion of the Mid-West. I felt such sympathy for the plight of these beautiful meadows, and such a strong love for all the people trying to stop the urban spread. I was then clubbed rudely over the head when I realised, upon looking at the cover of the magazine, that it was from 1982. Well, you'll be happy to know, as was I, after frantically reading about more recent developments on Wikipedia, that thankfully, the prairie is still around in some areas. Phew!
The point is, since then, I have cherished a strange glowing feeling whenever I think of these meadows, probably because the part of Russia where I am from is very near to the epic steppe lands so beloved of Anton Chekhov. So when I picked up 'My Ántonia' by Willa Cather, I was hooked. The book is set in the late 19th/ early 20th Century, when North America was still vast swathes of wilderness, when people worked hard on their land and built small prosperous towns. The Ántonia of the title is a Bohemian girl (from what is now the Czech Republic), the narrator, a boy called Jim Burden meets when her family move to Nebraska. Ántonia comes to symbolise a bright light of life for Jim, her vivacity and hunger for laughter and love is drawn wonderfully by Cather. Even when she is middle-aged and worn from hard work,

'...I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered -
about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women who
have kept all the things she had lost, but whose inner
glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not
lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not
that look of flabiness, as if the sap beneath it had been
secretly drawn away.'

Ántonia seems to me like a beautiful, strong tree, at first a resilient, bright, colourful sapling, then a rich, fertile bearer of fruit, then brown and rough, but still sturdy and unbeaten.
Willa Cather is extremely gifted with her ability to let you visualise a character, planting them very firmly in your imagination.
For example, the beautiful sleepy-eyed, 'a little too plump' Lena Lingard, 'always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely sending one away forever.' Isn't that wonderful? and don't you somehow know exactly what she means?
Or the fearsome Mrs Cutter, a minor character, still looms large in my mind...

'...She was a terrifying-looking person; almost a giant-
ess in height, raw-boned, with iron-grey hair, a face always
flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. When she meant to
be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head inces-
santly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and
curved, like a horse's; people always said babies cried if she
smiled at them. Her face had a kind of fascination for me: it
was the very colour and shape of anger. There was a gleam of
something akin to insanity in her full, intense eyes...'

*shiver* What a scary lady...

But we must not forget about this prairie, definitely one of the stars of the book, rustling, ever changing.
I will leave you with this; a sunset over the prairie, and urge you to read this gentle but at the same time, gorgeously thrilling book:

'As far as we could see, the miles of copper-red
grass were drenched in sunlight that was stronger and fiercer
than at any other time of the day. The blond cornfields were
red-gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows.
The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire
and was not consumed. That hour always had the exultation
of victory, of triumphant ending, like a hero's death - heroes
who had died young and gloriously. It was a sudden transfigura-
tion, a lifting-up of day.'

The Girl with Glass Feet

An assured first book from a very young writer (I think he is 24).
Ida McLaird's feet are turning into glass... At first, I thought that this would mean magical realism, but Ali Shaw chose a rather more unexpected route. He writes of Ida's illness acceptingly, so each character doesn't have to go through the whole tiresome rigmarole of disbelief, but instead the book focuses on her relationship with a lonely and cripplingly awkward photographer whom she meets as she returns to the island where her illness first manifested itself.
But (and this is my only but) the story begins in a dream-like way, so when suddenly Midas (the photographer) prints off pictures from his digital camera, it's very jarring and you have to re-assess your preconceptions about the book. Perhaps the author meant to do this, if so, it's a very clever device. I don't think that the book's cover does it any favours, as it prepares you for a very whimsical (dare I say it, girly) read. It isn't that at all.
St. Hauda's Land, where the book is set, is rendered stunningly by the author. He conjures up a marshy, misty land of snow and monochrome colour, which is starkly mirrored in what is happening to Ida. She comes back to the island to find a cure, to contact the only person she met when she last came. Henry Fuwa is a biologist studying miniature moth-winged cattle, which he desperately tries to keep a secret.
There is quite a complicated love-through-the-generations scenario, of Henry Fuwa having once been in love with Midas' mother. The story also intercuts with scenes from Midas' childhood with his cold, unaffectionate father, who he blames for his current inability to connect and sustain relationships with people.
Ida persists with Midas, however, constantly offering the refrain that she has no time, as the glass is rapidly spreading through her body. This becomes Midas' salvation, as he cannot wallow in self-pity and seclusion any longer.
'The Girl with Glass Feet' is very insightful and gives a different perspective on doomed love. It also helps you to understand human fear in relation to other people as something very universal, as there are so many cringe-worthy moments where Midas acts horribly, regretfully awkward, it feels incredibly true to life.
I can't wait to read more by this author, who very cleverly manages to avoid first-novel archetypes.

An account of first love

Image from the Victoria and Albert Museum Archives

I will not talk too much of the plot of 'I Capture the Castle' by Dodie Smith, here, I wanted to talk about the things I will always remember about this book, the only thing I want to stress is, please read it yourself. Do not dismiss it as a girl's, children's or 'young adult' book.

The first thing that makes an impression from 'I Capture the Castle', is the tear-inducingly vivid imagery of the Castle the Mortmain family inhabit and the countryside around it. The author was an Englishwoman marooned in the glaring sun and shiny automobiles of Hollywood, longing to see her home. Her descriptions of forests and grass make you feel as if you were pressing your nose into a field of wildflowers.
Further into the book, the sharply exact way Smith recounts the agonies of first love are at times so evocative that you have to stop and gape. The desperation, sleepless nights and endless daydreams Smith has her heroine, Cassandra experience are so beautifully truthful and universal, the book could have been written for anyone and about everyone.

Two quotes that elaborate on the theme of first love and the sheer maddening torture/euphoria of it all:

'It hurt me so much that I moaned out loud. I wanted
to fling myself down in the mud and beat my way into
the ground... '

On suffering:
'I said aloud: "I don't want to miss anything." And then
misery came rushing back like a river that has been
dammed up. I tried to open my heart to it, to welcome
it as a part of my life's experience, and at first that
made it easier to bear. Then it got worse than ever
before - it was physical as well as mental, my heart and
ribs and shoulders and chest, even my arms ached. I
longed so desperately for someone to comfort me...'

I don't want to sound too gushing, but I haven't even said anything about the other characters, all very wonderfully formed, or about Smith's portrayal of London in the 1930's.
So, if you can't go and sit in a bluebell wood with someone you fancy the pants off, this is the next best alternative, or maybe even better!