Andrew Blackman: "A Virtual Love"

Andrew's second novel is a book which explores the complexities of creating and sustaining multiple (online) identities, and justifying the choices which are made by the main protagonist: Jeff Brennan.

Jeff Brennan, is to be quite frank, a bit of a dick, and I like the fact that Andrew has written him as a conflicted character with no qualms about deceiving himself and those around him as to his own true weaknesses. The premise of the novel follows Jeff's unravelling as a character fraud, whose lies and deception begin to get the better of him. The relationship with his grandfather is the most interesting to read and I empathised with his grandfather, whose disappointment in his treasured grandson makes him reflect on whether he could have done more for Jeff who came to him after the death of his parents. His grandfather is certainly canny, a former Fleet Street journalist, whose investigative mind helps him to understand Jeff's actions through social media. His grandfather notes with sadness: "Human beings are like houses, all with elaborate security measures to keep out intruders, but all with a weakness somewhere. Find the weakness and you've found the key." Prescient words. 

The characters Andrew has developed in the book are pretty hard to like, and it's hard to understand why Jeff does what he does, he not only tricks a woman who believes she is being courted by a famous online blogger, but he also creates this pseudo-infamy around the character of an eco-protestor. The woman Jeff dates (Marie) is cloyingly irritating. She's starstruck and believes that she is in love with the real political blogger whose online identity Jeff has stolen: "You were probably ashamed of me, this unemployed American girl who hadn't achieved a damn thing in all the years you'd been running Britain's most popular political blog." She sounds exactly like the type of person who would call her kids Paprika and Hestor, and breastfeed them until they are seven. She goes on to comfort herself with her own self-important deluded existential crisis: "I really should have been happy, shouldn't I? You were Jeff Brennan, the famous blogger. So kind, thoughtful, eager to make me happy." Andrew's got the balance of Marie just right, she's annoying and desperate enough to annoy a reader like me who generally appreciates strong female characters, but also I felt genuinely conflicted when Jeff's stories begin to unravel and I wondered just to what lengths Marie would go to in order to keep up with the pretence of her being with a "famous political blogger." 

There is also a passive-aggressive bromance between Jeff and his "mate" Jon. Jon's fears of 'losing' Jeff as the relationship between him and Marie develop are handled really nicely by Andrew. It's a little uncomfortable watching the slow burning resentment towards Jeff's relationship which is built on deception and lies with Marie. Jon pretty much wants Jeff all to himself, play videogames and get trashed.  He's also privy to Jeff's deceptions and rather than strongly condemn Jeff, he just warns him to not get caught out. 

Fundamentally, it's the interactions between the characters which binds this story together, it's a story that explores the lengths some people will go to in projecting a pretence of "success" (whatever and however success is defined), and the uncomfortableness some of us may feel when we know a loved one is acting like a huge dick. Jeff's grandfather is a well crafted moral compass of the book, he struggles to accept that his beloved grandson is a huckster, but at the same time, wants to help him to confront his deceptions.  The book also really nicely captures the way in which we all live out our lives on social media. This is virtually anathema to Jeff's grandfather who struggles at first with Facebook, but then begins to understand how the cynical use of social media allows his grandson to live out these plural fantasy lives to feed his own ego. 

I strongly recommend A Virtual Love to readers interested in narratives examining how our constant over exposure on social media feeds the very best and worst of our characteristics. The very worst reveals vulnerability and tendencies to feed our egos with very public proclamations of "doing good" (as we see in Marcus' character: the eco-warrior). The best shows a canniness to weave and sustain multiple identities and frames of reference which at the very least, demonstrates a sort of resilience and pragmatism. Of course I could be too generous with that! This is a well crafted book; characters half of whom are detestable, half who are likeable, and at the very centre, a divisive and deeply conflicted young man whose selfishness knows no bounds. 

Published by Legend Press: 

I've been tagged! Lucky 7 via Andrew Blackman

So, I haven't been blogging as much here, simply because I am on a self-imposed ban on reading fiction until I finish my MA (Jan 2013). Until then, its Foucault, Bourdieu, (grits teeth), Putnam and Allport. (Clearly, I have an interest in Social Capital Theory)....

Anyhoo, was delighted to have been tagged by Andrew Blackman in the Lucky Seven challenge.
Andrew explains the rules: you post an extract from your WIP: line 7, page 7 and 7 lines of prose.

Before I post my extract, a short summary of the novel: the book is set in Newham, East London (my 'hood'), the book looks at a number of inter-connected characters who all give their accounts of being in relationships; some of which work out, and some which don't.  Sounds fairly simple, but it gets complicated...

This extract is from a character called "Luke," Luke has written a letter to an ex-girlfriend in which he attempts to explain his actions:

I thought you were really cheeky when I asked you what you wanted to eat and if you wanted Indian.  And you said “Why would I want to eat Indian?  I eat Indian every day.”  I should have known then that your brain was going ten times faster than mine.  I fell for you quite hard, and it took me by surprise, I didn’t even get that right did I?  Trying to tell you that I had feelings for you?  That was our first serious argument.  I was jealous because you had spent the night with your friends…and I assumed “friends” meant another man. And then I blurted it out. I remember the look on your face, and you didn’t even say anything.  You just sat next to me and rubbed my head and put your head on my shoulder.  And that was it, we were together. 

Now it is my turn to tag another 7 writers, I have chosen: 

Alex Wheatle @brixtonbard 

Naomi James @namstatheauthor 

DD Armstrong @Dd_Armstrong

Tanya Byrne @tanyabyrne Heart Shaped Bruise  

Hafsah @esotericsips

Mr Oh Yes @MrOhYes 

Hannah @thegirlinacafe 

Looking forward to your Lucky 7s !! 

 

A Dangerous Fortune, Ken Follett

The collapse of a significant Methodist banking family in Victorian England embroiled in intrigue, murder and at the mercy of cunning beyond their naivety and powerful manipulation forms the basis of the plot for this masterful book by Follett.

The Pilasters are a traditional banking family whose power is such that they can bring down a monarchy by refusal of a loan, so it is a massive karmic joke when the bank bearing their name: Pilasters implodes from within. Follett is so skilled at creating morally ambivalent characters, that when reading this book, I was far more interested in reading the Micky Miranda or Augusta Pilaster chapters, rather than the fine and upstanding Hugh Pilaster. 

The book spans the latter half of the 19^th century which Queen Victoria, frosty old bitch was on the throne, and rigid silly rules determined social rank and etiquette. The fastidious and ambitious matriarch of the family resents her husband’s young nephew Hugh Pilaster who she quite rightly recognises as a credible threat to her own son’s rise to power. Hugh’s career as he seeks a partnership in his father’s bank is consistently thwarted by Augusta’s machinations. Behind the scenes is also a far more decadently ambitious young man Micky Miranda (anglicised from Miguel Miranda) whose friendship and cultivation of Edward Pilaster (Augusta’s son) marks the beginning of the end for the Pilasters.

This is a real melodrama, one that completely draws you in from the beginning when we are introduced to the young boys at Windfield School and the murder of one of them by Micky Miranda and how their paths are inextricably linked forever after that incident. It is a book, which is nicely balanced between plot and characterisation. Follett is known for developing strong characters (Pillars of the Earth, A Fall of Giants), my one criticism is that Follett almost over eggs the descriptions of some of the characters’ sexual predilections to make a point that the Victorians were just as depraved as you and I. But this is a small criticism of an otherwise masterful tale.

Reading A Dangerous Fortune in light of the current global recession (don’t believe them, we ARE still in a recession), you appreciate the level of research Follett did in order to understand the Victorian banking system. The collapse of the Pilaster bank is predicated on one idiot’s foolish decision, but the skill required of a banker to calculate risk and understand how events far far away can have important ramifications on the open bonds market (shit, even I learned something), is highlighted with unbiased prejudice.

Thoroughly enjoyed the level of detail which was just enough in this book, I think the Victorians are always a favourite for authors to tear apart, but in this book, as a reader you get the sense that this was a period of nostalgia. All those social mores and roles regarding etiquette were about to be turned upside down with the advent of a more liberal outlook from well positioned young people in “high society.” This is highlighted in this book by Follett’s take on Prince Bertie’s involvement with the Marlborough Set, a rowdy, relaxed fun loving London set led by Maisie Greenbourne, married to prominent Jewish banker: Solly Greenbourne. Follett does well to highlight the huge gaps between those considered upper class and those from the lower classes, and how quickly their fortunes can turn. 

Nick Harkaway

I am really looking forward to reading Nick's newest book: Angelmaker which follows The Gone-Away World.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/feb/12/nick-harkaway-angelmaker-review

I do like authors who refuse to pigeon-hole themselves and their writing into a genre - Nick certainly rebels against the publishing world's label-hype and mixes it all up.

The Istanbul Puzzle by L P O'Bryan

I was a little unsure of how I would feel about reading this, as I am wary of interacting with anything that over-simplifies the current global context of Islam vs well everything and anything else. But, I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised and glad of the way in which Laurence skilfully handled the depiction of a fictionalised islamic uprising in Europe against the backdrop of a mystery in Istanbul.

The mystery starts with the discovery of a decapitated body in Istanbul. The body is one of a researcher: Alek whose death comes as a deep shock to his friend and colleague: Sean who is summoned to Istanbul by the British Consulate to identify the body.  Sean, is still grieving for the death of his wife who died whilst in Afghanistan. I wasn't sure that this was entirely relevant to the story. I understand that the reasoning may have been to provide some context to Sean's slight antipathy towards Muslims - but I don't think it was strong enough or relevant. However, his grief does explain to some extent Sean's sense of urgency to find out exactly what happened to Alek and whether Alek's discovery of something of historical and religious significance was the reason why he was killed.

The setting of the first half of the novel in Istanbul is incredibly detailed and really does add a sense of "exoticism" to the pacing and action of the novel. My one gripe was that things seemed to move a little too fast and I found myself having to go back a chapter or two to understand the connection between certain characters or events. Sean is aided in his mission by a British official: Isabel. I found her quite annoying, her mannerisms were cloying and a little one-dimensional. And the relationship which blossoms between Sean and Isabel seemed a little hasty, it certainly put the question of Sean's grief regarding his wife to bed rather conveniently.

It's clear that Laurence is extremely fond of Istanbul, his descriptions of the city, the people, the ambience is very clear and lucid. I think without these descriptions, the novel would have suffered, especially as the narrative around Alek's discovery is steeped in religious and cultural discourse. Both what is discovered and the implications for the Christian and Islamic worlds are huge, so the setting helps to calm the reader from overthinking about the ramifications.

After their return to London from Istanbul, I found that my apprehension regarding any potential for simplistic demonisations of Islam had largely disappeared. The real villain of the piece and his motivations for trying to launch an airborne plague which could have squarely been blamed on Muslims attending a demonstration become clear. In a twitter exchange with Laurence, he remarked that his motivations for writing this book along with an article he wrote about Islam, the Crusades and the historical significance of Vladimir Dracula are purely based on his desire to expose those who seek to cause trouble and who want to make things worse. And I have to agree, interestingly I took from the villainry of the Istanbul Puzzle, the right wing demagogues in American politics and their embeddedness with the Tea Party movement and obstructions to attempts to seek peace within American domestic politics and abroad. There are certainly trouble-makers who come in all different shapes and sizes and are motivated by different agendas. It would be foolhardy to take a piece of well-written fiction as evidence of being for or against something, if we strip away the wider gloabl context of radicalised Islam and the threat this presents to everyone (including non-radical Islam), then the Istanbul Puzzle stands on its own two feet as a good thriller. Considered in the context of radicalised Islam however and recent geopolitics, then we would have to be careful that dogma does not take over rational thought.

I have read some other reviews comparing or at least hinting at the similarity of style between The Istanbul Puzzle and Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. I think that would be an unfair comparison, as the "believeability" of the Istanbul Puzzle is far higher than the Da Vinci Code. The Istanbul Puzzle, thanks to the skill of Laurence is also not as controversial as the Da Vinci Code. When you consider their writing skills, you being to realise how clunky and clumsy Dan Brown is, whereas Laurence is more subtle and nuanced. I do have a few criticisms which I think other readers will also pick up on, namely that the discovery of the mystery is not as climatic as I would have liked.  Also I think Sean and Isabel's characters do need some refinement. Apart from that, as a debut thriller, the book is good.

A great thriller, a promising first in a series of The X Puzzle series ( I understand that Laurence is working on The Jerusalem Puzzle next).

For alternative reviews from Amazon bloggers, see here. I think Bibi's review is pretty strong.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/AIKG7TPNTLXV8/ref=cm_pdp_rev_title_3?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview#RCVFY1G98WLCF

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A2RDZYGFMVL87I/ref=cm_pdp_rev_title_1?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview#R3JB6X0VYDOEDR

The Hit by Patrick Quinlan

Having committed to uping my reading ante of this not very helpful genre: "crime fiction," I stumbled upon reviews of Patrick Quinlan on Goodreads. Browsed through the quite mixed reviews of his stable of books and decided to dip my toes in with "The Hit."

The book centres on two mismatched and Hollywoodised (I wonder if Quinlan wrote this in the hopes that a bored screenwriter would pick this up and think "Cha-Ching!"), bounty-hunters: Gordo who is fat, white and broke and Jonah who is black, fit and broke. The search for their bounty: a sick twisted rapist and murderer (who incidentally also happens to be in the top quintile for IQ) Forester, leads them to uncover a highly unbelievable plot involving a Vietnam Vet with what I can only say are "issues" and his determination to launch a domestic terrorist attack on a small caribbean island with a highly virulent form of Cholera. Too much, Patrick, WAY TOO MUCH.

To be kind, I would say that the context of the book: economic malaise in America, disconnected realities and a society which is unkind to drifters is very prescient and relatable. Quinlan writes in the here and now and not in some abstract time and period which readers might not relate to. His pace is also quite good, even though the more I read through it, the more ludicrous the plot became (including an impromptu romance between Jonah and the bored abused wife of the architect of the terrorist attack), I did enjoy the action.

Quinlan has written this for a very specific audience: Hollywood studios. Any studio could pick this up and turn it into a passable action movie. And therein is the let down. Readers want to be able to imagine: we don't necessarily want it all laid out on a plate for us. Give us some mystery for crying out loud, not everything needs an explanation. Quinlan spends far too much time explaining the background to the main characters than dealing with tightening up his plot and some of the intricacies. Elmore Leonard this ain't, it's just not "noir" enough to really justify some of the more generous reviews The Hit has garnered.

Ok for a lazy read.

She wasn't real.

I once knew a girl with eyes of steel. She had balls of steel and a heart of steel too. She looked like something regal, something ephemeral, something not quite real. I melted that heart of steel with broken promises and aspirations bigger than her or I.

We spent a summer of lovemaking, of dipping toes into ponds, eating pralines from each other's mouths. We spoke every hour; small innocuous texts which if unanswered would make us break into sweat. Tensions would mount until we could see each other again and take in each other, greedily, jealously, always with a little blood. 

She would cover my chest and neck in bites. People would giggle and ask "haha, are you 13?" She would fall into my lap like a ragdoll and fall asleep in my arms until dawn broke. She would slam doors and break mugs during fights and grip my skin in the throes of making up. She hurt my head with her frowns and pouts. She said “no!” often and loud.

That heart of steel disappeared one day, she stared at me and I looked away. She knew, I knew, I had won the war while she had won the battles. She waved the white flag and rubbed my feet. Those eyes of steel were no longer cold or hard, the heat she gave was too hot to bear. I burnt my hands, my feet, my heart and my soul.

She was never unreal, she was real. She didn't walk, she was forced to leave. She never cried. She remained silent and cold. Her eyes would see through me. She could see the hurt and the shame. She polished that heart of steel until it gleamed so bright, it would hurt your eyes. The heat had disappeared never to be seen again. In its place a wintry shower staked it’s place.

They say a mirror doesn’t lie. This one is throwing all sorts of truth back at my face. The girl with eyes of steel looks on from a distance. Arms folded, she’s cross and disappointed. She moves with stealth like a jaguar in the forest. Once or twice I see flashes of her steely gaze, too short, too momentary for a lasting reunion. I remember her at dawn. When the sun is breaking, that’s the best time to remember her neat little shape. On my lap, in my bed, she slept like a deer, never moving.

The day I loved my Baby.

The day I loved my Baby.

Wednesday 23^rd July was a scorching hot day. As I sat on the bus with Baby next to me, I looked out of the window and saw dirty snotty-nosed babies in battered pushchairs older than the girls pushing them. I looked at Baby, she smiled a toothless smile and scrunched her nose the way that she does. The bus was full of women with pot bellies round as perfect peaches, ready to deliver a new life. Some were red with the heat and exhaustion of the day, others were solemn faced and perturbed, perhaps with the anxiety of becoming mothers. My pregnancy came and went as fast as the sun rose and set on a short winter’s day. One minute I was hurling abuse at my boyfriend for using a year old condom, and the next; a brown slimy baby was at my side. She had dark dark hair and dark dark eyes. Eyes so dark, you could see your reflection in the deep chocolate irises. Even at a few hours old, all Baby did was smile at me. A strange knowing smile, I was never quite sure what to make of it. But I got used to it eventually.

I was half a mile up the road with two full shopping bags when I realized “I LEFT BABY ON THE BUS!!!!” I bent over myself and was sick. I had left my poor defenceless smiley baby on the bus and walked half a mile before realizing that I had left her. I took a few deep breaths and ran like the wind back to the bus stop I had got off at. My fingers fumbled manically as I tried to reach the police, my boyfriend, anyone who I thought could tell me just what the hell to do. As I approached the bus stop, I spotted an elderly lady in a fox fur stole and she had my Baby in her hands!!! I rushed with relief towards them and the lady smiled and handed her over to me. “You should be more careful my dear.” I nodded in shame and hurled Baby over my shoulder and walked off in disgrace.

Baby had the hiccups, I swirled her around, I said “BOO!” loudly several times, even turned her upside down and patted her on her back. This just made her giggle even more and made her hiccups worse. I sat down on a low wall in front of a posh gated house, just to catch my breath and let the sun dance on Baby’s face. She sighed and made noises like she was ready to go to sleep. I asked her “Are you ready to carry on?” Baby scrunched her nose and smiled. On we went. It felt like it was just Baby and I on a neverending red carpet. People who passed us looked on in admiration at Baby and I. Baby’s hair curled with perspiration and she looked in amazement at the fast cars that sped past us. When we walked under a tree with low branches and leaves, her small hands grabbed at the leaves. She was exhilarated.

Baby liked rap music. I blamed my boyfriend. When I was pregnant with Baby, he was forever playing Public Enemy and Dr Dre’s The Chronic album. Whenever she heard rap music, Baby would nod her head in time to the beat and wave her hands at a Dre bar. My rap was awful, but I would “spit a few bars” to entertain Baby.  I quietly muttered: Still not loving po’lice uh huh, still rocking my khakis with a cuff and a crease, still got love for the streets.” Baby laughed like a horse and threw her head back. Two builders working on a house watched my daughter and I laugh in the sun that day to Dr Dre. Baby, ever the showgirl, waved a small wave at the builders. One of them cocked his head at her and blew her kiss. He mouthed “She’s lovely babe,” to me. I nodded in agreement.

As the sun went down, Baby and I neared our final destination, her eyes opened and closed in half sleep, she was reaching out for the last rays of the sun with her fist clenching and unclenching. Before I opened the gate, I saw down on a lovely old wooden bench. Clearly it had been dedicated in memory of a loving son or father or grandfather or uncle. Or maybe even just a good friend. The name had eroded after many years of people catching their breath on the bench, young lovers kissing, women catching up with friends, a young mother with her sleeping baby.

I closed my eyes and opened them, Baby’s gravestone had an ever so small coating of dust from the heat of the day I supposed. I wiped the dust away with my palms and ran my fingers over the engravement. Baby was gone. I walked this walk every day with my Baby. One year old and neither I or her father had decided on a name so we just stuck to Baby. He had long gone now. To have children with someone else, children who grew up to love rap as much as he did. Baby loved rap from the day she had been conceived to the day her lungs breathed out her last breaths. That was the day when I realized that I had fallen in love with my Baby.

The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives by Lola Shoneyin

I love reading new African fiction. Everyone obsesses over Chimamanda Adichie, (who I think is a great writer and brought home the reality of the Biafra Civil War in Nigeria); however, I think there are a lot more writers of Adichie's calibre who do not get the same exposure. Lola Shoneyin is definitely one. Her storytelling and her delicate prose really made me feel sorry for Baba Segi; the polygamist at the heart of this tale.

Shoneyin is clearly writing from an internal cultural point of view; coming from a Muslim background I have no strong views on polygamy. I was, however quite interested to learn that in the part of Nigeria (Ibadan) which Shoneyin sets this tale, that polygamy is practised across different religious backgrounds - Christian and Muslim. To be honest, even though the book is set within the context of a polygamous marriage, you become far more involved with the characters of each of the wives and the fleeting minor characters who each influence the combined destinies of the four wives.

The book picks up with the tale of the fourth and last wife to be added to Baba Segi's harem: Bolanle. She differs from the other three wives in that she is a university graduate; whose mother had high hopes for her daughter to lead an ambitious and career driven life. Her daughter disappoints her greatly by opting to marry a man who though wealthy and established as prominent member of his community; Bolanle's mother refuses to accept her daughter's choice of husband.  We do not know what troubles Bolanle, why it is that she would so readily accept the proposal of an uncouth and vulgar man; (Baba Segi always has to relieve himself at moments of stress); but as we read on we learn why it is that "Our paths crossed for a purpose, but we were never meant to be together."

Bolanle's arrival in the already tense and crowded household of Baba Segi (so called as his first daughter is named Segi) rattles the other three wives immensely. The first wife Iya Segi and the third wife Iya Femi set out to destroy Bolanle's precarious position within the house.  They keep their children away from her and bat away her offers to tutor their children.  The second wife Iya Tope distrusts both the first and third wife and takes kindly to Bolanle. They all scorn her barreness after two years of marriage, and Baba Segi, impatient with his fourth wife's apparent stubborness to bear him more children forces his hand to seek fertility treatment.  It is this decision that ultimately is the undoing of Baba Segi's household.  The truths which unravel from this decision change each of their lives forever. What is also interesting to note here, is how a very simple truth is laid bare before the key protagonists; Shoneyin handles this so well and I have to commend her ingenuity for revealing the secret in the way that she does.

Shoneyin writes about this ficitional account of a polygamous marriage in such a way that as a reader, you don't really feel that strongly about it.  Whatever your views are about polygamy, this book balances it with other themes such modernity vs tradition, jealously, aspirations etc. It would be wrong to read this book and to start campaigning against polygamy. This is a ficitional book, and all it does it tell a tale of self-preservation. Far from presenting the marriages as marriages under force and duress, each of the wives freely enter the polygamous arrangement. For them; far from subjugating them; their marriages free them. The wives whose lives unravel so very quickly in this book are just human: motivated by greed, self-preservation and status. As Bolanle says at the very end of the book: "I will remember them as inmates, because what really separates us is that I have rejoined my life's path; they are going nowhere."

A very strong recommendation.

A Tiny Bit Marvellous by Dawn French

A tiny bit rubbish, unfortunately. Perhaps that is too harsh a criticism. This book just wasn't for me. At times Dawn French threw in a few expletives, the horrible Dora calls her mum Mo a wanker a fair few times. But the whole thing just seemed a bit too "middle-Englandish." I had great expectations for this book and I wanted to read something a bit less taxing to complement the rather fast and furious pace of Imran Khan's excellently taxing "Pakistan: A Personal History." But I was really disappointed. Perhaps I have grown out of Dawn French's humour, which at one time I found really REALLY funny. This, her first novel just bored me. It was an effort to finish and I even skipped a few pages here and there as I couldn't really understand the antagonism shown towards Mo by her daughter: Dora. The other characters Mo's somewhat troubled son and her completely pointless husband just BORED me.

I didn't take anything away from this book, I was just bored. The characters are very one-dimensional, and I am surprised that Dawn French who is normally so good at teasing out subtleties, handled these characters in quite a clumsy and lazy way. There isn't that much depth to any of them, and rather than feel any sympathy for them, you just want them all to drown at sea.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Funnily enough I did not start reading this because of the film, I had made it a mission to complete all of le Carre's books, and I actually started with The Honourable Schoolboy.

TTSS is a reader's book, its not a book for someone who only flirts with the words on the pages, you have to pay attention. You snooze, you lose type of reading. It is a fab read. Le Carre's sense of place, time and context are always strong. The sense of location in this book is amazing, the subtle enmity between the us and them contextualisation is what espionage thriller writing is all about.

I fell in love with George Smiley, a quiet unassuming type of hero who somehow personifies all that is good and noble about being british. He is assigned a task, gets on with it, delivers the result and totters off again. Brilliant sharp mind and his ability to deduce the unknown from the known is what eventually reveals the identity of the mole at the Centre.

Great book.

Bookshop porn

Even though I do think downloads and the advent of Kindles and other e-book readers has and will continue to inspire more people to read, I still love a good bookshop. One of my favourites in London (because it is so close to my place of work and my old uni), is Waterstones on Gower Street. I have moments of bookshop porn. Like making love, I will refuse to cum out (ha ha see what I did there?) until I have quite literally satisfied my browsing (foreplay), 3 for 2s (going down and returning the favour), indulging curiousity with a book outside my usual subject area (new position) and finally THE PURCHASE or the HOME RUN, THE ORGASM the thing that MAKES YOUR EYES ROLL TO THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD.

I had a bit of a shitty morning. Nothing wrong intrinsically, still healthy, hair still has a nice gloss to it, bank balance in the black, but one of those uninspired rather blah mornings, which was only further shittified by stupid people engaging their brains before sending emails. One of those mornings. I felt the need to be a bit reckless ... I didn't want to spend a packet in Whistles or Jigsaw or Aubin & Wills. I needed books. The problem with downloading is that you don't quite get ladywood when browsing Amazon or iTunes store for iBooks. It's just not the same. Stick me in a bookshop however, and "HELLO SANTA!"

I went in empty and returned with the following:

Imran Khan: Pakistan, A Personal History
Simon Heffer: Strictly English
Miguel Syjuco: Illustrado
Armistead Maupin: MaryAnn in Autumn (long awaited sequel to Tales of the City!!)
Siddhartha Mukherjee: The Emperor of Maladies (winner of 2011 Pulitzer for non-fiction)
Tom Gjelten: Bacardi and the Long Fight for Cuba
Lyndall Gordon: Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family Feuds
Andrew-Graham Dixon: Caravaggio: A Life Sacred and Profane

If I look a bit flushed the next time you see me you will know why  ; )

Making love to a book is great - no STDs, pregnancy or mind-games. The only thing to establish is "your place or mine?"

Lynch's Road by D.D. Armstrong

I met the author of this book at the official launch of Brenton Brown by Alex Wheatle. I was bowled over by D.D's passion for writing and he sent me an extract of the book. A friend of mine, a West Londoner had the book, it seems it has a cult underground following for anyone living in a "W.XX" postcode. Being an East Londoner, I know how West London thinks we are naff, so I was hoping D.D's book would give me a bit more insight into "West".

D.D's story-telling is extremely clever, witty, pacey and most of all believeable. I believed in every single one of the characters; from the major to the minor ones. Without giving too much away, the book is an excellent example of a story within a story. The premise of the book is that a drug dealer's story is distributed amongst a group of characters in West London. His story has a profound and lasting effect on each of them. This is where D.D's skill as a writer really shines through. It would be quite easy to portray the effect of a drug dealer's tale on various characters as one-dimensional: from pusher to punter. But where this book excels is in the perpetual motion of cause and effect.

The book presents us with stark realities of London life, from rich to poor, white to non-white, social class to underclass. It's not presented in a preachy or patronising self-indulgent manner either. D.D has been balanced in taking archetypal representatives from each background and stripping away the mechanical stratifications and laying them bare, so that Gilyan's tale can be imprinted on them. 

Gilyan's tale interestingly is called The Journey of a Slave, he is a slave to his trade: dealing, shottin', juggling. He is a slave to the super-imposed restrictions that wider society and culture jealously forces upon him. But he is resisting, his journey of self-realisation in turn awakens self-realisation for the characters who read his story. His tale could be interpreted as the harbinger of doom or salvation for some.

I have been quite careful not to give any spoilers away as Lynch's Road does not have the 'bank rolling' of a major publishing house behind it so that it can afford a few spoilers; it is published by a small PULP house called SmashnGrab Books. I would strongly recommend you all to read this,  it's brave, honest and best of all has a sense of place and location that Londoners will recognise and love. 

I found the story of Jade (a single mother) who also happens to read The Journey of a Slave particularly important, and I am glad that D.D spoke from the perspective of a young single mother. As group in society, the label "single mother" just lends itself to stigma and approbation. What Jade takes from Gilyan's tale is fundamental; I think to her maturity and her outlook. Again, no spoilers, so you will have to read for yourself. I only mention this, because is is argued that young male writers cannot possible relate to the existence of young women, especially young women who are in a disadvantaged position. D.D clearly knows his readership, he knows that young women, mothers or not will be inspired to read his book, and the story of Gilyan may have a particular resonance for some of them. 

What I like best is that this book is authentic, sometimes you come across a book in which an author desperately tries to authenticise something which they have never actually experienced for themselves. Like I am not going to try and write about fly-fishing, a) because I couldn't give a fuck about fly-fishing and b) I couldn't give a fuck about fly-fishing. But D.D's tale reeks of authenticity, when he tells us through Gilyan's eyes the manoeuvres he has to make to keep the feds' off his back, deal with lousy punters, etc it is believeable.

For more info on the author: D.D Armstrong and where to buy a copy of Lynch's Road see here:

SmashandGrab Books

Favourite childhood books

There are some books which when we come across as adults immediately take us back to our miniature selves. I was talking to a friend of mine earlier and he told me that he didn't have any favourite books from when he was a kid. He claims he was brought up on 1970s New York movies and Scarface, which I highly doubt as he is about as gangster as my Lolita the Bunny hot water bottle cover. 

Everyone who was encouraged to read as a youngster surely has a list of favourite books from their childhood. I can reel mine off without even thinking, and so without further ado; a list of my favourite books below with a memorable line or episode; and why the book was special to me. 


First up is the series of book written by Beverly Cleary about a character called Ramona Quimby. I adored these books when I was wee, as I thought I was Ramona. Imaginative, curious, unwitting trouble maker; a girl who found it difficult to make herself understood to her parents and her older sister "Beezus." 


One of my favourite episodes from Ramona's quaint childhood was the wedding between her Aunt Bea and her best friend Howie's Uncle Hobart from the book : "Ramona Forever." This book marks a definite change in Ramona's relationships with her parents, his sister and her BFF: Howie. It's a book which underlines how "change" can affect an 8-year old girl, albeit one with an over-active imagination and very big heart. 


Ramona Forever


Second up is a series of books which probably foretold my interest in books which are darkly comical. The series "Arabel and her Raven" entertained me for so many hours. I owe a lot to Joan Aiken's very dry style of writing. Even for young readers, Aiken's prose is hilarious and very very "close to the bone." The series is about a young girl who adopts a raven called Mortimer as her pet. All manner of comic shenanigans arise from the odd pairing who are inseparable. Quentin Blake provided the illustrations for this fabulous series which further adds to my affection for this series. Aside from Mortimer, who as a raven is quite sage like, not unlike Yoda from Star Wars; Mr Jones (Arabel's dad) was probably my favourite character from the books. In the first book: "Arabel and her raven", Mr Jones comes across an injured Mortimer on the road. He believes that he is fated to save the raven's life as his horoscope from the Taxi Driver's Herald declares that "due to your skill, a life will be saved today."


Arabel and her raven


Roald Dahl's books gave me so much joy when I was a young reader, that even now I still find it hard to pick out one stand alone favourite from his arc. However, the book that gave me the most laughs is undoubtedly "The Twits." The story of the two most horrible characters ever written about in children's literature still raise a laugh. Dahl allegedly gave Mr Twit a disgusting beard and was particularly graphic about his beard because he hated beards! The Twits should be given to all couples considering marriage, beware; "this may happen to you!" The Glass Eye chapter still makes me laugh until I can no longer breathe. Mr and Mrs Twit's constant pranks and terrorising of the animals eventually give way to their demise, this is is a gem of a book.

The Twits

Dahl knew that what children want in literature is the opposite of what they want in life."

A fabulous piece on the relativism of James and the Giant Peach... and was Roald Dahl an absolute sod?

Roald Dahl

A Dance with Dragons: Fait Accompli & this post includes spoilers so if you are gonna cry about it - dont read.

To be honest, when I first picked up my HARD copy HARDBACK from Waterstones in Gower Street, I skipped back to my office, quite trick to do considering I'm 5 ft and this book weighs more than I do. Regardless, I started to read with vigour, vigour soon turned into confusion into down right despondancy.  It all started so well, the early chapters were strong, the characters had depth, but now with hindsight I realise it was because the earlier chapters centred on familiar Tyrion, Dany and Jon Stark.  GRRM updated us on their fates: Jon was pretty much Stannis Baratheon's bitch, Dany stuck in hot, sweaty and dusty Meereen with a fragile population and under threat of attack by the Sons of the Harpy, Tyrion was literally out at sea. But this was fine, this was comfortable and familiar. THEN, holy mother of all that is sacred, GRRM had Westerosi characters and characters from Essos descend upon us in their droves. The genealogy at the back provided scant help. Why? Because its almost as long as a chapter !

I really think this book should have been split into two volumes like A Storm of Swords. Unless the characters were Westerosi, the rest lacked the same substantial depth and "readability" as the Westerosi characters. Some of the chapters did not add to the storytelling. Dany's chapters meandered, we learn she boffs Daario before marrying Hizdahr and flies off on her son Drogon. What else did she achieve really? The female characters did not achieve much in fact.  It's a shame as GRRM's two strongest female characters feature heavily in this book - Arya probably not as much as she should have done, but Dany has a large proportion of the book dedicated to her rule. Its encouraging to see her emerge as a very wise and just queen, BUT; like a school girl she dreams of Daario in between her legs as mush as she does about the fate of her dragons or her subjects. The Red Lady Melisandre as King Stannis's svengali is a clumsy attempt I think at readdressing the sexist balance. Apart from the few and far between prominent female characters, this book is a pissing context between the male dominated Westerosi families: Starks, Freys, Karstarks, Boltons. The earlier volumes when they featured female characters helped to temper some of the "my cock is bigger than your's" prose, but in this volume, they were sorely missed.

A charge of racism parading as exoticism is levelled at GRRM in this book. Race and identity, gender and identity are characteristically not dealt with sensitively in fantasy writing. However, as a genre, it is one that fosters exoticism as a way of distinguishing "the other." En masse, I don't see fantasy writing moving away from the canonical anglo-saxon norm. So to be fair, why should we expect GRRM to be any different? However the constant bombardment of whores, bed slaves, the C-word, the predilections of the Essosians and Southern Islanders implying the fact that they are DIFFERENT to the Westerosi is clumsy on the part of GRRM. Not what I would have expected from a writer so skilled at plot intricacies. His characterisations have let him down in this volume.

I didn't enjoy this as much as I had enjoyed the earlier volumes, it was a chore to get through. It could have worked as a split volume a lot better, a lot of loose ends to be tied up and an unenviable task lies ahead for GRRM.

Here are two contrasting reviews to further inform your judgement:

Channelling words

Hiopinion

Read this by all means, however be prepared for a long ride and a sore bum.

Jason Burke on Islamic Militancy

Just because he's an amazing knowledgeable journalist:

Jason Burke interview

I read Giles Keppel at SOAS so I remember the book well. I haven't read the revised edition which came out post 9-11.

Ruthven is incredible on the Muslim Brotherhood, and again read another one of his books at SOAS. I have not read A Fury for God, but will get round to it.

Heghammer's Jihad in Saudi Arabia is exactly the type of measured commentary and analysis we should all read to understand islamic militancy. I wonder if he will explore Jihadists in Pakistan or other areas. Would be interesting to see the parallels and contrasts.

I read The Secret Agent after I had read A Heart of Darkness by J Conrad. I do agree with Jason Burke that the book reveals how the psyche of ideologies work. Extremists/militants/whateverists aren't very often groups of individuals who are well organised or slick in their execution of tasks or capabilites. All too often, they are groups of amateurs who are motivated by a passion for a cause.

Philip Roth is not going to walk into a bookstore and see his work in the 'Jewish Male' section.

I think the above quote from the Performance Poet and bestselling author: Sapphire is so true.

The amount of times I walk into a bookshop and roll my eyes at all the "categories" that exist; which actually don't help me as a book reader. Why should I have to look for a book by Alex Wheatle or Courttia Newland in the "black fiction" area. What the hell is "black fiction?"

These "labels" are not helpful and as my friend Helen Ayinde says: extremely divisive. I think it's acceptable to have areas determined by subject but to determine bookstore shelves along sexual orientation or ethnic categories is just pointless. I don't read books because I am a British Asian of Indo-Bangladeshi heritage, nor do I read books because my faith is Islamic. I read because I fucking love books! I don't want to be "steered" to an area of books in a book shop where the authors may have the same skin colour or tone or religious beliefs as me. I want to read about the European Enlightenment, about Henrietta Lacks (awesome book by the way by Rebecca Skloot "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks), and about Caitlin Moran telling me "How to be a Woman." I don't want to necessarily read Roy's "The God of Small Things" or Jhumpha Lahiri's "The Namesake," (both absolute amazing books); I just want to have all my choices available to me when I walk into a book shop.

That is what I find most offensive about book shop categorisations: if you are telling me that all the black authors or all the LGBT or vertically-challenged or diet-phobic fiction is only available to me in the dark nether regions of the shop, what you are actually doing is judging me for my choice of reading. I am being judged because I want to read about a young illiterate black girl who is horrifically abused (Push by Sapphire) or a young American-Bengali boy trying to fit into american culture (The Namesake by Jhumpha Lahiri). I won't be judged if I want to read Stephen King or Lee Childs or James Patterson.

I have to say that as an Amazon downloader (independent bookshops - please don't hate me), they too are guilty of categorising fiction by ethnic or sexual orientation. I am not sure who these categorisations actually help or benefit. I don't have any white friends who announce "I am going to buy some black fiction today," and promptly march to the nearest Waterstones and demand to be shown to the black fiction section.

Books are all about removing those labels and categories. Books are open sources of information and entertainment. Ghettoising certain books is restrictive and just adds to the PC brigade's armoury of ever-more foolishness.

Sapphire

Forthcoming reviews

I have been meaning to get around to list my forthcoming reviews, however time stands still for no WO-man and I've only just got around to doing this! As Loretta Young once said: "A charming woman is a busy woman."

So below is a list of books which I have either read and yet to post a review or neither read or reviewed:

• Ken Follett's "A Dangerous Fortune"
• Michelle Lovric's "Book of Human Skin"
• Rafik Schiami's "The Dark Side of Love"
• Lola Shoneyin's "The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives" 
• concluding review of GRRM's "A Dance with Dragons"

I could list more books, but these are the ones which have really grabbed my attention this year. I read Shiami's The Dark Side of Love last year and I was bowled over by the sheer scale and story telling of this amazing Syrian author.

I came across Lola Shoneyin's book during a random Amazon search of new fiction and downloaded both sample and book straight away. Her writing is witty and revealing and far from demonising polygamous marriages, her fictional account reveals the deep cultural attachment and positive benefits to polygamous marriages in Nigerian society.

Back to the grind, a short post to detail future reviews !

Will Self reviews Honey Money: The Power of Erotic Capital by Catherine Hakim

I don't normally refer to other reviews unless I'm a fan of the reviewer or the book which is reviewed. I noticed this review of Catherine Hakim's book by Will Self and if anything, it has made me curious to read Hakim's treatise. Most of the reviews of Hakim's work are on Amazon which has averaged a review score of 2.9 out of 5... so I was curious to read Will Self's take on Hakim's post-feminist arguments.

I have not read Honey Money yet, but interesting its title appeals as "No money, no honey" is one of Poppa Rahman's favourite sayings. Although as a devout Muslim, I am sure he means to use it in a different context to that of prostitutes in Jakarta.

Anyway here is the link to Self's review and you can make your mind up for yourself !

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/aug/19/honey-money-catherine-hakim-review