AWW BOOK REVIEW: A Few Right Thinking Men by Sulari Gentill

After you’ve closed the cover it can take a few days to pull free of a really fascinating story. You find yourself musing on the plot, the characters and the setting, and daydreaming about it in absent moments. For all my love for the crime genre, this doesn’t usually happen with crime novels – the main reason that they are my preferred weekday read. However, Sulari Gentill’s historical crime novel A Few Right Thinking Men absolutely captured my imagination.

So what was so unusual about this book? First off, there is the setting. I’ve always thought that Australian history was under-utilised as a setting for historical crime novels, and the thirties are probably one of the least-known eras of Australian history. I would have thought that they are a period not exactly ripe with dramatic potential, except that Gentill so clearly proves me wrong. The rising tensions between the communists and early fascists, played out in the context of a squattocracy with conservative leanings and a bohemian fringe with communist sympathies, make for a gripping backdrop. It’s extra fascinating because you can recognise a cultural discourse that still continues today between left and right in this country.

But of course a setting is nothing without a plot and characters, and these are especially key for crime novels. On the point of characters Gentill really excels. The main character, Rowland “Rowly” Sinclair, is a member of a wealthy squatting family, turned artist. He’s rejected the values he grew up with and almost succeeded at becoming a through-and-through bohemian – except that he still feels the tension of trying to fit in with the artists who have come to live in the family manor. His relationship with his family is hardly easier, as he tries to maintain his independence while not irreparably damaging the relationship. A part of him still seems to long for the gracious country lifestyle of his brother Wilfred, although the two brothers disagree on almost everything. When a murder in the family brings politics into the mix, Rowland and Wilfred seem likely to end up on different sides of the brewing conflict.

In terms of plot, this is perhaps not a classical crime novel. While it starts out with a murder, it soon devolves into an examination of the murky politics of the time. The murderer is discovered in the end, but the book avoids the trap of tying up all the loose ends with a too-neat bow.  However, I do wonder if the plot suffers a bit from the paradox Gentill identifies in her comments at the back of the book: “I found I didn’t need to fictionalise the events of the era…the facts were fascinating and ludicrous enough.” The truth may be stranger than fiction, but ironically it is sometimes less believable than pure invention. While the setting was impeccably drawn and Gentill’s historical research meticulous, I think that the book may have benefited if she took more creative licence with the facts. A final confrontation with Campbell, in many ways set up as the villain of the piece, would have given weight to the ending.

The thing I enjoyed most about the book, the thing that kept me thinking about it for days, was that it gave me an insight into Sydney in the thirties that I’ve never had before. You can read a list of facts, even a historical document, but to get that sense of what it was to be there – that idea of how people thought, acted, the politics of the day, the class divisions at work – you need a book like A Few Right Thinking Men. This is where fiction has a huge advantage over non-fiction, yet the best books still manage to educate as well as entertain. The phrase “bringing history to life” is overused to the point of cliché, but this is truly what Gentill manages. It’s a fantastic achievement.

On literary novels with plots (and fancy words)

It’s always hard to go against the tide of critical acclaim and declare that in your opinion, the emperor has no clothes. Although Chad Harbach’s The Art of Fielding has been generally well-reviewed, on Salon.com Brian Platzer lays into it in rather devastating fashion. In effect, he accuses it of being a genre wolf dressed up in literary sheep’s clothing, a rather original and interesting accusation with several layers. As I haven't read the book myself I'm not in a position to agree or disagree, but I think it's particularly interesting to unpack some of the layers of that accusation.

First off, of course, I need to make the point that I strongly disagree with Platzer’s disdain for genre novels. As any readers of this blog will know, I have broad reading tastes, and in my opinion, genre authors such as Anne Holt or Donna Leon are at least as talented as more “literary” authors. Further, Platzer’s scorn for page-turning plots probably reflects the fact that he’s never tried to write one – I suspect they are harder than they look.  And honestly, what’s the problem with a literary novel with a plot? It reflects a point of view that I thought long-discredited, that a “worthy” novel can’t possibly be enjoyable to read. Surely there are many authors who have proved that point of view to be wrong. The recent Miles Franklin win by Peter Temple's Truth was a fine example, as are many books by such literary stars as Kate Grenville or Alex Miler. The idea still rears its ugly head occasionally of course, like the controversy over the Booker shortlist afew years ago deemed too “readable,” but I would suggest it’s gradually dying out as the publishing industry realises it needs to cater to readers and not the other way around.

So after completely disagreeing with Platzer on this point I then found myself in the strange position of agreeing with him on another. I’m sure he phrased it better (and I do recommend you go read the article) but in sum, he pointed out that fancy words and literary allusions do not literature make. I wholeheartedly agree. While I wouldn’t touch the hot potato of what can and cannot be deemed “quality literature” (this blog does have a lot of quotation marks, doesn’t it?) I do think that authors sometimes think that the more obscure the vocabulary, the more literary prizes the book is likely to win. Or perhaps that’s unkind; I’m not really suggesting that authors write with literary prizes in mind, rather than they are unconsciously influenced by the way that they think a literary novel is supposed to sound.

My view is the exact opposite. In a really good novel, I think the language should be clear as glass, and a reader should not notice it at all. Stopping to wonder about the meaning of a word or unusual word choice jolts you out of the novel. Looking at the literary novels on my bookshelf, the writers I admire all write simply – if you asked me about the way they wrote, I wouldn’t be able to tell you about anything except the story. Siri Hustvedt, Alex Miller, Salman Rushdie and Helen Garner have all written prize-winning novels without needing fancy words, and their work is  somehow the more powerful for its simplicity.

One final thought – for all that I disagree with many of his points, Platzer did a fine job of writing a well-supported, thoughtful negative review of The Art of Fielding, a topic I discussed on this blog recently. Most importantly, it gave me a good idea of whether I would or wouldn’t like the book (a definite no – any book that uses the word “synecdoche” during a sex scene will definitely be struck off my reading list). As a review, there is much to admire in the article. And having ended up reviewing a review I had better finish on that particularly meta note.

BOOK REVIEW: I Don’t Know How She Does it by Allison Pearson

There are plenty of “should”’s in the so-called Mommy Wars, as well as plenty of “can” and “can’t”. Women can have it all. Women can’t have it all, or they can but not at the same time. Women should demand equality. Women should accept reality and take a lesser position while their children are small. No wonder your head starts to spin as soon as you get to a certain age and contemplate the effect that having a family might have upon your career.

Before you run away and hide under your doona I should point out that I don’t have any of the answers, and I don’t claim to. Many of these arguments have merit and ultimately women will make choices based on their own career and family circumstances. That’s why I appreciate contributions to the debate which don’t contain “should”, “can” or “can’t”, but really say “Here’s how I dealt with it, maybe it might be helpful to you in the future.” Anne-Marie Slaughter’s recent (and controversial) article in The Atlantic fell into this category (despite the deceptive title). I would put Allison Pearson’s I don’t know how she does it in the same category.

It’s old news now, but the book was certainly controversial when it was published in 2002. In my view, that’s due to Pearson’s effort to portray honestly the struggles that women face. It may be fiction, but it’s fiction pretty clearly based on fact and as we all know, the truth can be shocking. Even those of us without children will recognise elements of Kate’s high-stress workplace, and the difficulty of carving out time for family. We might hear an uncomfortable echo in Kate’s efforts to explain to her husband how she really couldn’t refuse to take on extra work, and her frustration at his failure to keep things running smoothly at home.

Of course, there are elements of humour as well. The book opens with Kate “distressing” shop-bought mince pies so that they look suitably home-made. Pearson writes with a light touch and a good dollop of absurdity – which is even more funny because it’s generally only just beyond too-close-to-home.  Take for example her thoughts on being late: “It is possible to get away with being late in the City. The key thing is to offer what my lawyer friend Debra calls a Man’s Excuse. Senior managers who would be frankly appalled by the story of a vomiting nocturnal baby or an AWOL nanny… are happy to accept anything to do with the internal combustion engine” (that is, the car broke down).  The dinner party with the arty childless friends is also gold.

If you don’t like Kate’s tart voice or have no interest in the predicament of working mothers, you probably won’t enjoy this book. On the other hand, if you are (or might someday become) one of those working mothers, you’ll find a lot to like and a lot to laugh at. Most of all, I enjoyed that this was a book that dealt honestly with the difficulties involved in balancing work and family life without trying to provide answers. It’s definitely not a self-help book, although it’s perhaps not entirely fiction either – really, this is a book which broke out from the crowd and created its own genre. I hope one day it will be a valuable historical document of the struggles which women used to face (and face no more) but in the meantime, it’s worth reading for the guilty laughs if nothing else.

Holiday reading

I had the best of intentions, truly. I was going to get ahead of schedule and write some blogs to be posted while I was away soaking up the sun. But funnily enough, things didn't quite work out like that in the mad last minutes before heading off. I have similar good intentions of posting while away (if my patience holds out while pecking letters on a tablet keyboard) but I recognise this may be somewhat optimistic. So instead, I will post my holiday reading list. Hopefully, this has the double benefit of making you salivate while imagining all the juicy reviews to come, while simultaneously obliging me to actually write said reviews. You'll notice it is an interesting combination of high brow (which I really only have the energy to tackle on holidays) and low brow (because they are called 'airplane novels' for a reason).
So far I have made my way through:
Tiziano Terzani, Goodnight Mister Lenin - fascinating book about the effect of the fall of the Soviet Union from a writer who deserves to be better known
Helen Garner, The Spare Room - absolutely stunning, why did no one tell me how brilliant this book is before now?
Allison Pearson, I don't know how she does it - Food for thought, if somewhat depressing for a woman of my age.
Kerry Greenwood, Cooking the Books - Always fun spending a couple of hours with Corinna Chapman (though probably not advisable when hungry)
I am also planning to revisit a few old friends, like Pride and Prejudice and The Road to Coorain. Not to mention the $180 worth of ebooks waiting for attention on my ereader (yes, there was a small online shopping spree at readwithoutpaper.com before I left). In summary, I'm hoping to catch up on enough reading to keep the blog turning over for a while!

AWW Book Review: The Spare Room by Helen Garner

For anyone who has had a loved one die of cancer, Helen Garner's The Spare Room is likely to be a painful read. Without knowing the background, I would guess that Garner must have witnessed the difficulties of dealing with a terminally ill person at first hand to have captured such a level of excruciating detail. This book is one of the few I have read which rings absolutely true, crisp and clear in every detail without unnecessary flourishes. Despite the weighty subject matter, it reads easily and it's only at the end that you realise what a small and perfect miracle of a book this is. Garner is truly a master of her craft.

The premise of the book is simple. Helen's friend Nicola, in the final stages of cancer, comes down from Sydney to stay in her spare room while receiving treatment. As so many do, Nicola pins her hopes on alternative therapies and refuses to admit that she is dying. Helen's desire to help her friend is gradually worn down by Nicola's desperate neediness. It's a dilemma familiar to anyone with a seriously ill family member or friend - how to cope when your own needs conflict with the needs of the ill person, and how to deal with the guilt of taking time for yourself.

There's little I can say about this gem of a book, no criticism or suggested improvements. In my view it's a modern classic and deserves to be better known. I do believe that seeing your experience depicted in fiction can be healing and it says something about the quality of this book that I would recommend it to those who have dealt with a terminally ill friend or family member. Perhaps not at the time, or immediately afterwards, but down the track when wounds are not so fresh it can be immensely comforting to know you are not alone. In the end, all any of us can do is our best, even if we tend to expect more of ourselves. This is the heart of the story told so quietly and powerfully in this stunning book.

On negative reviews

This post was kicked off by something Neil Gaiman had written on his Tumblr site. He kindly made it rebloggable so I am posting it here in full:

 I think authors are allowed to point out errors of fact in a negative review, if they really have to and it’s important to them (errors of the “I understand that the reviewer feels this is the worst account she’s ever read of the Thirty Years’ War of 1618–1648. I would like to point out that one reason for this is that my novel is actually set during the Hundred Years’ War, which occurred from 1337 to 1453…” variety.) And otherwise we should swear loudly to ourselves, probably startling our cats, then we should keep our mouths shut, and go and write other things.

Because I think it’s a good thing that people don’t like everything we do.

I mean that.

I do not write books that everyone will like. Human beings like different things. If human beings did not like different things — if there was unanimity of opinion on what was good and what was bad, what books were enjoyable and what weren’t, then the odds are that I would starve. My books and stories are not to everyone’s taste, which is why I am so pleased that all people do not share the same taste.

Some people like what I do. Some people don’t. The ones who like what I do are the ones who keep me fed, and to them I am grateful; and the ones who do not, well, fair enough. There is no letter that I could write to a website, nothing I can ever say that would make someone like a book that they do not like.

(Occasionally time can do that, and experience, and life, and people will come to me and tell me how much better American Gods got during the ten years between them reading it at sixteen and at twenty-six. But that’s a different thing entirely.)

Opinions are true. But they are only opinions. Once you’ve written a book, it belongs to everyone, and they are all allowed to have opinions, and the spectrum of opinions is the spectrum of humanity.
Sometimes I write things I am not satisfied with, and every now and then I run into people who think that thing I did that I didn’t like was the best thing in the world. I feel more uncomfortable around them than I ever do reading a scathing review.

This kicked off some thoughts of my own about this blog, and what I am trying to do with it. Because while, like everyone else, I had a chuckle at the 'Hatchet Job of the Year' award, I'm still on one level deeply uncomfortable with something that could be read as unjustified vitriol in any other context. Perhaps it's my training as a lawyer, but I try to keep things professional (even thought I am not, in fact, a professional book reviewer).

So how do I manage books that I don't like on this blog? In three ways.

1. Don't review them.

This goes back to the principle of, "if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Most of the time, if I can't say anything interesting, or constructive, or in fact anything positive at all about a book, I won't review it here.

2. Make sure criticism is justified

Criticism needs to be supported, usually by examples. In addition, it's helpful to the reader, because it gives them an idea of whether they are likely to agree. If i say "I hated this book," the reader is left in the dark as to why. If I say "I hated this book because the characters were flat, the plot dreary and the whole thing morally dubious" it at least gives them some clue. If I am able to say "I hated this book because the characters ranged from dumb blonde to stereotypical soccer mum, nothing happened in the first 100 pages and the characters never left their apartment," even better.

3. What would I say if I met the author in person?

This is the "don't say behind someone's back what you wouldn't say to their face" principle. Given the nature of the internet, it's entirely possible that someone will end up coming across a review of their book - if not now, then years down the track. In general, I tend to have more sympathy for writers who have obviously done their best, even if the results have some flaws (see, for example, my review of Sharp Shooter by Marianne Delacourt). I reserve my sharpest criticism for those who should know better, like Annie Proulx with Bird Cloud). And yes, that was a very critical review, but believe me, I agonised over whether I should go that far. I tried to imagine other readers' who might enjoy the book and couldn't. I finally decided that I was happy to stand behind the statements I made in that review.

All of the above notwithstanding, the biggest laugh I've had this year came from this review of Fifty Shades of Grey. I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes, and other people in the office were looking at me very oddly. If you haven't yet - go read it.

In summary? Try to not let the anonymity of the internet lead you to say things you wouldn't say in other contexts. Be nice. And if you have to go for the hatchet job, be sure they really deserve it!

BOOK REVIEW: Damsel in Distress by Carola Dunn

Damsel in Distress can be summed up in four words as, “Famous Five Grow Up.” Apart from the fact that there aren’t actually five of them and the growing up seems to happen in some respects but not others, those who fondly remember Blyton’s jolly adventures are likely to find Dunn’s novel right up their alley. I can’t say that I count myself in their number. Much as I would like to enter into the spirit of the thing, I can’t help harbouring suspicions of anyone who can use the word “spiffing” apparently without irony.

The plot could come straight from Blyton, if you add twenty years or so to the main characters’ ages. Phillip, Daisy’s likeable but somewhat dimwitted pal, falls for an equally likeable but equally dimwitted American heiress. The heiress is kidnapped in mysterious circumstances. Phillip calls his investigator friend Daisy for help and together with a further bunch of pals, they scour the surrounding countryside with the idea of rescuing the damsel in distress. It’s probably not giving too much away to suggest that the result is a daring rescue and just desserts all round.

You may at this point have some inkling of why I referred to growing up in some respects but not others. There are token nods to class issues, as well allusions to the fact that some of the characters may, at some point, but let’s not dwell on this for the sake of delicacy, be having sex. However, the sheer improbability of the plot is hard to overlook. Somehow, I was left with the impression that Dunn just adores these characters so much that she can think of nothing better than a thin device to have them all together having jolly good fun solving a mystery in the English countryside.

 I wonder if the fact that Dunn appears to be American has anything to do with her frothy view of English rural life – as Agatha Christie could tell you, there are plenty of dark secrets behind the bucolic idyll.  But comparing Daisy Dalrymple to Miss Marple is like comparing Edward Cullen to Dracula. If it came to a fight, I know who I’d be backing.

There’s nothing wrong with a light read, and perhaps it’s simply that Damsel in Distress is not my preferred form of escapism (for the record, I always preferred Mr Galliano’s Circus to the Famous Five and would have happily given up both for a new Swallows and Amazons novel). Others may find it more plausible, and the characters more likeable, and be less inclined to laugh at the (no doubt historically accurate) vocabulary (but seriously, are there people out there who can read “oh right ho, pip-pip” without at least suppressing a smile?). I might as well go with the theme and use a very English metaphor - it’s just not my cup of tea.