Shelf Bores

When you finally get round to reading a book and, in the main, you are enjoying it and you then make the mistake of reading the reviews  . . . and they are shitting all over it. Yeah, that.

The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby (Believer Books 2004)

I know I'm wrong about this book, because everyone else in the world, including writers I love, think it's fantastic, but it Wasn't For Me. It's brilliantly written, I can see that much, and it made me think, too. But mostly I thought about why I don't know anyone like the people Fox writes about. Why are all my friends so dim and unreflective? Where did I go wrong?

Toward the end of the book, Otto and Sophie, the central couple, go to stay in their holiday home. Sophie opens the door to the house, and is immediately reminded of a friend, an artist who used to visit them there; she thinks about him for a page or so. The reason she's thinking about him is that she's staring at something he loved, a vinegar bottle shaped like a bunch of grapes. The reason she's staring at the bottle is because it's in pieces. And the reason it's in pieces is because someone has broken in and trashed the place, a fact we only discover when Sophie has snapped out of her reverie. At this point, I realized with some regret that not only could I never write a literary novel, but I couldn't even be a character in a literary novel. I can only imagine myself, or any character I created, saying, "shit! Some bastard has trashed the house!" No rumination about artist friends - just a lot of cursing, and maybe some empty threats of violence.

Shakespeare Wrote For Money by Nick Hornby (Believer Books 2008)

Robert Altman's Nashville is one of my favorite films - or, at least, I think it is. I haven’t seen it in a while, and the last time I did, I noticed the longueurs more than I ever had before. Maybe the best thing to do with favorite films and books is to leave them be: to achieve such an exalted position means that they entered your life at exactly the right time, in precisely the right place, and those conditions can never be re-created. Sometimes we want to revisit them in order to check whether they were really as good as we remember them being, but this has to be a suspect impulse, because what it presupposes is that we have more reason to trust our critical judgments as we get older, whereas I am beginning to believe that the reverse is true.I was eighteen when I saw Nashville for the first time, and I was electrified by its shifts in tone, its sudden bursts of feeling and meaning, its ambition, its occasional obscurity, even its pretensions. I don’t think I’d ever seen an art movie before, and I certainly hadn’t seen an art movie set in a world I recognized. So I came out of the cinema that night a slightly changed person, suddenly aware that there was a different way of doing things. None of that is going to happen again, but so what? And why mess with a good thing? Favorites should be left where they belong, buried somewhere deep in a past self.

Pissing Off Dixie

Tying in with the first part of the audio book of Howard Zinn's 'People History of the United States' is a review in yesterday's New York Times of Glenda Elizabeth Gilmore's 'DEFYING DIXIE The Radical Roots of Civil Rights, 1919-1950'.

Hurry up and review 'The Last Breath'

Via google alerts for Denise Mina comes a couple of good reviews by the Grumpy Old Bookman blog of the first two Paddy Meehan books:

The Field of Blood

The Dead Hour

I like how Michael Allen (G.O.B) cuts to the chase when writing about 'The Field of Blood':

As an evocation of time, place, and atmosphere, this book is, I am sure, the equal of any Booker shortlisted book, but it is also, fortunately, much more. Because it's a crime novel we have a good strong narrative thread, and we are spared the arty-farty fancypants bullshit."

What the review does not pick up on, and something that I still have difficulty getting my head around is Denise Mina's insistence that the Catholic community in Scotland was still experiencing as late as the early eighties an institutionalised discrimination that was so deep rooted in Scottish society that even Paddy Meehan becoming a 'copyboy' on a newspaper was seen as something out of the ordinary.

I'm not suggesting that such a bigoted culture didn't exist, merely acknowledging that I'm perhaps too young to fully recognise that time and noting how far we've come between then and now.

I'm looking forward to Allen's future review of 'The Last Breath', which has already become my favourite book in the Paddy Meehan series.