Books: December 2007 Archives

Over the festive season I have been reading books, as I tend to do. But unusually for me, they're not been non-fiction (or "books of truth" as I term them), but rather fiction (AKA "books of lies")! I have finished not one, not two, but three books of fiction in the past few days. They are, in order, Yann Martel's Life of Pi, Jenny Downham's before I die, and Alan Bennett's The Uncommon Reader.

I've been an avid reader all my life - but in the past few years I've taken some time off and fallen out of the habit of reading fiction. Part of it is because my free time is limited, I try only to read books related to my course. Ultimately, however, academic books tend to be dry, and I can't resist the siren call of a well-written novel or short story. My desire to read has only been fuelled this year, with one of my flatmates being an English Lit student, as I realise my understanding of modernism is inadequate, that I've never read Conrad or Byron, and so on.

But that's not why I read these books. I read simply for pleasure, thankfully. Maybe I'll get around to understanding modernism or reading Conrad later. Maybe I won't. Either way, I've read some good books.

Life of Pi I intend to address in a later, fuller blog post. The second book, before I die, I bought for my mother as a birthday present after reading good reviews. It's the story of Tessa, a 16 year-old girl with terminal leukemia, and the last few months of her life. Like I said, I've read many rave reviews about this book, but I can't help coming away a little disappointed. It didn't connect me or engage me the way I felt it should have.

That said, it is a very well-written book. It's narrated by Tessa, in the present tense, which gives the book an immediacy, an urgency, and no sense of hindsight that the past tense would offer. It fixes the book firmly in the here-and-now, which make Tessa's thoughts, observations, and dreams seem all the more real. The characterisation is excellent, and Downham really manages to get across the distinctive nature of each of the characters. The writing manages a great lyrical beauty at times, weaving words and images around each other. Here's an example I enjoyed (p266), and also some of the little observations that make reading this book a joy rather than a chore:

I like it - the stall and shove of traffic, the deep thrum of a bus engine, an urgent siren in the distance. I like creeping so slowly down the High Street that I have time to notice Easter eggs still unbought in the newsagent's window, the cigarette butts swept into a neat pile outsde the Chicken Joint. I see children carrying the strangest things - a polar bear, an octopus.

Writing about sex is often tricky, and while this certainly wouldn't qualify for one of the Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Awards, some of the (many) sex scenes in the book feel a little awkward. While on the whole, the character of a 16 year-old was well-written, on occassion, Downham seemed to miss the mark considerably. A consistent example of this is her description of text messaging throughout the book, which seems ill-informed and as if Downham herself has never texted anyone. Maybe I'm being too picky, but that stuck out to me a lot.

The book raises some interesting questions about life and death, however I feel there are many more that it could, and perhaps should, have examined or expanded upon. We all have a limited time here on earth, so what makes Tessa's case different? Is it because we know she only has months, weeks, days to live? Aside from the length of time until death, what makes her different from us? Does ignorance of the length of time between now and our death make us somehow immune to it? What's the point in work, love, and friends when we're all going to die eventually?

In many ways the book felt trite and oversentimental at times. Due to her teenage, often childish perspective on the world, it was hard at times to take Tessa seriously, so at the points when she's being her most sincere, it's difficult to really connect with what she's saying. Which is a pity, as there are some real gems in this book.

The Uncommon Reader is a cheeky little book about Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, and her blossoming, later expanding, love for literature and books of all sorts.

A chance encounter leads Her Majesty to discover a mobile library in Westminister, where, to be polite, she borrows a book. She reads it, returns it, and again, to be polite, she borrows another. Two turn into three, three into four, and soon enough she's borrowing and reading not out of etiquette or duty, but for pleasure. A young boy in the employ of the palace becomes her amanuensis, advising her in the way of what to read next, leading her to strange new lands, previously untouched.

The establishment are not pleased at their monarch's new hobby, especially when it is to the detriment of her state duties. Thus Bennett takes us on a journey of literary discovery, all the while battling off the assaults of those who seek to deprive the Queen of her new-found love.

The book is itself a defence of literature - in fact, no, not a defence, this is not literary apologetics. Rather, the book is an activist, crying defiantly in support of reading, of books, and of art. It is a rallying call against arrogance and ignorance, heralding people - all people - to the sheltering warmth of civilised art.

Despite my bold claims, the book is not loud, nor is it angry. The prose is, like Her Majesty, reserved, comforting, and refined. Perhaps even deceptive in both its message and its comedy. The book is physically attractive too - asethetically pleasing, with a soothing typeface and an appealing dust cover. I was thinking while reading it, "if I ever publish something, I'd love for it to be done like this".

The book raises important points too, concerning Monarchy (or really any figure constantly in the public eye): what is "natural", when most of your life is a performance? And on literature (or art in general), does it mirror life, or vice versa? Why is art more beautiful than "real life"? On duty and entitlement, to what extent does it affect our view of the world and of our place in it?

I'm glad I read these three books. They've given me a sense of perspective I wouldn't have otherwise. I hope this brief excursion into my literary journey has encouraged you to read, or at least consider some of the issues raised. It certainly has me.

Bennett, Adam. The Uncommon Reader. London: Faber and Faber, 2007.
Downham, Jenny. before I die. London: Transworld, 2007.
Martel, Yann. Life of Pi. Edinburgh: Canongate, 2002.