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Good old Martin Amis. Sometimes massively enjoyable, most of the time not. I first came across him (if you’ll excuse the pun) in a volume of short stories where his story (How Can I Count The Times) had me in absolute stitches. I was then lucky enough to read London Fields, before sinking into the mire of the rest of his work. To be honest I wouldn’t even have looked at Yellow Dog, having written him off completely nowadays, but Claire brought it home and I was short of books….

Yellow Dog is another one of his massively multi-threaded novels. 5 or 6 different stories intertwine throughout the novel, occasionally touching on each other as they make their seeming unconnected way through the book. The Royal family, a tabloid journalist, a renaissance man for the TV generation, old lags, porn stars and an aircraft all have their own tale to tell.

This is a book about sex – uncomfortable sex*. It’s about all sorts of taboos and forbidden love – incest, hardcore porn, paedophilia, closet homosexuality, drugs, small dicks and premature ejaculation all make a showing.

In his dealings with the subject matter Amis has managed to write quite a funny novel, but the underlying themes are fairly dark and oppressive. It is a return to form though – the language is fresh and snappy rather than moribund and each storyline has a tale to tell. I generally enjoyed it but I found myself disturbed by the subject matter for some time after I finished reading. This is clearly the mark of a good book but it doesn’t necessarily make for a truly enjoyable one.

Overall the plot is clever and engaging, the characters well developed (although all of them are entirely unpleasant) and the language witty and entertaining. Ultimately though it was dark, seedy, and I wasn’t entirely sure what the actual point of exposing all these taboos really was….

* no, not in the back of a Volkswagen

Having read The Human Stain recently I was keen to try out some more of Phillip Roth’s work. I was hopeful that I’d found a new (to me) author with a large body of published work that I could spend some time going through, safe in the knowledge that if Borders, Waterstones or Amazon failed to throw up something new and tempting I could always buy another Roth and have something enjoyable to read. It was in one of these untempting spells then that I thought I’d try Portnoy’s Complaint (chosen primarily due to the blurb saying that it was one of the funniest books ever written about sex).

Portnoy narrates the novel in a gushing, self obsessed first person. It’s told in the style of a session with a psychiatrist; a warts and all confession from the couch by a young successful Jewish man obsessed with his schlong and goyish girls.

Having described The Human Stain as structured, clean and intellectual (and undeniably East Coast America) it was a bit of a surprise to find that Portnoy’s Complaint is completely different in style. Still undeniably East Coast, but this time the style is New York Jewish rather than Boston Intellectual. It’s a testemant to Roth’s skill that this work is still as convincing and all encompassing, yet so so different. This book is bubbling, gushing, unstructured, coming in waves over you as you read it. It’s real stream of consciousness stuff – the absolute antithesis of The Human Stain.

I must say that I feel a bit overwhelmed by fiction about the Jewish nature at the moment. Having read Everything Is Illuminated, Kavalier and Clay, The Dream of Scipio and Fatherland in relatively quick succession I’m not sure I was ready for yet another dip into the psyche of the Jewish male. I’m also not sure I was ready for such a single minded novel with a narrator for whom I had no empathy.

I struggled through this one; it just wasn’t really my cup of tea. I have a feeling that I’ve probably done a great book a great injustice, but, well… The book is very pacy, beautifully written and often funny but I couldn’t get inside the narrator’s head and have seen enough Woody Allen movies to know that New York Jewish boys have a difficult relationship with sex and their mothers (usually for the same reasons). This was, therefore, a bit of a disappointment. It hasn’t put me off Phillip Roth though, I may just be more careful in choosing my next one.

Rather unsurprisingly I haven’t been reading an awful lot lately. Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake and Peter Carey’s My Life As A Fake slipped by in those few weeks that, like a fake Christmas Eve, left me going to sleep all excited and waking up all disappointed, until one day it was 4 in the morning and then suddenly I was in hospital. I’ve started reading again now (Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint) though and new reviews will be forthcoming.

To do the two books mentioned above justice would be pretty hard, but Oryx and Crake (as I remember it) was a real page turner – Margaret Atwood at her sci-fi finest. As usual the premise is one of absolute quality and the story telling superb. A judge of a good book is the ending (it’s rare for a book to be great in my opinion if the ending isn’t perfect) and this one doesn’t disappoint. At all.

My Life As A Fake didn’t have quite the same impact. It was a cracking story, but I don’t think I was giving it my entire attention. Perhaps someone else could read it and let me know what I missed as I turned the pages without really concentrating!

Gould’s Book of Fish… A novel in 12 fish. Where to begin with this one? I have a formula for reviews that you will probably have noticed – a couple of paragraphs that précis the book and then a couple about what I think it’s really about and why I liked it (or hated it). The odd book has challenged this formula, but I’ve always managed to make it fit. Not so here. Gould’s Book of Fish doesn’t want to be précised. To tell you that Sid Hammet, a small time Tasmanian crook, finds a book whilst rummaging through the back room of an antique shop and that, so taken with its contents, he chooses to rewrite it when it disappears would not be to do it justice. To tell you that it’s a book within a book, that the main event is in fact William Buelow Gould’s account of his life on Tasmania’s most feared penal colony where he makes his way as a painter of fish (and men and things and history) would be factually accurate but wouldn’t even begin to touch the surface of this novel…

This is the most fantastically exuberant book; it sparks with a frenetic energy from every page. The narrator’s voice is incredible; powerful, evocative, funny, harsh and all the while completely untrustworthy. The intricate tale that is woven around the harsh unrealities of the penal colony of Sarah Island is utterly compelling. The vile dystopia is made so real by every sentence that even though you know in your heart of hearts that you are being spun a line you want to believe that it’s true, despite the horrors that are being described.

I’ve been trying to think of ways to describe this book and I’ve only come up with the most effusive of phrases – jaw dropping, awe inspiring, gob smacking. It’s all of those things and more. It hits you in a myriad of ways at all times… The speed and flexibility of the prose makes you think of stream of consciousness writing of the power of Burroughs (or more contemporary perhaps Noon) yet the underlying precision of the narrative and the metaphor that builds throughout the book makes you realise that there is more at work here than at first meets the eye. On one level it paints a picture of an almost Gormenghast-like intensity. On another it describes the nature of incarceration and of the penal system. But on the third, like Peake, Flanagan has created a metaphorical world which he then turns on our own modern times.

I don’t want to liken this book to Gormenghast too closely. At the peak (excuse the pun) of the novel Sarah Island does feel like Castle Gormenghast. And the colony and the Commandant do meet their ends in a fire. But these are feelings – vibes – rather than direct comparison. Flanagan has a very different purpose – he is not angry, not raging against the dying of the light as Peake was when he wrote his trilogy. Instead this is a book of wonder, of awe. In fact, to only mention Mervyn Peake and William S. Burroughs in a review would doubtless put many people off and paint a darker picture of this book than it deserves. It is in places very dark, but that dark is not neverending. The prose is almost poetic and flows exaggeratedly more often than not, but it returns quickly and often to a solid base. Flanagan’s prose is written out of the love of telling a good story, out of the sheer pleasure of the awesome power of words. He delights in twisting reality through every nuance and metaphor and throughout he is really trying to tell us one thing…

Through the records of every court that Billy Gould has ever been hauled before, through Miss Anne’s letters to the Commandant, through the Surgeon’s desperate cataloguing of fish and skulls, through the mad Dane’s fictional records of the colony, through Twopenny Sal’s dancing and ultimately through Gould’s Book of Fish and Sid Hammet’s retelling of it all this is a novel about the power of words and the words of those in power. This is a novel that exists precariously on that fine line between where words become the world and the world becomes words. It is a novel that is lived out in everybody’s head because sometimes it is impossible not to remain looking inward. It is a novel where the fact that it is written makes it so, where any and every story becomes history.

We all know that history is written by the victor. This book gives Billy Gould one last, small victory. I loved it.

What do you do when your friends beat you up with their generosity? That’s the thrust of The Gift by David Flusfeder… Phillip is a failed footballer (he used to be quite good you know) who’s stuck in a rut rewriting technical manuals translated from their native Japanese or Korean. His wife is a bit more high-flying, with friends in the movie business… And there’s the problem – all of his friends are too exciting, too rich, and too damn generous. Barry and Sean can’t help but keep giving the perfect gifts. This leaves poor old Phillip with a problem – he just can’t match their gift giving prowess. It gets to him. It gets to him so much that he starts keeping score.

This starts out as a deliciously dark comedy. It’s quintessentially British, in the school of comedy that we’re doing so well at the moment. There’s a real smack of Human Remains or even Nighty Night about it – a slow building darkness that becomes so extreme that you can’t help but find it painfully funny. The lengths that Phillip goes to to keep pace with Barry’s gifts get successively worse and worse as his mental state slides rapidy downhill.

I really disliked Phillip. He’s a whining tosser. Luckily you can bear the fact simply because the situation he creates for himself into is so funny… The scene where he’s creeping round his friends’ house in the middle of the night is priceless. Unfortunately the book falls down because the author doesn’t carry it all the way through. Things start to go right for Phillip and at that point I kind of lost interest. He doesn’t seem to have the balls to take it to it’s logical extreme.

I think the problem is that there’s an underlying idea that the author is trying to get out here, so rather than simply writing a harshly black comedy he’s trying to work a theme into the book that causes him to lose focus near the end. I think I’d have prefered the idea delivered in a different way or for the comedy to run all the way through – instead I found myself crashing between two stools in a fairly painful way. He just trys to be too damn literary about the whole thing. Just for once I wish he’d left that behind when he picked up his pen.

The book that I wanted to be reading by the end of this of this one was Charlie Higson’s Getting Rid of Mr Kitchen. Now that’s a dark comedy that never lets go. So. Gut feel is that this one isn’t worth it. I’m probably wrong… The Amazon reviews love it, a lot of journalists loved it, even Will Self loved it (apparently) and it’s a certainty that it’ll do the rounds of the trendiest dinner parties; just be wary of anyone who gives it to you – particularly for no apparent reason…

Set against the backdrop of Clinton’s impeachment for fiddling with his intern The Human Stain tells the story of Coleman Silk, an apparently unstoppable professor of Classics at a small New England college. The novel begins with the aftermath of Coleman being accused of racism towards his students and continues through his relationship with one of the college’s cleaning staff� Unfortunately each of his actions appears to bring him more misfortune.

This is an odd one for me. I actually bought it 3 years ago but had never read it � the blurb on the back had seemed appealing when in the bookshop, but each time I came to pick it up there was always something more attractive (and frankly less heavy looking) to read instead. It was only a review of the recent film (starring Anthony Hopkins and Nicole Kidman) on Radio 4 that made me reconsider and actually try to read it.

Mark Lawson’s rave review of the film seemed to be so positive primarily because the film had managed so well to reflect the nature of Roth’s prose � in fact the film’s review seemed to be mostly a review of the book. This was, therefore, enough for me to actually try to read it.

To a degree my initial prejudices had been right. This is not a flowery read � Roth’s use of language is structured, clean and intellectual. But happily this isn’t Will Self territory either, where you feel some of the language is unnecessarily complex (first chapter of Great Apes, anyone?). Liken it more to the language and structures of Alistair Cooke � someone I couldn’t help thinking of throughout the first couple of chapters as I found my feet and the narrator found his voice.

This is a novel of secrets � so much so that it’s difficult to give a pr�cis of the plot� As the narrative progresses layer upon layer of Coleman’s life is peeled away to reveal yet more that we and the characters around him didn’t and couldn’t know. Running alongside each of the other peripheral characters also slowly shed their masks to reveal their inner selves � ultimately giving us a powerful insight into the nature of ambition and prejudice.

The prose is beautifully structured � its apparent sparseness quickly losing any initial harshness, acting instead as a subtle framework from which to hang elegantly formed characters and ideas. While it is indubitably East Coast American – with its careful structure and form – it is definitely more delicate filigree than stark scaffolding.

This is the first book I’ve read by Philip Roth, and I’ve had a whole new world opened up for me by opening its pages. Many of the books I read and review are ‘modern’ in their outlook or their form; this one is most definitely modern in its themes but it is rooted firmly in literary tradition � there are no flash tricks here � but somehow it feels more solid and more lasting than most I’ve read in a while. I loved this one and I’m looking forward to reading some more. If anyone has any recommendations, let me know.

What can I say about a book that’s won the Booker that’s not already been said? Well, I guess I can tell you if it’s actually a good read or not for a start.

Vernon God Little is the story of Vernon Little, a dysfunctional and confused teen from a small town in the middle of nowhere (or Texas, to be more precise). The book starts at the aftermath of a highschool massacre which has been carried out by Vernon’s friend, Jesus… Not a particularly cheery basis to begin with, but unlike Coupland’s Hey Nostradamus the masssacre isn’t the core of the story. What is is the way Vernon’s life begins to go horribly wrong as the local people look for a scapegoat and choose Vernon (as Jesus’ only friend) as the obvious candidate. What follows is a tale of bad luck, prejudice, ignorance and naivety that leads Vernon down a path that will inevitably lead to his prosecution for taking part in the crime.

Luckily DBC Pierre isn’t looking for schmaltz or to tug on our heart strings – what he’s created is an incredibly comic character whose turn of phrase leaves you laughing out loud all the way through the book, even as the situations get more inescapable and (essentially) tragic. It’s Vernon’s language and outlook on life that get you yet another of those books where the character is in unstoppable decline.

I’ve read quite a few reviews that likened Vernon to “a modern day Holden Caulfield” (from Catcher in the Rye). I have to say that I think that’s bollocks. Vernon is a disaffected teen, yes, and yes, he does run away but that’s pretty much where the likeness ends. Vernon is a dumb, foul mouthed, small town kid – there’s no two ways about it. Invention is not his strong point and rather than distrusting the world around him he blindly assumes that people are to be trusted and that things will go his way.

Other reviews have talked about how DBC Pierre’s past life as a cocaine addict really comes through in the book. I even heard Mariella Frostrup go so far as to say that she could “hear the cocaine talking” in the “crackling narrative.” Again, bollocks. Drugs are not a topic of the book and the narrative (which does crackle to be fair) doesn’t begin to communicate anything about the experience of being a drug addict, metaphorically or otherwise. To be honest if I hadn’t read those reviews and didn’t know that the DBC stood for Dirty But Clean I would never have guessed that he was anything other than a writer with a fantastic eye for character and lot of childhood vitriol to unload.

This is a book about mid-American prejudices and greed, about the power of the media and fast food, about sheer dumb luck – good and bad – and ultimately it’s about a mother’s love. It’s amazingly funny, tremendously engaging and has a fantastic twist at the end. All in all it’s a great book. Should it have won the Booker? Not sure – I’ve not read the others in the shortlist but I’m afraid it’s not a patch on 2002′s winner Life of Pi, but then again not many books are.

This is an intricately woven tale of a literature professor (David Zimmer) who’s life has fallen apart through the death of his wife and children in an air accident. In an attempt to heal his wounds he immerses himself in the work of Hector Mann, a silent movie star from the golden age of cinema. The story unfolds as Zimmer receives a letter out of the blue from someone purporting to be the wife of this long dead star.

Three stories unfold in intricate detail – the story of Zimmer seeking out the truth behind the letters he receives, the story of the films of Hector Mann and the story of Mann’s life after his disappearance. The invention that Auster shows in weaving together this story is impressive. Mixing together the 3 stories with fictional criticism of the films that make up the background of the story makes quite a compelling read.

If I’m to be honest I’m not sure what to think about this book. I found it easy to read and inoffensive, but… It attempts to be an intelligent novel but the metaphors are forced and the carefully formed parallels between the stories get a little wearing as the book moves on.

All in all it’s a good holiday read – I’d devour this on the beach without a second thought. What it isn’t is challenging, which I’m afraid is what I like…

On the cover Rich Hall sits on a formal armchair with an eagle at his shoulder, a bulldog at his feet and the mountains of Montana in the background. And that’s the book in a nutshell. It’s like Bill Bryson if he’d grown up in the company of both Woody Allen and Charlie Higson and then decided to get really really drunk.

I don’t often go for books by stand up comedians, but there’s something about Rich Hall that I’ve always liked and that I thought would translate better to the page than many. And I was right. This is a book containing nearly 50 pieces, each averaging about 4 pages and each superbly inventive, brilliantly observed and hilariously funny. Some of them are pieces of raw observation (like the comparison of UK drinking laws and US gun laws) while others are glorious shaggy dog stories (Great Gags Wasted and The Mile High Club).

I’ve been reading this one piece at a time over the last couple of months and it’s caused me to laugh out loud most nights. If you’re looking for something light, easily digestible and frankly piss funny this is well worth the cash.

This is a highly imaginative fable about a village called Mandragora on an island somewhere off the coast of Scotland that has been cut off from society at large for an untold number of years. The inhabitants (of which Yves is one) have remained stuck in a rut, with hardly any change to their basic ways of farming for hundreds of years. Yves and his brother (Mandrik) are considered weird and otherly for the fact that they think outside the usual traditions, yet it is Yves and Mandrik who ultimately hold the village’s way of life most dear.

The hardness of life in the village is all too real – horses aren’t named because they die so frequently, children are only named when they reach a certain age, and Yves himself says at one point “Wives and children are so fragile, how can expect these two to outlive me?” It is within this world that Yves manages to find some time to invent. His first invention is a harness for the horses – previously the one wheeled carts were pulled by horses with ropes directly around their necks. The impact of this invention is enormous – suddenly horses live long enough to be named and life in Mandragora starts to change.

Soon after this invention a stranger reaches the village from The Beyond. Ruth Bloom is an anthropologist from Boston, MA and she has followed her mother’s bedside stories to find the lost village of Mandragora. Following all the best traditions of her trade she tries not to influence her subjects, but it is not long before she becomes inextricably bound into the ways of the village…

I could go on about this book for hours… The imagination that has created the novel’s world is extraordinary – the complete otherness combined with the total coherence make Mandragora and its inhabitants utterly real. The beautiful density of the language is utterly compelling – every scene holds a new surprise, a new tiny detail or a heartstopping insight into the Mandragoran’s world view.

Ultimately it’s a fable about progress vs. tradition, about status quo vs. change and about the preservation of innocence. I’ve read a couple of reviews of this book that suggest that the author punishes her characters for not holding on to their traditions hard enough. I don’t agree, but then this book is very carefully written to ensure that it’s open to interpretation. Personally I took a much more optimistic view of it – the inevitability of change was perfectly matched against village life.

Whatever – I was gobsmacked by this book. I found myself reading it at every possible opportunity, overlooking other things to make sure that I could get another fix and immerse myself in the villagers’ lives. It’s whimsical, surprising and incredibly imaginative. This is yet another great book from Canongate and one that I can’t recommend highly enough.