Silas Marner

By George Eliot
It’s been a while since I read Middlemarch; I remember enjoying it immensely (a good book to read while travelling on trains through the UK, incidentally) but had forgotten why. Reading Silas Marner reminded me – George Eliot takes you right into a community, building up the many characters and their foibles, illuminating the customs and beliefs of their society, and when she depicts foolishness, weakness or error, she does it kindly.

Silas Marner, a weaver, was brought up in “Lantern Yard”, an unspecified religious community, but is banished after a “friend” sets him up for stealing the church’s moolah and steals his chick. Marner makes his way to Raveloe, where he is not the most popular of residents, as the pain of his betrayal and banishment has made him a bitter and withdrawn person. He hoards his gold, earned through long hours on the loom, which is the only precious thing to him. So when it’s stolen, he kinda goes to pieces. Through chance, however, a young orphaned child turns up on his doorstep, bringing about his personal salvation. (He names the child Hephzibah, after his mother and sister; when it is noted that this is a bit of heavy duty name for a child he says, don’t worry, she will be called Eppie for short. I don’t know why I feel the need to note this – it’s just such a terrible name!! NB Apologies to all people called Eppie out there).

I have obviously been watching too many television soaps, because I expected many more twists and turns and disappointments and much more anguish before the finally happy end of the novel. Apparently this was Eliot’s favourite of her own work; I found it enjoyable and I love Eliot’s gentle style; but overall the story was a little bit “so what”. To channel the Queen for a moment, one isn’t always in the mood for a bit of nineteenth century novel. But if you are, this is a nice one.

Rating: 7 out of 10

The Outsider (2006)

By Albert Camus
A nice little shortie of a novel, I do like it when you can read classic fiction and it doesn’t take very long – such a sense of virtuous achievement! Also, another piece of classic fiction that is remarkably easy to read. Take note Thomas Pynchon: Great Literature Does Not Have To Hurt Your Brain. Some, in fact, would argue that the easier a book is to read (i.e. smooth, seamless and concise writing), the better the writer…this theory may fall over when considering the adventures of Spot the dog, however.

The Outsider tells the story of Meursault, a fairly normal young Algerian clerk who is undone through is inability to empathise with other people. Today he might be diagnosed with Asperger’s, or if he had been a lot more buff and also a genius he could have been another Jack Reacher – i.e. no remorse gene. Meursault somehow manages to kill an Arab man at the beach (yes this was the inspiration for The Cure’s song “Killing an Arab”) and during his subsequent trial his lack of remorse is used against him. Also, his Mum died a few days before and the prosecutors make much of the fact that he did not cry at her funeral – a.k.a. Lindy Chamberlain. Heartless bastard!!!

It is a very interesting novel – as we read from Meursault’s perspective, all his responses seem perfectly logical, and therefore other people’s responses to him equally surprising. (At least up until he murders someone). It reminded me a little of Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr Ripley, a book I found quite disturbing – because we were inside Ripley’s head, we can understand perfectly where Ripley is coming from and think, perhaps, “there for the grace of God go I…”. I suppose you have to have empathy to think that, though, so Meursault and Ripley might not have liked each other’s books very much.

NB: Reading tip: Do not read copies of books that have parts underlined, especially if you have seen the film Heathers. It is very distracting.

Rating: 9 out of 10

The Death of Ivan Ilyich (2006)

By Leo Tolstoy
Well, I must say I do feel proud of myself having read some Tolstoy, even if it was only a little shortie like this one. Perhaps one day I will manage to read War and Peace – not this Readathon, though. Interesting that the publishers (Penguin) felt the need to have a testimonial on the front cover from Zadie Smith (‘Every time I read it, I find my world put under an intense, unforgiving microscope’). Not to belittle Smith, but it does seem a bit like getting Michael Leunig to talk up Rembrandt’s paintings, in hopes of making them seem hip and modern, when their work is a different kettle of fish altogether.

Spoiler alert: Don’t read on if you don’t want to know what happens. Still here? Sure you want to know? Okay: Ivan Ilyich dies. There, I’ve said it. I know this seems kind of obvious, given the title of this book, but I confess it came as a bit of a surprise.

Now, Tolstoy writes with an unerring sense of the satirical (in people’s actions, thoughts, motivations and so on), which kind of tricked me into thinking this book might be amusing, and that maybe Ivan Ilyich managed to cheat death somehow, or at least died with a fair amount of panache – perhaps also I was still in the grip of The Master and Margarita. Also I thought maybe his wife had some kind of secret plot to kill him going on, when in fact Ivan Ilyich just becomes ill and dies, fairly straightforwardly, but not pleasantly. (This red herring I gleaned from the blurb on the back cover, which I accuse of being slightly misleading).

No, this book details a man’s realisation that his death in unescapable, not just something that happens to other people, and in this realisation begins to question whether anything about his life was at all worthwhile. At the end of this book I had a slow, dim, small sort of epiphany. I’d always heard that Russian writers were pretty heavy going, but assumed it was something to do with the writing style and a cast of thousands with complicated Russian names. But it is the unflinching grimness of the subject matter, not the writing or the style, that is the source of the heaviness. The book was in fact exceptionally easy to read. It is, as Zadie Smith implies, pretty intense. It’s very good. But don’t read it at two o’clock in the morning, whatever you do.

Rating: 8 out of 10

The Leopard (2006)

By Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
What can you say about a book that is an acknowledged masterpiece? It is beautiful, terribly sad, frequently amusing (in a sly kind of way)…not a book to read if you’re looking for an upper, though. Apparently it also made a lovely film, but I haven’t seen it so I can’t add my two bits on that.

The Leopard tells the story of the dying days of the Sicilian nobility, during and after the 1860 revolution, led by Garibaldi, that resulted in a unified Italy under King Victor Emmanuel. The main character is the Prince, Don Fabrizio, a Sicilian nobleman, who reflects on the changes to his country and way of life, while negotiating the rise of a new and increasingly wealthy middle class and the corresponding decrease in the fortunes and status of his own family. The novel seems to be about betrayals (personal and state), the sadness of things ending, the feeling that lives have been wasted, mortality, yet this is all presented gently and eloqently, so the the sadness steals over you while you think you are just enjoying the language.

I do wish I could read Italian, so I could read the original and then compare it to this translation. I wonder how different they are? It must be like writing a whole new book…well, kudos to Archibald Colquhuon (the translator), kudos. I remember being disappointed with Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, because I thought the writing would be more beautiful than it was – it felt kind of clunky, and I wondered if the original Italian novel was more lyrical and poetical, or if Eco just wasn’t a poetical kind of guy. No such worries here, though.

Rating: 9.5 out of 10

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (2003)

By Washington Irving
In case you were wondering, this book bears very little resemblance to the recent movie of the same name – there is a headless horseman in the book, and many of the characters’ names are the same, but that’s about it. There are no wicked stepmothers, no crazy witches, no secret Wills, no bizarre dreams about long-dead parents, no magical symbols drawn on the floor, no autopsies and not much of a love story. Also, the hero isn’t anywhere as good-looking as Johnny Depp, but then dentistry wasn’t as advanced back then, was it?

The book isn’t very scary either, but it was written in the nineteenth century and tastes were different then – after all, in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, everyone seems to sit around drinking cups of tea, despite the presence of an all-consuming evil that could destroy the world at any minute.

It is well written, and kind of cute, but not very relevant, somehow – it’s good, but not compelling. I can’t see that many people would find it very interesting these days. It does have the advantage, though, of being very short.

Rating: 5 out of 10

The Quiet American (2005)

By Graham Greene
Another book I read after seeing the film, and a really beautiful book. (The film is also good - it convinced me that Michael Caine is an actor worth his salt). It is always harder to write reviews of the books that are truly good – harder to be flippant, I suppose. The story is set in Vietnam, just before the US really get involved in the war, and is told by Thomas Fowler, an ageing English journalist. Vietnam has got under his skin, and he doesn’t want to go home. A young American arrives on the scene, Alden Pyle, talking about “A Third Force” that could bring stability to the region, and who promptly falls in love (of a sort) with Phuong, Fowler's mistress. The story then becomes one of trying to keep hold of what he loves, while still trying to remain neutral, to not take sides in what is happening around him.

To me, this was one of those novels where as I was reading I was conscious of it being perfect in all ways - succinct, poetic writing with complex characters that really seem to breathe, whose passions, sadness and fear are palpable. Strange that most of these books I have encountered so far are quite short.

Oh no, I have just realised this is a book about a LOVE TRIANGLE!! It tricked me! Wow, it really must be a good book.

Rating: 10 out of 10
Don't be put off by the gloomy topic - one of the best books I have read.

Frankenstein (2005)

By Mary Shelley

Heyyy, wait a minute…where’s Igor? Where’s the lightning? Where are the bolts coming out of Frankenstein’s head?? Where’s Sting???

Well it certainly was interesting finally reading the original. There is no Igor about to say “A brain, a brain, I need a brain for my master!” and Shelley is surprisingly coy about the whole how-to-bring-a-bag-of-bones to life thing. All of a sudden, Frankenstein’s monster opens his eyes, and there he is. Descriptions of the monster are few, apart from a general suggestions of supreme ugliness and the yellowness of his eyes. He is also very agile and strong, which does not suggest the lumbering zombie of the films.

What is more surprising than the lack of Hollywood special effects, though, is that whatever brains Frankenstein managed to get hold of (yes he did all his own dirty work), they appear to be top quality. No grunting here – Frankenstein’s monster teaches himself to read and write and is quite happy to converse on topics as in-depth as man’s inhumanity to man, the nature of God, the meaning of life etc…You see, the monster taught himself to read and speak from such noble texts as Milton’s Paradise Lost and Plutarch’s Lives. Also he finds Frankenstein’s diary, carelessly left lying around when he fled his laboratory, and so learns the circumstances of his creation.

The creation of the monster casts Frankenstein into a deep existential funk, into which he relapses numerous times throughout the novel, beating his breast and cursing himself for bringing this evil upon the world. (This gets a bit tiresome). He makes it his mission to destroy the “daemon” he has created. Yet we seem almost invited to side with the monster, who was created imperfect and then spurned – mirroring Satan’s struggle in Paradise Lost.

Rating: 8.5 out of 10
Even though Frankenstein drones on a bit, beautifully gothic.

The War of the Worlds (2005)

The War of the Worlds
By HG Wells

I grew up listening to the 1975 rock opera of “The War of the Worlds”, co-written by someone from The Moody Blues and featuring the voice of Richard Burton as hero-voiceover man. It was one of my favourite pieces of music in the whole world, along with “Carmina Burana” by Karl Orff. (Yes, my mother was worried). So, which is better – the book, or the 1970s rock opera?? The rock opera. No wait a minute, of course I didn’t mean that…the book, the book is better, of course, it’s the book. But the rock opera will always hold a special place in my heart…

Still it was peculiar reading the book knowing the words to the rock opera nearly off by heart – bits of sentences would lapse into Richard Burton voiceover and synthesisers in my head and then lapse back into my imaginary 1890s voiceover, which made it a bit of a disjointed reading experience. The rock opera was quite clever at pulling out Wells’ really striking sentences though. I will have to go and see the film now and find out if they used any of the original text – I hope not, because I really don’t want to have Tom Cruise voiceover in my head as well.

Interesting to compare the differences between 1895 and 1975 though – in the book the main character is married (i.e. does not have a girlfriend called Carrie living in London with her Dad), there is no “Beth” who is the pastor’s female companion (I think they must have decided they needed at least one chick in the rock opera so they made her up), the whole section with the Parson is much more “Lord of the Flies” than I expected, and the aliens do not run around going “Ooohhhlaaaaaa!” (spelt “Ulla”) like they do in the rock opera. (There are a few Ullas at the end of the book when the Martians are feeling a bit poorly). The aliens still get killed by “minute, invisible bacteria” though – oh dang, I just gave away the ending!

It was also interesting reading this book in today’s climate of terrorist attacks and live media coverage. Back in 1895, when the book was written, Martians could attack Woking and it would take a few days for the news to reach London, all communication was by telegram, and even then no one really believed it. (MARTIANS LANDED STOP SEND REINFORCEMENTS STOP). The hero and his wife escape on a horse and cart. People learn all their news from the papers. (Golly the hero reads a lot of papers – including the St James’ Gazette!). Not being from 1895 and therefore unable to check matters of accuracy, the book seemed a surprisingly realistic account of how an alien invasion may have progressed at the time, and I’m not surprised it fooled some people when it was broadcast as a radio show a few decades later.

Still, I’m very glad to find out that Wells was not responsible for the line (on discovering one of the Martian attack machines has headed off to London) “London! I hadn’t dreamed there could be danger to Carrie and her father so many miles away!” which struck me as a stupid thing to say even when I was 10 because after all they’ve already made it from Mars.

The 1890s make themselves felt in other ways, as demonstrated by the following excerpt: And before we judge them [the Martians] too harshly, we must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought…upon its own inferior races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European immigrants, in the space of fifty years. I’m not sure which was the more startling assertion – that the Tasmanian Aboriginal people were “like” humans, or that a war of extermination was waged – it’s not often you hear of that part of our history actually called a war, or even that there was a conscious effort to kill the Aboriginals, and it is particularly unexpected in a nineteenth-century text.

Rating: 8 out of 10
A book to read because it is interesting, rather than because it is emotionally involving.

The Picture of Dorian Gray (2005)

By Oscar Wilde
Amongst other things, this novel was accused by contemporary critics of being effeminate – and it really is quite startlingly so, in places, especially at the beginning. I did catch myself thinking at the start, oh for goodness sakes stop poncing around (oh look at the pretty flowers ooh ahh), but then thought I was being mean and that I may as well say something like “this is so gay”, in the unfortunate terminology of today’s yoof – today’s yoof! Don’t get me started – and after all, Wilde does write about those flowers so prettily. (An interesting aside – The Picture of Dorian Gray started life as a short story, and Wilde consciously made the longer version much less “effeminate” than the original).

However, I did find myself agreeing a bit with the critic in the June 1980 St James’s Gazette, who found Dorian’s petulant behaviour near the start of the novel a bit silly: “…when he is rebuked for being a naughty, wilful boy, he makes a pretty moue – this man of twenty!”. I mean really. In my defence I will say that I find moues unbecoming in women also; if you’re going to be sulky you should at least stomp around a bit and maybe throw something and stop trying to be sexy at the same time. (I tell you what, though, they knew how to write a totally decimating review back in the 1890s).

The book does get going a bit after the moue incident, when Dorian starts to dabble in doubtful activities, all the while staying youthful and unblemished while his portrait becomes steadily more ugly and decrepit. His friend Lord Henry, who really should cop more flak than he does for his part in the whole sorry story, really started to tick me off during his long speeches on how nothing is important except for pleasure and the senses and enjoying yourself. Oh yes, you’re so clever, Lord Henry, now shut up will you? Perhaps I inherited more of the Scottish Protestant Work Ethic than I thought. This all makes it sound like I didn’t like the book, which is not true; I enjoyed it very much. It is a strange mix of philosophy and horror; lovely writing; a good book for a cold rainy winter’s night with the fire going and a bottle of vintage port nearby.

Rating: 8 out of 10
One point deducted for the bit about the moue.