I’m still not doing well with this blog, am I? What can I blame for this? The fact that I have been, and still am, going through a long ‘period of transition’ with work? My unreliable health? The utterly terrifying state of the world? I’ll go with all of those.
I’m impressed that I managed to squeeze out that long post about The Book of Strange New Things. Not quite sure how I did it. It did take me a very long time. It’s probably best that I return to mini-reviews for the time being. I’ve finished four books since that one, and they were all great! So that’s good. Here they are.
Then We Came to the End, by Joshua Ferris
This was a clever novel. It encapsulated, for me, the emptiness of 9-5 office work and how people come to expect so much from it and dedicate their lives to it when in reality they could be discarded at any moment. It was about how workers are actually human beings, but are made (or choose?) to spend most of their time stuck in an unnatural, absurd environment and routine.
I had a sense throughout of being in good hands; that Ferris had masterful control over the narrative. There was a change of tone part way through from the multiple viewpoint, ‘we’, to the third person more intimate perspective of the boss that felt jarring at first, but the events that transpired later meant that it was actually very well-placed and appropriate. There was what seemed like a shocking event later in the book that, again, seemed to change the tone of the book completely; but then it became farcical/darkly comic, and therefore fit in perfectly.
I found my enthusiasm for the book waxing and waning throughout. One minute I would be thinking it was absolute genius; the next that maybe it wasn’t so amazing after all. I do find myself still thinking about it now, more than a month after finishing it. The characters and situations are so lively, real and well-handled. The use of the ‘we’ viewpoint lends the story a freshness which also adds to making it a memorable read.
The Secret of Platform 13, by Eva Ibbotson
I loved this book and wished I had discovered Ibbotson as a child. I’m sure my life would have been much richer for it.
The Secret of Platform 13 has some striking parallels with Harry Potter: a portal to another world on a platform at King’s Cross station, and a young boy who lives with a horrible family who neglect him in favour of their bratty son, to name a few. (Ibbotson was not angry about this: in fact, she acknowledged that it is common practice for writers to steal from each other and, indeed, everywhere.)
It is also a very different book to the Harry Potter series. Platform 13 is a short, complete story in itself. I immediately connected with Ibbotson’s down-to-earth humour, unexpected characters, and general outlook. If there was a down side, it was that the plot twist was not especially surprising to me, and I’m usually terrible at guessing plot twists. I also felt that the action became a little too fast-paced and frantic and lost me a bit, as I have also found with writers such as Diana Wynne Jones and Terry Pratchett. But the other elements of the book meant that I was able to forgive this, and still loved it overall.
Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury
I’m glad I got around to reading this, although I felt kind of guilty for not having read it much sooner. I guess I chose to read it now because it feels like we are heading for dystopian times and I’d like to be prepared, or something.
Anyway. I was surprised and pleased by how expressive the style of writing was. It almost felt unusual, as if a book written in such a style would never be published these days. This made me feel a bit sad. I loved the concept, the driving force and passion behind the story. Perhaps if I’d read it at another time I would have felt a little differently; but many of the concerns that Fahrenheit 451 tackles – especially the act of dumbing-down and how damaging this can be to humanity, and how, despite everything, humans keep making the same self-destructive mistakes – feel so, so relevant at the moment. They feel relevant now in such a way that, I don’t think, I ever felt they would be. I think I genuinely used to feel that humanity, for the most part, had learned its lessons, and that the atrocities of the past therefore couldn’t possibly happen again. I don’t feel that way now. Not since the European Union referendum and everything that has happened since.
I felt that it could have been more detailed and fleshed-out in terms of world-building and character-building; and that it didn’t always hold my attention because of – I don’t know – needing a break from the intensity? But the force behind the work was so strong that what could have felt like major flaws in a lesser book only felt like minor ones.
On Writing, by Stephen King
I shied away from reading this for ages, despite hearing over and over again that it was a great book about the craft of writing. I suppose I thought it might be inaccessible to me, having never read King, and, not being a horror fan, not planning to ever read him.
My fears were totally unfounded. The first part of the book is a memoir. King describes some pivotal moments in his life that contributed to his development as a writer. And it’s riveting. It’s a testament to his skill as a storyteller that I was almost moved to tears by his account of struggling by in crappy or exhausting jobs with a family to support and not being able to afford a phone, and then fearing he would find himself, in thirty years’ time, “wearing the same tweed coats with patches on the elbows (…) and in my desk drawer, six or seven unfinished manuscripts which I would take out and tinker with from time to time, usually when drunk”. And then he receives the unexpected news that he will be getting $400,000 for the paperback rights to Carrie. *sniffle*
The second half is less riveting, but is useful and interesting on the nuts and bolts of writing, especially the editing process. There are also some great parts about what writing is like. I loved his comparison to writing stories as akin to finding fossils on a beach:
Stories are relics, part of an undiscovered pre-existing world. The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her toolbox to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as possible. Sometimes the fossil you uncover is small; a seashell. Sometimes it’s enormous, a Tyrannosaurus Rex with all those gigantic ribs and grinning teeth. (…) No matter how good you are, no matter how much experience you have, it’s probably impossible to get the entire fossil out of the ground without a few breaks and losses.
After being in a serious accident whilst still writing On Writing, King thought he might not finish it. His injuries were so severe that it became very difficult for him to write. But he did finish, and I’m very glad he did. And he uses this experience to write the last part of the book, acknowledging that:
There have been times when for me the act of writing has been a little act of faith, a spit in the eye of despair. (…) Writing is not life, but I think sometimes it can be a way back to life.