MaddAddam

Title: MaddAddam

Author: Margaret Atwood

Publisher: Doubleday    

Publish date: 2013

ISBN: 978 0 385 52878 8

‘He could sense words rising from him, burning away in the sun. Soon he’d be wordless, and the would he still be able to think? No and yes, yes and no. He’d be up against it, up against everything that filled the space he was moving through, with no glass pane of language coming between him and not-him. Not-him was seeping into him through his defences, through his edges, eating away at form, sending its rootlets into his head like reverse hairs. He needed to keep moving, preserve his outlines, define himself by his own shockwaves, the wake he left in the air.’

The final book in the Oryx and Crake trilogy, there is a quality to this book in particular which defies summary. Not that there isn’t a definite progression of narrative and it’s easily described: Zeb’s life prior to the happenings in the other two books are detailed, various backstories are filled in, there is a culmination of action in an altercation with some Painballers, and one of the Crackers brings the narrative to a close with some hint of hope for the future for the human / humanish race. However an aura of disintegration is carefully produced by the episodic and retold nature of the majority of the narration. The only solid point is Toby, who actually experiences time in the present – almost unwillingly. The rest are retellings, memories, shadows and imaginings.

So once again, we find here a novel that is essentially about the act of storytelling, and the meaning that act has for our existence. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not wading in metatextual vagaries and indulging in navel-gazing. There’s a damn good storyline going on there, a frightening political and sociological commentary, and shitloads of wickedly dark humour on all fronts. It’s everything you’d expect. But the novel itself is an enquiry into the justification of human existence, through the medium of the nature of storytelling.

Stories are endlessly demanded by the Crakers, who, stripped of all human passions that might make for disquiet, seek tales of creation and remembrance, to the distraction of the humans. The narrative baton is passed from reluctant human to the next. They interject with ‘I have a headache.’ ‘That is enough for today.’ And ‘Please don’t sing.’ The burden of being the storyteller is one of the chief recurring motifs. When the Craker boy Blackbeard (whose name is initially comic until we realise he is the first to learn to write, and that it is almost Blackboard) takes over the storytelling role, even he, a singer himself, asks the audience: ‘please don’t sing’. The ‘what happened’ and the ‘how can I retell this’ is on a constant back-and-forth.

It is a book that puts bizarre images in your mind, that disturbs, and haunts. But for a book on mass extinction and the potential end of the human race, it leaves you with a surprising calmness. It’s painted with the light touch of a consummate master. Go read, and then re-read. Five moose-hoofs up.

The Magus

Title: The Magus

Author: John Fowles

Publisher: Dell

Publish date: 1985

ISBN: 978 0 440 351 627

Am doing a review but it’s not a proper one. I couldn’t make it through this book. I don’t like to give in, but decided while struggling  late one night that life is just too short.

The language itself is fine. Elegant, considered. All got off to a good start. Then the protagonist moors up on his island, becomes obsessed with old geezer and gal in isolated villa, and the pace not so much slows as simply stops. What had been an interesting portrayal of a flawed character, interacting with other flawed characters, turns into a tail-spin of self-indulgent repetition. I got the distinct impression it was going absolutely no-where. I don’t care what the God Game is. If it repeats itself that much you might as well be stuck in a hall of mirrors. Had this manuscript come across my desk I would have given it short shrift, and then calculate the amount of life I’d just wasted getting nowhere.

One moose-hoof up out of five, in honour of the elegant language. When it bothers to do something.

23 Things They Don't Tell You About Capitalism

Title: 23 Things They Don't Tell You About Capitalism

Author: Ha-Joon Chang

Publisher: Penguin

Publish date: 2011

ISBN10: 0141047976

Exactly what it says on the packet. Chang examines the free market economy and finds it lacking; mainly in regulation. I enjoyed this book, it was a fun read. (Yes, it is on economics. Don’t stare.) The author has a fun way with anecdotes and examples, a convincing battery of statistics, an unorthodox perspective, and a disarmingly simple, clear style. Perhaps it comes from years of being a professor. Or perhaps years of being a professor comes from these attributes. In any case it’s probably the clearest thing I’ve read since the sign on the glass cabinet for the fire axe that says ‘Break In Case Of Emergency’.

Personally I’d take issue with a few points (yeah that’s right, I’m sure I know better than the author, why not?) but light has been shed for me on some murky question-marks in global economy and for that, one is grateful. Like all the best books, it’s also left a trail of further question-marks, and that counts as A Good Thing.

Sally forth and read. Four hoofs up out of five.

We Do Things Differently - Mark Stevenson

Title: We Do Things Differently  - The Outsiders Rebooting Our World

Author: Mark Stevenson

Publisher: Profile Books

Publish date:  2017

ISBN: 13579108642

The book is a collection of descriptions of innovative system ideas and implementations. I’ve been wondering why we don’t have an online searchable resource of systems that work well across the globe, and actually learn from them methodically – you know, rather than piecemeal posts shared on social media with snippets about Iceland’s education system or hydroponic farms. This is kind of what the book is aiming towards, so in principle, I found it interesting.

In practice it left me feeling I needed to put the book down and go and research the subjects covered. More concrete information and stats, fewer transcripts of exchanges between the author and the interviewees, would have had a much more calming effect on my nerves. The 10^th time I read how someone’s eyes sparkled with excitement/charisma/pent up energy I rather felt the urge to reach for the Mylanta. I am aware this sort of thing appeals to some people. Not me. The style and grammar isn’t top notch either, and the writing has a bit of a rough cotton-polyester feel to it. I do like a bit of style. More style and stats, less flam.

However, that’s the worst of it. The best is that the topics are genuinely thought-provoking, and the intention behind the book is obviously positive. These two can be said about very few publications.

The subjects covered range from online database exchange of information on medical conditions, to crowdsourcing pharmaceutical development, to agricultural systems that move away from the tenets of the Green Revolution, and compressed air engines and coolers for renewable energy sources. These are not hypothetical solutions but ones that have been put into place, so it’s certainly not an accumulation of pie-in-the-sky theories. Every one of the cases is pretty convincing, at least going on the amount of information provided.

In summary, I’d recommend this. Considering most of the subjects are technical, it’s a pretty frothy read, which may be a good thing if that’s what you fancy. Four hoofs up out of five.

Shylock Is My Name - Howard Jacobsen

Title: Shylock Is My Name

Author: Howard Jacobsen

Publisher: Hogarth Shakespeare              

Publish date: 2016

ISBN: 978-2-701-18899-3

 

‘He had a madness, a frenzy. Had she been forced to teach what he had she’d have called it Judeolunacy.’

 

 

This piece by Booker-prize winning Jacobsen is termed a ‘re-telling’ of The Merchant of Venice, but it really isn’t. It’s a variation on a theme of. Its main thrust is the use of the question of why Antonio is ‘sad’ as a peg to hang the question of Jewish identity and self-perception on. But the book does not limit itself to simply the one play: throughout, there are constant Shakespearean references and allusions, all extremely cleverly woven in and dropped at artistic angles into the prose. Characters from the original play(s) are split, mirrored, doubled, melded and generally played with until they form entirely separate entities. I love Shakespeare. I love clever writing. Yet this book put me to sleep and was a chore to get through.

 

On the surface, the first explanation one seizes on is that, as a secularist, I really have no personal or vested interest in any way as to what Jewish identity is, where it is going, or how it affects Jews. But that’s not true. Firstly because I would be interested anyway, and secondly because I’d be perfectly happy to read about identity crisis in a fictional tribe of Martians, as long as it was engaging. The real reason is that there are NO likable characters. You simply cannot run a story where every single character could happily perish and the fictional world be none the poorer. None have mitigating factors, either. There are personal struggles, and more than enough soul-searching, but no indication at any point that any single character might become an even moderately approachable human being, no matter what moral conclusion they came to. So what’s the point?

 

Alas, not much. It feels as if it’s been written to order by a fantastic brain and a great linguist, without any real emotional grounding. The plot is ornate and careful. It’s not gripping.

 

The book did however afford me two separate pleasures. One was that as I was reading, the style struck me as extremely similar to The Finkler Question which I’d read a while back. I didn’t remember who’d written it. When I found out it was the same author I had a small thrill of critical vindication. The second pleasure was that when my 12-year-old son asked me how the book was going, and I explained the pleasure of finding this out, he nodded sagely and said: ‘Ah, that’s like when I’m watching a basketball game, and I can tell who the coach is from the moves they’re making.’ So there you go. Literary criticism = basketball coaching.