thatdifficultfirstnovel

Occasionally, I pick up a book on a whim, and it just grabs me by the collar and won’t let go. It is the same feeling you have when you hear a band whose music just works for you, making you feel excited about the medium as whole, let alone the song itself. A book with no wasted motion, where every page has a moment, a revelation, insight into the characters and the world they inhabit. ‘Disgrace’ was one of those books. Last weekend, I went to Nymans, a National Trust property that I particularly enjoy – mainly due to its second hand book shop. I shuffled around the garden, following my fiancé, until I was allowed a treasured five minutes in the shed that constitutes the premises in which the books are kept. There were a number of books I could have bought, but I settled on three. One was ‘Disgrace’ by J.M Coetzee, a book that I had nefariously acquired back in the days I thought that nefariously acquiring books was the way forward; a situation that I have long since moved past. I may have looked over the first page once, but as I would ‘find’ a lot of books, many books tended to just end up in the ether, had because I could rather than because I wanted them. The book was a 1999 Booker Prize winner. Whilst being an award winner in and of itself isn’t a guarantee of quality, I’d only ever read two other Booker Prize winners; ‘Life of Pi’ by Yann Martel, which was a beautiful novel which engaged me from start to finish; and ‘A Sense of an Ending’ by Julian Barnes, arguably my favourite book of all time. The pedigree thus far had always been more than impressive, so I was pretty hopeful. As I’ve said before, I don’t want to spoil too much in any of these reviews, as I find a book can be spoiled fairly easily by too much prior knowledge – the desire of all of my students to know the ending to ‘Of Mice and Men’ before we get to it in class a classic example. ‘Disgrace’ tells the story of David Lurie, a lecturer at a Cape Town University who loses everything due to his wandering eyes and roving hands following an affair with a student. With nothing left, he moves out to the countryside to live with his daughter, Lucy, who runs a farm in Eastern Cape. Lurie’s struggles to reconnect with a woman who has long since ceased to be ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’ are all too relatable, and when things take a turn for the worst in the most distressing way, his inability to be able to support his daughter in a way that is suitable for both family members is at the centre of his internal struggles. For a man who has had more than his fair share of triumphs with women, it is Lurie’s clashes with his daughter that drive the story forward. Even though the ‘disgrace’ that he suffers sees features of his life spiral out of control, he is seemingly able to finally ‘come of age’, realising the mistakes he made. His time spent as a romantic literature lecturer led him to see his romantic liasons as the work of Eros rather than any actual slight on his character; by the end, it seems that he is aware of the occasionally ludicrous way that he has led his life, even though it takes a lot of heartbreak to reach this tipping point. I feel ill-placed to discuss that political flavour of the novel, but with it being set in South Africa, the main storyline does see tense clashes between the expectations and beliefs of the white and black members of the community. This mainly plays itself out in Lucy’s storyline; her life forever altered by an encounter with three black males, yet her acceptance of this way of being is almost as shocking as the situation itself. If I had to place ‘Disgrace’, it would nestle somewhere in between ‘Life of Pi’ and ‘A Sense of an Ending’ in terms of my enjoyment. Unlike ‘…Pi’, which I felt dragged a little at times, ‘Disgrace’ never wastes a moment of its 220 pages. The tension on every page is tangible, forcing you to discover more about the lecherous lecturer and his independent daughter. Now, maybe I should seek out some more Coetzee, as if it is anything like ‘Disgrace’, I’m in for a treat.

Maybe it isnt as much as all that, but I think it was the casual way it got dropped into conversation that made it stand out. There are fairly graphic descriptions of orgies if you aren't big on writing of this nature. Just a heads up.

‘Atomised’ (or as it is called in some place ‘The Elementary Particles’) is about as difficult a book to write about as I could imagine. On one hand, I fully enjoyed my time spent reading Michel Houellebecq’s story of two brothers, their lives and loves. On the other hand, it is a difficult book to wholeheartedly recommend. It is deep, difficult and depressing in equal measure, and is certainly not for the faint hearted. As with any challenging book, whether in theme or in general content, ‘Atomised’ is difficult to effectively summarise, especially in a forum that works best without spoilers giving away key parts of the novel. At heart, it is a story of two brothers; two brothers who are vastly different in their attitudes towards life and in terms of their personalities. Bruno is a pervert, a sexual deviant who seeks out any opportunity to indulge in what could be perceived as increasingly depraved sexual activity. Michel, on the other hand, is a man who drifts through life, never quite seeming to find solace in relationships, preferring to drift around the periphery no matter how much those in his life try to engage him, even love him. Andy Miller described Michel Houellebecq as a ‘nihilist’, and I can now see how he came to that decision: in the book, nothing good happens to anyone. Sure, there are fleeting moments where things seems to improve, for sunshine to peek through clouds of existence, yet all too soon, this illumination is extinguished, replaced a darker, more tragic hue. This makes ‘Atomised’ a difficult read, almost as if you are being bludgeoned with every conceivable perversity of life itself, with no real happiness or salvation outside of death. Suicide and death are central themes, and are almost seen by characters as a viable outlet to escape the crushing and numbing inevitability of living. There is also a lot of sex, and I mean a lot of sex. I’m not a prude, but even I was surprised by casual way that sex and masturbation were dropped into the story, mainly through the eyes of Bruno. His lust and desire seem to intensify as his opportunity to satiate these cravings becomes less due to the creeping spectre of age. Even he finds solace for a short while, only for his perverse house of cards to inevitably also topple down. Michel, on the other hand, seems to veer away from sex and society in general, a shell of a man who doesn’t really find his place until the end of the novel, yet uniquely so. This is also one of the books that would have initially driven me away from the idea of reviewing books. When I read, I often tend to read solely for pleasure, often not really spending time analysing message, motive, themes, etc. As I’ve begun to read more, I’ve started to try and take these types of ideas on board more, though actually finding the belief in your own thoughts about a piece of creative media is difficult. What if I’ve read it wrong? What if people laugh at the concepts I’ve discussed? What if I’ve missed some obvious symbolism that would be the key to truly helping me understand? It is almost as if we are putting our very ability to read and understand on show, a concept that is oft unchallenged. So, here goes. Again, without wanting to spoil it for those who have yet to read, I believe the book is exploring the nature of our interactions with the people around us, and the damage they inevitably cause, even when they are relationships that should, in theory, be there to support us and make us better people. By involving ourselves in social interactions, we are only really causing ourselves bigger difficulties, whereas a life of solitude may cause less hurt, but is as equally unfulfilling. Both men arguably represent the social poles, and maybe Houellebecq is trying to imply that neither way of living is preferential, and that only be working within those parameters can things truly work out. Although, having now read the book, Houellebecq might just be suggesting that life sucks no matter what, and then you die. Do I recommend it? Yes, but I was primed to know what to expect coming in by my reading of reviews for the book. I can see why people love this book; I can just as easily see why people would want to run a mile from it. All I do know is that I think I need to move onto something a bit more…optimistic for my next read.

Finished 'Atomised' by Michel Houellebecq today. Very good book - will review it at some point today. Not sure what to move onto, considering the huge collection of new books I have. Possible 'Disgrace' by JM Coetzee, though I did listen to a podcast extolling the virtues of 'A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius' by Dave Eggers, a book I bought a month ago. Other potential option is 'Foxcatcher', as I also own the film, and want to read the book first.

I am an English teacher, but don't really like poetry. However, over time, I've found a range of different poems I enjoy teaching. One would be 'Suicide in the Trenches' by Siegfried Sassoon. Another particular favourite is 'Your Dad Did What?' - the name of the poet escapes me.

I bought this the other day due Simon on The Readers podcast being a big fan of it. It'll sit in my TBR pile for a little bit - looking forward to eventually checking it out.

Between Kindle and Paperback, I've bought about 30 books just this past month. In that time, I've read 1. I read a lot normally, but with writing for two different websites, I've slowed down considerably it would seem. I've also got a range of books on Kindle especially from cheap sales across the course of the last year.

The world of Medical Non-fiction At the start of the year,if you had told me that the genre of book I would most enjoy in 2015 would be 'medical non-fiction', I would have asked you to get your head checked out. Thankfully, with neurologists such as Henry Marsh and endocrine surgeons such as Atul Gawande, any mental mishap or hormonal imbalance that caused you to utter such a preposterous statement can be easily rectified. The genre of medical non-fiction does feel like it is a burgeoning niche in the world of books - or maybe, upon reading several, I am just more primed to notice them. I've read four over the past year, and each has been fantastic in opening my eyes to the reality of life behind the surgery doors. 'Do No Harm', by the aforementioned Henry Marsh, was the first in my medical odyssey, charting the triumphs and pitfalls of being a brain surgeon. Marsh did a brilliant job of tempering the increased ability to tackle major medical issues with the reality of the random nature of chance, luck and the human body. He'd move from uplifting stories about successful surgeries, to the aftermath of operations that had not gone as smoothly. No matter how many years of experience Dr. Marsh had, things could, and still would, go wrong. Even more fascinating were his stories of working in Ukraine, where the surgeries were completed under extreme constraints of equipment, yet there were still people trying to do their best by their fellow man. Heartening, as well as harrowing. My interest in ‘Do No Harm’ led me to ‘Being Mortal’, the newest book by Atul Gawande. As this year progressed, I read ‘Complications’ and ‘The Checklist Manifesto’ also. Every opportunity to check out Gawande’s books, I’ve swallowed up voraciously. Without wanting to play favourite, ‘Being Mortal’ is still probably the most thought-provoking of the three, yet they all offer something to the discerning reader who wants to peak behind the curtain. Gawande does a wonderful job of not only being informative, but genuinely engaging in the way he tells the narratives of his books. Whether it is the changes needed in care for the elderly in ‘Being Mortal’, or the desire to try and utilize a checklist to strengthen teamwork and eliminate mistakes in the operating theatre in ‘The Checklist Manifesto’, his descriptions of the space he occupies in the world of medicine are as riveting as any page turning crime thriller. As would be expected of a surgeon, Gawande is clearly very intelligent, and his research around the topics of each novel encapsulates the wider world effortlessly. For example, ‘The Checklist Manifesto’ includes the story of the Miracle on the Hudson, a crash landing where no-one was hurt due to the use of a simple pilots checklist. In using it to prove his point about the effectiveness of this administrative task, he also develops the narrative hook that all good novels require. In showing us the bigger picture, he makes his work seem all the more vital. To finish, it would be remiss not to consider some of the questions thrown up by ‘Being Mortal’. It is Gawande’s most personal book, with the backdrop of a father who is beginning to suffer the travails of old age. As we begin to elongate life for all, what needs to happen to the care offered to the elderly? How can we make the end of life as fulfilling as the previous years? How can we manage an ageing population in an area where money and investment is sparse? If anything, Gawande is asking the questions that should be at the forefront of our future plans for progression as a community and society across the world. You can’t ask for much more in a book.

I'm happy enought to follow whatever is required - more confused by this part of the post. Did I initially post it in another part of the forum? I remember posting this late at night, but don't think I posted this outside of Book Blogs. More just beginning to question my sanity than anything >_>

That's fine. To be fair, I thought a sentence highlighting it at the end of a review wouldn't be too much of an issue, but obviously it is.

Depends on whether it is on paperback or Kindle. Paperback is 'Atomised' by Michel Houellebecq. Kindle is 'H is for Hawk' and 'War and Peace'.

For something a bit different, here is a column about books I haven't read. Hope you enjoy. Books I Haven’t Read 'In Search of Lost Time' by Marcel Proust 'Romance of The Three Kingdoms' by Luo Ghanzong Not content with merely reading books that can be perceived as challenging (see http://thatdifficultfirstnovel.co.uk/books-i-havent-read/books-i-havent-read-infinite-jest-by-david-foster-wallace/ for my initial forays into the world of challenging literature), I began to desire another way to challenge myself. I was already trying to cram in a number of books within the year, as per my Goodreads challenge, but this didn’t seem enough. Suddenly, it hit me. What if I not only decided to read a certain amount of books within a year, but I included some of the biggest books ever published? As with anything related to reading and reviewing media of any kind, it can be difficult to not cross over into pretentiousness. There can arguably be no more pretentious a statement than ‘I shall read the biggest books known to man’, because the task is designed to allow you to tell people that you are reading these books, and in the end, that you have finished these books. There is obvious literary merit to these novels, don’t get me wrong, but there is also that self-satisfied smugness that comes with mentioning ‘War and Peace’ when comparing the novels you are currently reading with a group of readers. It is the literary version of waving your hands in the air and shouting ‘look at me’. I bought ‘War and Peace’ first, before deciding that this wasn’t enough – I even typed into Wikipedia ‘the world’s longest books’ to give myself some other alternative options. Finally, I settled on ‘In Seach of Lost Time’ and ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’. The lure of three of the longest books recorded for the sum total of around five pounds felt like the most amazing bargain ever: so many hours of entertainment for so few pence. I felt a richer man as these books found their way onto my Kindle. What has stopped me from reading these two books, when ‘War and Peace’ is halfway finished? Would it be too obvious to suggest the length? Anytime I tried to pick the books up, the metaphorical weight of trying to tackle two novels of such length crushed me – I didn’t have time to commit my precious reading time to books that would, according to my Kindle, take me over a day to read…each. What about all the other novels I can’t read as I traipse for the next few months through worlds created by Tolstoy, as well as Proust and Ghanzong? The only things that ‘War and Peace’ has over these two monolithic masterpieces are that I bought it first, and I started it first. This choice came from a pre-conditioned understanding of ‘War and Peace’ as this monster of literature, a view solidified over the years by cultural and social references towards the book. ‘War and Peace’ became the buzz phrase for a long book, and the punchline to any joke about the length of a piece of writing. Even though the complete volumes of ‘In Search of Lost Time’ dwarf Tolstoy’s novel, the layman or woman KNOWS how big ‘War and Peace’ is. This brings me back to the discussion on pretentiousness. Maybe the main reason I chose to commit to ‘War and Peace’ first, considering there was nothing stopping me from making the leap directly to Proust or Ghanzong, was for the response I would receive when I told people I was reading it. Just like a joke whose punchline needs to be explained isn’t funny, the impressive nature of reading a large book is somewhat negated if you have to explain to people that that is what you are doing. Since I was guaranteed a bigger reaction to one of the three books, did I subconsciously choose it? Of the two books, I’m more likely to read Proust than Ghanzong – once again, arguably due to the associations attached to the concept of ‘reading Proust’. Ghanzong loses out just because he had the temerity to be born other the other side of the world. Poor sod. In the end, my desire to impress people has been my own reading albatross. Not only do I have two weighty tomes sitting there ominously, waiting to be tackled, but I also have to try and commit a chunk of my life every day to the reading a book where no end is in sight. The challenge becomes the chore. Sure, it is enjoyable – but I can only vaguely remember what happened at the start of the story and how the various characters are interlinked. It has become the reading equivalent of walking the wrong way up and escalator. You’ll get where you want to go eventually; you’ll just get there very slowly. Serves me right for trying to show off. Check out more of my writing at http://thatdifficultfirstnovel.co.uk/- I've got some older stuff and some more stuff about writing in general. Thanks.

Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of ready Andy Miller’s ‘A Year of Dangerous Reading’ . Like seemingly all humans, I’m pre-disposed to enjoy lists of any sort; as a reader and writer, a list about books is nirvana-esque in nature. These were all books that had Miller had lied to people about reading, both in general and in his previous incarnation as a worker in a bookshop. I couldn’t have timed reading this book more wrongly if I tried. Miller even warns people that this book shouldn’t be conceived as a list of books people should try and attempt, match or complete; rather, it just a cross section of books he felt like he had to read. In the week I bought this book, I had bought around ten others. Stupidly, I chose to read this first. Before I knew it, I was adding to my collection – every book that he wrote about and enjoyed, I wanted to experience the same feeling as him, so infectious was his delivery. I ended up buying: ‘Under The Volcano’ by Malcolm Lowry ‘Atomised’ by Michel Houellebecq ‘Twenty Thousand Streets Under The Sky’ by Patrick Hamilton Unlike Miller, I had fair warning that the Hamilton novel was in fact a trilogy, semi-autobiographical in nature, about the patrons of ‘The Midnight Bell’, a pub in London. I’ve since read ‘The Siege of Pleasure’, the second book in the trilogy, but that won’t be touched upon here – it is more likely to feature along with the concluding part, ‘The Plains of Cement’. I’m not going to pretend and act as if I am able to critically analyse every aspect of a novel I read. I could try and wax lyrical about the juxtaposition of characters, the use of the pronoun and the cyclical structure of a narrative, but that doesn’t necessarily evoke the way I read and understands books. I often feel like the pupils in my lessons; I often know that I like a book, but can’t often always pinpoint why outside of ‘…because it was good’. You are unlikely to meet New York Review of Books level evaluation here; what I do hope you get is honest interpretations of books that I have read. One of the reasons I have so many books is the same reason I feel like I had so used to buy so many CDs: I’m forever looking for the voice that grabs me and carries me away. I found it last with Julian Barnes, though I had similar experiences with authors as diverse as John Williams (‘Stoner’), Junot Diaz (‘This is How You Lose Her’) and Atul Gawande (of a future column’s fame); diverse at least in terms of time period, themes explored, ethnicity, if not gender (something I’m working on). Hamilton grabbed me and truly didn’t let me go. This power admittedly waned on the second book (my one reference to it), but inside the head of Bob, one of the workers at the Midnight Bell, as he begins to embark on a dizzying relationship with a flighty ‘lady of the night’ called Jennie, the story roars along apace. It is written in the third person, but Bob is the main character, and it is his internal struggle as he is constantly let down by this lady with which he has delusions of a future that forms the backbone of the story. I don’t really want to give spoilers for books – books are probably the most obvious medium that can’t survive the pre-emptive reveal of the twist or the ending, due to the amount of time and effort that needs to be put into it as an entertainment form. Therefore, I’m not going to take you through the narrative step by step. If it sounds good to you, buy it – you won’t be disappointed. Hamilton’s prose style is what I would describe as ‘no wasted motion’. Everything is clear, precise and to the point, though rather than make it feel monotonous or cold, this gives it a much more lyrical air than might be expected. There’s a snap to the altercations between the oddities and the staff at The Midnight Bell, a fizz as Bob tries to reconcile his true feelings for Jennie. Almost bi-polar in nature, I’ve not personally read a better evocation of the first stages of love (or at least, love that perhaps isn’t meant to be) than you see in The Midnight Bell. With limited time wasted, Hamilton is also able to create a real sense of time and place through his use of description; we feel part of this slightly grimy local pub, connected to its cast of misfits and characters. Without wanting to be too technical about a feature of style, I also really enjoy the use of capital letters for both concrete and abstract nouns in the book (something I never thought I’d say). It is used by both Bob and Jennie to emphasise key emotions and ideas that are explored in their conversations and thoughts – a simple technique used very effectively. It helps to shape their beliefs in the interaction between single men and women, class, the employment of Jennie, and their burgeoning emotions for each other. For a book written in the 1920s, it doesn’t feel out of place at all. Hamilton has managed to create an engaging and pithy storyline that still feels fresh and interesting today. Go out of your way to have a look – it is available as part of the trilogy for around £6 on Amazon – and hopefully be swept along by Hamilton’s writing in the same way Bob is by Jennie’s beauty. Check out http://thatdifficultfirstnovel.co.uk/for additional writing I've completed - including books I haven't read (for various reasons) and the difficulties of becoming a writer.

I don't tend to read disturbing fiction, but parts of 'Atomised' by Michel Houellebecq are pretty harrowing. There is talk of a masochistic paedo ring which gets fairly explicit.