My Book Shelves (11): In the Shadow of Man by Jane Goodall [19 Jan 2023]

The first time I read Jane Goodall’s ‘In the Shadow of Man,’ I was studying zoology at university, and this was one of our course-books. I was expecting a dry, academic tome. What I discovered was the intensely personal autobiography of a young English woman and a detailed account of the family of chimpanzees that accepted her into their fold. It is a book that has never left me, and I have re-read it several times. One feature that makes In the Shadow of Man so compelling is the family-tree of chimp faces that appears on the flyleaf. It is impossible to read the book without regularly consulting this handy guide to the chimps in the troop. Goodall was twenty-seven when she started work at Gombe Stream National Park in Tanzania. It was 1960. For years she lived in the park, spending most of her daylight hours with the chimps. She is said, to this day, to be the only human ever to have been accepted into a chimpanzee group, and for almost two years she was the lowest ranking member of the Kasakela troop.

Almost every aspect of Jane Goodall’s work with chimpanzees was pioneering when she started, and not always welcomed by the scientific community. The idea that a researcher should live among a group of wild apes was considered rather shocking, especially if the researcher was young, blonde, and female. But Goodall’s most unconventional idea, perhaps, was to give her chimps names. This annoyed traditional primatologists who accused her of becoming emotionally attached to the animals. Today it is common practice for zoologists to name animals, especially primates, and the names Goodall gave to the Gombe chimps helped to bring their stories to a worldwide audience in a way that would never have happened had they been Chimp A or Chimp B. I still remember with affection the names of the chimps from In the Shadow of Man – David Greybeard, Goliath, Flo, Fifi, and Flint.  

The Family Tree from In the Shadow of Man

I've been working on a novel, on and off, that may or may not ever see the light of day. It draws heavily from 'In the Shadow of Man.' At present my title for this book is Girl/Ape. It is the entirely fictional story of a young woman who lives with a troop of wild chimpanzees. I'm 38 thousand words in; but who knows. I shall let you know how it goes.

Sue and I have been lucky enough to meet Jane Goodall twice on her UK lecture tours, and both times her stories have brought us to tears. If you want to learn more about Jane Goodall I heartily recommend In the Shadow of Man, along with ‘My Life with the Chimpanzees’ and ‘Through a Window: 30 Years with the Chimpanzees of Gombe.’  You might also like to subscribe to the Jane Goodall Institute’s YouTube channel.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (10): The Asterix books by Goscinny and Uderzo [18 Jan 2023]

 It is the year 50BC. After a long struggle, Gaul has been conquered by the Romans. All Gaul is occupied.  All? No. One village still holds out stubbornly against the invaders…

And there it is. The simple conceit that launched over forty books, a theme park,  a film franchise, and one of the most enduring partnerships in graphic literature – Asterix and Obelix – the indefatigable (and indomitable) warriors of the little Gaulish village we have come to know so well. If you’ve never encountered Asterix – where have you been?  Surely no one can have escaped at least a passing acquaintance with the books.  In a 1999 poll by Le Monde, 'Asterix the Gaul' was voted 23^rd greatest book of the 20^th Century. And it isn’t even the best of the canon. Not by a very long chalk.  But it was the first,  published in 1959 (and in English translation a decade later.)

Some of my dog-eared Asterix books ...

I’ve been a fan since … well, since a teacher at my school gave us untranslated versions of the books to encourage us to read in French. I was about twelve. I dare say couldn’t make head or tail of the language. But the pictures themselves are enough to draw you in. And then one day I discovered Asterix and Cleopatra in English and that was it. I was hooked. And I have been ever since.

Where do I begin to catalogue everything that makes the Asterix books such works of unrivalled genius?  They are funny, witty, touching, and beautifully drawn. They mercilessly lampoon every national stereotype in a way (and to an extent) you probably couldn’t get away with now. They are charming. Original. Clever. And above all they are great stories.

But I need to make an important distinction here. My unrequited love for these books is limited to the first 24 volumes – those written by written by René Goscinny and illustrated by Albert Uderzo (and translated by Anthea Bell and Derek Hockeridge) until Goscinny’s death in 1977. These are:

1.     Asterix the Gaul

2.     Asterix and the Golden Sickle

3.     Asterix and the Goths

4.     Asterix the Gladiator

5.     Asterix and the Banquet

6.     Asterix and Cleopatra

7.     Asterix and the Big Fight

8.     Asterix and the In Britain

9.     Asterix and the Normans

10.  Asterix The Legionary

11.    Asterix and the Chieftain's Shield

12.   Asterix at the Olympic Games

13.   Asterix and the Cauldron

14.   Asterix In Spain

15.   Asterix and the Roman Agent

16.   Asterix in Switzerland

17.   Asterix and the Mansions of the Gods

18.   Asterix and the Laurel Wreath

19.   Asterix and the Soothsayer

20. Asterix In Corsica

21.   Asterix and Caesar's Gift

22.  Asterix and the Great Crossing

23.  Obelix and Co.

24.  Asterix in Belgium

After Rene Goscinny’s death Albert Uderzo ploughed on alone, writing and drawing the books. The eight books Uderzo created are not nearly so good. I possess them all – of course. But who, if anyone, really enjoyed Asterix and the Actress? Or the Falling Sky? The books are a poor imitation of the first 24 – and oddly even the drawings aren't as good. In 2013 an agreement was made with Uderzo and the estate of Goscinny for a new writer and illustrator to take over. Enter Jean-Yves Ferri as writer, and Didier Conrad as illustrator. The books were better than Uderzo’s solo efforts. Asterix and the Picts was even quite good. But they too have failed to hit the highwater mark of books like Asterix the Legionary or Asterix in Corsica.

I give you below, the opening page of Asterix in Spain. If you can show me a better opening page of any book, I should like to see it.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (9): Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke [5 Jan 2023]

I once wrote a novel about a man called Thomas Post who happened to be (fictionally of course) an international authority on the subject of coincidences. (The novel is, unsurprisingly, titled ‘The Coincidence Authority,’ and it is still available if you are interested.) Anyway. Because of this book, people sometimes send me coincidences that have happened to them. They think I might be interested, and I always am.

But now it is time to share one of my own.

Sometime in around 2006 or 2007 or thereabouts I bought a copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell in paperback from a bookstore at Glasgow Central Station. I needed something to read for the journey home. Now this is a hefty volume (1,006 pages) and I usually run a mile to avoid starting anything over 300 pages (although for exceptions to this rule you may want to read my blog posts on Donna Tartt and John Irving). Nonetheless, something drew me to this book, and I’m dashed if I know what it was. I was aware of the book, but only faintly. It had been Costa shortlisted and had been busy gathering other awards. But I had never planned to buy it. Never expected to read it. Nothing about the cover blurb excited me. I hate travelling with a book that won’t slip into a jacket pocket. And generally I don’t read fantasy.

So why did I buy it? I really don’t know. But by the time my train was passing through Carlisle I was already too hooked to look up and see where I was; and when I had to disembark at Stafford I was resenting the drive home. I wanted so much to read on. This is a story as magical as the characters who inhabit its pages. I rarely read fantasy novels, so I don’t know where this book belongs in the canon, or whether the tropes that populate it are original, or borrowed, or part of a noble tradition. All I know is the quality of the writing, and the depth of characterisation, and the sheer detailed bravura of the magical landscape that Susanna Clarke created make this book a genuine undisputable classic. Clarke litters the text with academic footnotes and even an imaginary bibliography (³ A Complete Description of Dr Pale’s fairy servants, their Names, Histories, Characters and the Services they performed for him by John Segundus pub. By Thomas Burnham Bookseller, Northampton 1799.)  She creates a world unlike any other, so rich in its particulars, and rules, that you will never question any conceit. It is a world we already know – or think we know – where Wellington is fighting the Peninsula War and where nineteenth Century mores and manners prevail – but where magicians, like the rock-stars of their age – manipulate the very fabric of reality. And at the heart of the story an age-old professional enmity – the kind of intergenerational abyss we all recognise – as the reckless but brilliant magician Jonathan Strange begins to outstrip the skills and achievements of Norrell, his mentor. I love this book.  I turned every page with a sense of awe. Who was Susanna Clarke? How had she done this? How had she created this colossal fictitious citadel?

And now here is the coincidence. I had a good friend at school who was (still is) a writer. His name is Colin Greenland. Among other things he won the Arthur C Clark award for his novel, ‘Take Back Plenty.’ (A brilliant book). We used to talk a lot. But we’d lost touch. Some years had passed since our paths had crossed. We had barely swapped emails for a decade. All I knew was that Colin still lived in Cambridge, we occasionally exchanged Christmas cards, and Colin’s card in recent years had read ‘Colin and Susanna.’ And that was that. Meanwhile the only biographical note that Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell offers on Susanna Clarke is just eleven words long. ‘Susanna Clarke lives in Cambridge. This is her first novel.’ Hmm. Finally the very last line of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell is an acknowledgement ... ‘and above all to Colin.’  So I dropped Colin an email, and discovered that according to the ‘seven degrees of separation’ rules I was only one connection away from the author of just about the most brilliant novel I’d read for years.     

Thomas Post, by the way, would say this isn’t a coincidence. Millions of people read this book, so some are bound to discover a connection to the author. But it feels like a coincidence to me, so I’ll take it.

And as a postscript – if you really can’t face 1,000 pages, may I recommend Piranesi by Susanna Clarke. I don’t want to tell you anything about it. Just that you ought to read it. Another masterpiece. And then have a go at Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (8): The Jack Reacher Books by Lee Child [15 Dec 2022]

I came late to Jack Reacher. I’ve always been suspicious of the books. Maybe it’s because I bought a James Patterson book once when I was in an airport departure lounge where it was the only English language book for sale and I was desperate. I will never be that desperate again. Next time I’ll simply chew my knuckles down to the bone. It would be preferable to another James Patterson. Anyway. I don’t know why - but I ended up putting Lee Child and James Patterson into the same mental category; maybe it’s because bookshops tend to display them close to one another. Fast forward ten years. In 2019 I found myself in a National Trust second-hand bookshop and in a fit of madness I plucked a Lee Child book from the shelf, and found myself promising to ‘give it a try.’  And now, in the past three years I have read seventeen of them and I still have a few to go. It is like an addiction. I have to pace myself. I can’t let myself finish one book and then scoop up the next. But there they are, delicious and unread on the shelf, and the only sad thing is that I’ll soon have read them all.

So what is it about Lee Child and the Jack Reacher books? They are not great literature (sorry Mr Child). They don’t explore the great themes of the human condition. But they are bloody well written. I feel as if I have to say this twice, because the received wisdom is that this genre of books is a kind of semi-literary canon fodder for people who don’t really read. Bollocks. These are brilliantly written novels. They are technically well constructed and they’re smart. Child has a way of breaking every rule of writing and making it look ok.   And they’re page turners. Once you start one, you have to keep going. That is rare in novels these days. At least it is for me.

There is, of course, a certain recipe for a Jack Reacher book – and some ingredients show up almost every time. Reacher rocks up somewhere at random, encounters some bad guys, manages to waste two, three, four – maybe even five guys at once in a brawl, gets the girl, solves the mystery, kills the kingpin, disappears into the sunset. But Lee Child messes with us. There is always an intrigue that takes a while to play out. He gives us some novels in the first person, others in the third. He hops around in time. He fleshes out Reacher’s back story in glimpses here and there. We globetrot. Maybe he doesn’t get the girl. If Lee Child has a formula then he breaks those rules as often as he breaks the rules of writing.

Which is a lot.

There is a sense that everything is finely researched in a Lee Child book  – from the workings of obscure guns to the machinations of the CIA. The only certainty is, if you put Reacher in a room with a posse of bad guys, the only person walking out with all limbs and brain intact will be Jack Reacher.

I have heard Lee Child say, in an interview, that he doesn’t plot the stories out. He starts chapter one without any real idea where the story will take us. ‘If it isn’t a surprise for me, how can I expect it to be a surprise for the reader?’ he said. I love that. It is painfully close to my own writing method. My son Jon tells me I write into the dark. I like that expression because that is how it always feels.

Anyway. If ever you find yourself at the airport in Kuwait City forced to choose between James Patterson and Lee Child, do yourself a favour. Pick Jack. Every time. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (7): 'The Inimitable Jeeves,' by P.G.Wodehouse [15 Nov 2022]

 OK. So we need to talk about P.G.Wodehouse. In particular we need to talk about Jeeves and Wooster. I’m going to make the perfectly reasonable claim that the Jeeves novels (and short stories) represent the epitome of comic fiction. Never been bettered. Never likely to be. Oh, and please don’t try to disagree with me – it will only make me upset. And yes, I know I made almost the same assertion about Damon Runyon, (see my Book Shelves (2)) but I can quite comfortably hold two contradictory views – especially where writing is concerned, and on this I’m indisputably correct – they were both the best. (Curious isn’t it, that Wodehouse and Runyon were contemporaries writing comic fiction during the depression. And a century later no one comes near them.)

Anyway. Jeeves and Wooster. You know who they are. The genius begins with the invention of these two central characters – perhaps the best yin-and-yang contrast in fiction – Bertie Wooster the utterly idiotic, upper-class, put-upon (but generally benign) single man-about-town; and Jeeves the cool-headed, supernaturally intelligent, never to be out-smarted valet. There is a definite bromance going on – a friendship of unequals, that lends itself perfectly to the farcical situation comedies that unravel in the stories. But the second, and greater genius, is Wodehouse’s decision to make Bertie the narrator. Everything is told in Bertie’s voice – and what a voice. It’s a jovial, colloquial, laddish style, wholly belonging to the 1930s (or thereabouts), immediately redolent of the privilege and class of the era, and yet laden with comic potential.

Here are the opening paragraphs of ‘The Inimitable Jeeves.’

Morning, Jeeves," I said.

"Good morning, sir," said Jeeves.

He put the good old cup of tea softly on the table by my bed, and I took a refreshing sip. Just right, as usual. Not too hot, not too sweet, not too weak, not too strong, not too much milk, and not a drop spilled in the saucer. A most amazing cove, Jeeves. So dashed competent in every respect. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I mean to say, take just one small instance. Every other valet I've ever had used to barge into my room in the morning while I was still asleep, causing much misery; but Jeeves seems to know when I'm awake by a sort of telepathy. He always floats in with the cup exactly two minutes after I come to life. Makes a deuce of a lot of difference to a fellow's day.

"How's the weather, Jeeves?"

"Exceptionally clement, sir."

"Anything in the papers?"

"Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise, nothing."

"I say, Jeeves, a man I met at the club last night told me to put my shirt on Privateer for the two o'clock race this afternoon. How about it?"

"I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."

That was enough for me. Jeeves knows. How, I couldn't say, but he knows. There was a time when I would laugh lightly, and go ahead, and lose my little all against his advice, but not now.

"Talking of shirts," I said, "have those mauve ones I ordered arrived yet?"

"Yes, sir. I sent them back."

"Sent them back?"

"Yes, sir. They would not have become you."

I think it’s this blustery Wooster prose that makes TV and film adaptations of the stories slightly disappointing. Of course the screenwriter can give Bertie dialogue in the appropriate style, but you can’t tell the story that way. So don’t waste time with screen versions. You need to go back to the books. Settle down in a corner and try to make sure no one is in earshot  (your laughter will annoy them). And give the books a go. Any one will do. Here is some more from the same chapter:

"You were absolutely right about the weather. It is a juicy morning."

"Decidedly, sir."

"Spring and all that."

"Yes, sir."

"In the spring, Jeeves, a livelier iris gleams upon the burnished dove."

"So I have been informed, sir."

"Right ho! Then bring me my whangee, my yellowest shoes, and the old green Homburg. I'm going into the Park to do pastoral dances."

I don't know if you know that sort of feeling you get on these days round about the end of April and the beginning of May, when the sky's a light blue, with cotton-wool clouds, and there's a bit of a breeze blowing from the west? Kind of uplifted feeling. Romantic, if you know what I mean. I'm not much of a ladies' man, but on this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something. So that it was a bit of an anti-climax when I merely ran into young Bingo Little, looking perfectly foul in a crimson satin tie decorated with horseshoes.  

Here (below) are just a few of the Jeeves and Wooster books for you to be getting on with. They are all five star novels. And there are plenty more. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (6): 'Mother Tongue,' by Bill Bryson [2nd Nov 2022]

Is there any subject whatsoever that couldn’t be made a thousand times more interesting by getting Bill Bryson to write a book about it? Truly this man has an awesome talent for taking a mundane – even dull – topic, and crafting it into something fascinating. You find yourself 

trapped within the pages of a Bryson book, as engrossed as if it was a Donna Tartt novel. And you feel as bereft at the end. I hardly ever read travel books, and yet I devoured ‘Notes from a Small Island,’ (travels in Britain), ‘Neither Here nor There,’ (Europe), ‘Down Under,’ (Down Under), ‘The Lost Continent,’ (USA), and ‘The Road to Little Dribbling,’ (Britain again) and I’ve even read some of them twice. And ‘A Walk in the Woods,’ the chronicle of Bryson’s failed attempt to conquer the Appalachian Trail is a modern classic. Give the man a subject and he’ll come back at you with a best-selling book; and, damn him,  I will probably buy the book while it is still in hardback because I simply won’t be able to wait for the softback. Thus – the human body (‘The Body’), Domesticity (‘At Home’), America in 1927 (‘One Summer’) Shakespeare (‘Shakespeare’) and American English (‘Made in America.’) Oh – and the whole history of science (‘A Short History of Nearly Everything.’) I want to tell you that every one of these is an absolute five-star gem, and I admire the heck out of them.

How does he do it? What is Bryson’s secret recipe? I wish I knew. He comes upon every subject from an oblique angle, and introduces us to odd characters, and follows up with quirky anecdotes, and writes in a folksy style. But he never patronises us. Or belittles his subject. He writes with a delicate balance of respect and irreverence – never quite crossing the line either way. The man is a master of his craft. I have a shelf of his books to prove my devotion.

But I need to pick one; one Bryson book for this blog. And, as it happens, this is an easy task. I pick ‘Mother Tongue.’ It’s quite simply the best exploration of the English language you will ever read. Every page is packed with gems. It’s a travel book of a kind, touring the world’s use of it’s widest spoken language, from ancient Britons to modern creoles via cockney rhymes, swearing, and word origins. It is utterly delicious. 

Here's a flavour:

"In the country inns of a small corner of northern Germany, in the spur of land connecting Schleswig-Holstein to Denmark, you can sometimes hear people talking in what sounds eerily like a lost dialect of English. Occasional snatches of it even make sense, as when they say that the “veather ist cold” or inquire of the time by asking, “What ist de clock?” According to Professor Hubertus Menke, head of the German Department at Kiel University, the language is “very close to the way people spoke in Britain more than 1,000 years ago."

Or this: 

Some cultures don't swear at all. The Finns, lacking the sort of words you need to describe your feelings when you stub your toe getting up to answer a wrongh number at 2:00 am rather oddly adopted the word 'ravintolassa.'  It means 'in the restaurant.'

The dog eared copy in the photo is my own dog-eared copy. I couldn't find an image to steal off Amazon and it worries me that this book might be going out of print. Scour the bookshops. Get yourself a copy. You'll thank me. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

   

My Book Shelves (5): 'Slaughterhouse 5,' by Kurt Vonnegut [22nd Oct 2022]

 Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut: *****

I was eighteen when I first read Slaughterhouse 5. At the time I was reading nothing but science fiction. I had an insatiable appetite for sci fi novels – especially American ones; I could read three or four in a week. And I did. And so, when Slaughterhouse-5 came along I bought the paperback and added it to my pile along with unread Asimovs and Bradburys unaware that this book would change my reading habits forever.

I think I knew the book was about the firebombing of Dresden. But I didn’t give that much thought. It was also about a time traveller and abduction by aliens – so that was all right. Or so I thought.

But right away this was clearly a different book. It starts with this unusual introduction.

So Vonnegut had been there for the fire-bombing as a prisoner of war. Well. I read on.

The first chapter begins:

ALL OF THIS HAPPENED, more or less. The war parts anyway are pretty much true. One guy I knew really was shot in Dresden for taking a teapot that wasn’t his. Another guy I knew really did threaten to have his personal enemies killed by hired gunmen after the war. And so on. I’ve changed all the names.  

An odd blurring of fiction and truth then. And right away Vonnegut himself becomes a presence in the story – there as the writer setting this all down, offering us his own wry observations about life, and politics, and the state of the world. Later in that first chapter, Vonnegut tells us he found it hard to write about his experiences in Dresden.

“I thought it would be easy for me to write about the destruction of Dresden, since all I would have to do would be to report what I had seen. And I thought too that it would be a masterpiece or at least make me a lot of money, since the subject was so big. But not many words about Dresden came from my mind… And not many words come now either.”

Slaughterhouse 5 then, appears to be Vonnegut’s way of making amends with his memory. Writing about a night when 45 thousand people (or more) were killed was simply too painful. Instead, he gives us a science fiction tale – the story of Billy Pilgrim – an optometrist - who has become unstuck in time after being abducted by aliens from the planet Tralfamadore. Time for these aliens is a fluid concept, and so it has become for Pilgrim. And so he visits incidents in his own life, like a mosaic, randomly discovering himself in old age, and then again in youth, and then again in Dresden. It is easy to argue that Vonnegut robbed the story of some of its force with this narrative device; but he also sets it into perspective – the perspective of a whole life with its highs and lows and dreadful mistakes.  

Perhaps the most revolutionary thing about Slaughterhouse 5 is not the content, but the style. Vonnegut speaks to us directly. He gives us short paragraphs. Short sentences. Vignettes of a scene. Asides. Sometimes paragraphs end with the writer’s own resignation of defeat – ‘So it goes.’

I’ve read a lot more Vonnegut since. Nothing else is as good. Most of the titles I barely remember. But Slaughterhouse 5 was, if not the last pulp sci fi novel I read, certainly the reason I drifted away from the genre in my twenties. I found something in this book that made me want more than fanciful ideas and aliens. Slaughterhouse 5 didn't make me a writer. But it did make me a reader. 

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (4): 'Address Unknown,' by Katherine Kressmann Taylor [22 Oct 2022]

'Address Unknown' by Katherine Kressmann Taylor: ***** 

'Address Unknown’ is an exquisite and deeply moving piece of writing. It is the profoundly intimate and troubling exploration of a friendship torn apart by the cult-like power of nationalism; an excoriating and unsettling unravelling of human nature... but with just about the best ending you will ever encounter in literature. Whenever I visit a book-club, this is always the book I recommend for the group to read next. People have written to thank me. Imagine that.

Address Unknown *****

It’s a novella. Only 64 pages. So short you can read it all in one sitting. And the only essential thing you need to know is that it was written in 1935 – four years before World War II, which makes it frighteningly prophetic. I don’t want to tell you too much more. But if I had to force you to read one book from my library this would be it.

I don’t know much about Katherine Kressman Taylor beyond the bare details of her life from Wikipedia. She was born in 1903 in Portland Oregon. She died in Minnesota in 1996. She only wrote one other book. (I haven’t read it.)  But with ‘Address Unknown’ she sealed her immortality.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

My Book Shelves (3): 'The Goldfinch,' by Donna Tartt [21 Oct 2022]

 The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt *****

 Thirty years have passed since Donna Tartt’s jaw-dropping debut, ‘The Secret History,’ in which a seductively erudite group of Latin scholars at an ivy league university conspire to conceal a murder. The novel was smartly marketed in Britain (and possibly elsewhere) by wrapping it in a paper sleeve you would have to rip away before opening the book, strongly suggesting that secrets lay within that should not be allowed to escape. But the novel was even better than its marketing. It was a book so measured in its construction, so skilfully assembled and so beautifully written, it was destined from day one to become a modern classic. Which it duly became.  

And so we waited for another Donna Tartt novel. We had to wait ten years. When ‘The Little Friend,’ launched in 2002 it was almost an anti-climax. Yes, it was good. It was very good. But was it good enough? I notice that ‘The Secret History,’ earns 4.16 stars on Goodreads.com (it deserves better but, hey, Goodreads is famously brutal) while ‘The Little Friend’ only scores 3.47. That is perhaps a fair reflection of the disappointment.

Eleven years went by. In 2013 we were rewarded for our patience, and our reward was ‘The Goldfinch.’

 'The Goldfinch.' *****

I suppose for completeness I should say that ‘The Goldfinch’ scores 3.93 on Goodreads. I would give it five stars. But it is a demanding read – and the 11% of readers who hated it (and whose ratings bring down the total) probably struggled to get through its 770 pages. For me, it is an almost perfect book. I calculated once that Donna Tartt’s writing pace seems to be around 70 words a day. I’m not suggesting that she sits down and bashes out seventy words and then takes the rest of the day off. No writer works like that. But I am suggesting that she crafts her words with a kind of absolute precision, as if she was a jeweller working on a ruby rather than a painter working on a house. You get the sense that every word has been examined and every sentence weighed so you can tap them like a wine glass and hear them hum.

I like life stories in fiction. (See My Book List no 2 on John Irving). It is wonderful to watch a character develop from innocence into adulthood, a journey always laden with narrative potential. Tartt gives us the coming of age of Theo Decker who loses his mother in a terrorist bombing at a New York gallery, but who remarkably ends up rescuing and concealing a painting from the ruins. The painting is “The Goldfinch” by Carel Fabritius. We follow Theo’s life from here, to a soulless estate outside Las Vegas, to New York society, to the underworld of Amsterdam. It’s a love story. It’s a tale of personal loss and self-destruction. It’s a story of redemption. Of a sort. Perhaps it is a little too long (see also John Irving). Perhaps the ending is a little too Hollywood. But it feels right nonetheless. I loved it.    

And once you finish reading, I suggest we pencil 2025 into the calendar to start looking for the next Donna Tartt novel. I hope.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

'The Secret History.' *****

'The Little Friend.' ****

My Book Shelves (2): 'On Broadway,' by Damon Runyon. [20th Oct 2022]

 Runyon On Broadway: *****

OK - I’m a realist. I know I won’t convince you to pick up a book of Damon Runyon stories unless you’re already a fan. Why would you? These were comic tales written in the 1930s. They’re not terribly relevant to the world of 2022. They are written in a curiously unique style which takes some getting used to, and they employ a vocabulary of jargon that is never adequately translated. They may even be out of print. So I get it. However much I twist your metaphorical arm you’ll find something else to read first. But let me tell you, please, what you’re missing.   

"On Broadway." *****

These stories are masterpieces of literature.  Each one is an exercise in perfection. Damon Runyon was a newspaperman in New York during the prohibition years. He wrote around 100 short stories during this time. They are not long. An average story is about twelve pages. But in those pages Runyon creates rich comic characters and extraordinary situations, and every story resolves itself with a gratifying (if occasionally murderous) twist.  Various collections of his ‘Broadway’ stories were published – but today the cream of the cream appear in two volumes – ‘On Broadway’ with around 45 stories, and ‘From First to Last,’ which includes 33. The stories unravel among the low life hoodlums and criminal fraternity of New York, all struggling to make ends meet in the depression. They, (the characters who inhabit this world) generally assemble in the speakeasies and illegal hooch dens around Broadway, or at Mindy’s restaurant, or at one horse racetrack or another. Every story is written in the first person, from the perspective of a narrator who is never named, who claims absolute innocence of any offence and who feigns distaste for lawbreaking or alcohol, but who inexplicably seems to be on friendly terms with every suspicious character in the city, and who rails against the quality of the whisky at Good Time Charley’s . And every story is written in the present tense in a spoken vernacular where all men are ‘guys’ and all women are ‘dolls’ (hence the movie ‘Guys and Dolls,’) and no one goes by an ordinary name. The kind of people you might meet in Mindy’s could include Little Isadore, Spanish John, Harry the Horse, or the Lemon Drop Kid. Or Bookie Bob, or Benny South Street, or Dave the Dude, or The Seldom Seen Kid, or Joe the Joker. They will all be up to no good.

Let me give you the opening lines of some of the stories:

Off or on I know Feet Samuels a matter of eight or ten years up and down Broadway, and in and out, but I never have much truck with him because he is a guy I consider no dice.

(A Very Honourable Guy)

One night The Brain is walking me up and down outside Mindy’s restaurant, and speaking of this and that, when along comes a redheaded raggedy doll selling apples at five cents per copy.

(The Brain goes Home)

One cold winter afternoon I am standing at the bar in Good Time Charley’s little drum in West Forty-Ninth Street, partaking of a mixture of rock candy and rye whisky, and this is a most surprising thing for me to be doing as I am by no means a rum pot, and very seldom engage in any alcoholic beverages in any way … when the door opens and who comes in but a guy by the name of Blondy Swanson.

(The Three Wise Guys)

One morning along about four bells , I am standing in front of Mindy’s restaurant on Broadway with a guy by the name of Regret, who has this name because it seems he wins a very large bet the year the Whitney filly, Regret, grabs the Kentucky Derby, and can never forget it.

That's how they begin. Our innocent narrator is standing around minding his own business when who should drop by with a story but ... 

Runyon’s Broadway stories bristle with wit and humanity. If you want to dip in and try a couple (maybe they’re available online somewhere) – try ‘Little Miss Marker,’ or ‘Sense of Humor,’ or ‘The Lily of St Pierre.’ 

 

“The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's how the smart money bets”

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

"From First to Last." *****

My Book Shelves. (1) ‘The World According to Garp,’ by John Irving

I’ve always been a pretty avid reader. And I do so love books. When we moved home in 2017, from Shropshire into Cheshire, we brought with us 52 boxes of my books, much to the dismay of the removal men. But it could have been worse. Before we moved, in an effort to down-size my library, I gave 27 boxes of books to charity shops and, gulp, threw 12 boxes away. And over the years I have probably lent, given away, or simply lost almost as many books as I now possess. But that’s the thing with books. They are curious possessions. I rarely read a book twice (unless it’s a very special book) – so why do I keep them? If you were to steal a book a day from my shelves, I probably wouldn’t notice. Not for quite a while. And yet I love them all. They feel, to me, as if they are part of my memory – a kind of off-line archive – a record of who I am and what I’ve read for more than half a century.

I don’t want to turn this blog into a book-blog. There are book bloggers who do a really good job and I’ll never compete.  But what I thought I might do is to share some of my favourite books and authors. In no particular order, you understand. So, without further ado, let’s unchain the first contender. I give you, ‘The World According to Garp.’

 The World According to Garp by John Irving *****

My rather well-read copy of 'Garp.' 

This is the book that made me want to be a writer. It was, I think, the first time I truly understood the extraordinary power and poetry of good writing. There is a scene, early in the novel, when Garp and his mother, Jenny Fields, visit the school gymnasium on a mission to find young Garp a sport. They settle on wrestling. But the scene the novel gives us is so vivid and multidimensional, the emotions so strong, the images so striking, that I found myself as a young man re-reading these pages over and over to try and figure out how Irving had done it.

Is this John Irving’s best book? Perhaps not. It is clearly the work of a young writer (Irving was in his early thirties when he wrote it) and it ranges rather loosely over a shopping-list of issues (single motherhood, writing, bereavement, feminism, mutilation) in a way that risks losing focus. Its hippy vibe may not have aged well. It was made into a rather mediocre film. It deals with tropes that have rather been left behind by contemporary novelists. The conceit of a strong single woman arranging her own insemination and raising her son to manhood is not especially radical these days. But. But. But. Irving has somehow created a character with such depth, and painted a landscape with such detail, we cannot help but be drawn in to Garp’s odd world and the curious cast of characters that surround him. There is something deliciously experimental about the novel. Garp is finding his voice as a writer and Irving shares with us whole tracts of his (Garp’s) writing. ‘The Pension Grillparzer,’ (very much like Irving’s later novel – ‘The Hotel New Hampshire,’) and ‘The World According to Bensenhaver,’ an angry piece of work – not unlike, er, ‘The World According to Garp.’ I can’t imagine a publisher these days letting all this through.  And I can’t imagine the older Irving toying with his readers like this. ‘The World According to Bensenhaver,’ is almost 40 pages long and it drops plumb into the manuscript at such a crucial point in Garp’s life you start by begging it to wind up and let you back into the story. Until it too has you in its clutches. If I was to lend you an Irving I would probably go for ‘The Hotel New Hampshire’ or ‘The Cider House Rules,’ or even the super-heavy ‘Until I Find You.’ But I have an enormous soft spot for Garp. 

If you've never read John Irving you've missed a real treat. There is something about his use of language - like Turner's use of paint - that enchants you. He's a fan of the semi colon, and italicised words. He writes with rhythm. He is unafraid of repetition. He digs deep into character. All those are good qualities. There are negatives too. He writes long. Probably too long. I suspect that no editor now would dare trim his work which is a shame because it needs it. My copy of 'Until I Find You,' is 820 pages. I love it, but I might have loved it more at 400 pages. 

I have yet to read Irving's latest 'The Last Chairlift.' (912 pages). But until I do, here are my other John Irving recommendations - with my star ratings.

Please check out my website for more information on my books. https://www.johnironmonger.com 

'A Prayer for Owen Meany.' *****

'The Hotel New Hampshire.' *****

'The Cider House Rules,' *****

'A Son of the Circus.' ***

'A Widow for One Year.' ***

'Last Night in Twisted River.' ****

'Setting Free the Bears.' **

'The 158lb Marriage.' ***

'The Fourth Hand.' **

'The Water Method Man.' ***

'Until I Find You.' *****

'In One Person.' **

'Avenue of Mysteries.' ***