The Best of McSweeney's - Volume 1

What do eighteen short stories from eighteen different American writers of all sorts have in common? Nothing, it would seem, apart from being published by Dave Eggers' McSweeney's and making it into the first best-of collection. And that's a very good thing.

This collection certainly pays homage what might be considered more conventional short story telling, such as Paul Lafarge's The Observers, in which the story of making an observatory becomes emblemmatic for the more traumatic changes a man might go through, or Rick Moody's The Double Zero, the story of a family failing in the Mid-West. But McSweeney's also ranges into less traditional territory. Gary Greenberg's In the Kingdom of the Unabomber is a non-fiction account of Greenberg's communications with Ted Kaczynski; Zev Borow's Haole Go Home!: Small Gestures from the Hawaiian Secessionist Movement documents some of the different factions and actionists at work in Hawaii in, as the title suggests, the Secession movement there; perhaps the most haunting work in the collection is another non-fiction piece, Sean Wilsey's The Republic of Marfa, recording the weird and wonderful in Far West Texas' outland of Marfa, cattle-rustlers and artists alike. 

Egger's own contribution, Up the Mountain Coming Down Slowly, certainly deserves its place there. He tells the story of one Rita, who has decided to climb Kilimanjaro, perhaps to forget some of the pressures her life back in the United States has put upon her. It's an excellent study in letting small details speak for themselves, and as it traces Rita's physical journey, we see the gentle unravelling of her mental processes as the freedom and difficulty of her trek work upon her. 

Another story of travel, of a slightly more malevolent bent, is Ted and the Megalodon, by Jim Shepard. Even now, the final scene of that adventure lingers hauntingly with me. It's an excellent piece of suspense writing and well-worth a look. But that's just the point: this collection deserves its best-of title. These stories are weighty in their own right. Even a cursory look at the contents page makes me wonder if I shouldn't mention George Saunders' Four Institutional Monologues, wry, excellent faux-businessman pieces that are terrifying in the very fact they are so square, or William T. Vollman's Three Meditations on Death. But then I'd be missing Zadie Smith's The Girl with Bangs, again, a more conventional story, or John Hodgman's Fire: The Next Sharp Stick?, which is marvellously entertaining, as cavemen start to talk about fire as though it is a business opportunity, and they corporations. Perhaps that's my favourite story. But I just can't tell. 

Definitely worth dipping into; a must for any short-story enthusiast.

~~~
2005
Penguin Books
edited by Dave Eggers

The Gone-Away World

Post-apocalyptic adventures across the globe populated by literally every imaginable nasty, kick ass ninjas, some gung-ho super fighters and a wee dose of humour every other word or so doesn't get any better than this, Nick Harkaway's debut novel, The Gone-Away World. 

For a start, The Gone-Away World struggles to be put into a genre-specific box. Sure, it's adventure, and there's a large dose of hard sci-fi in the form of the weapons that bring about the destruction of civilisation as we knew it. But the description on the back of the book suggests bleak action (or once one sees the protagonist's name - Gonzo Lubitsch - bleak, over-the-top, hyperbolic, if not comedic, action) and the opening chapters have their fair share of macho posturing and rushing off on missions in a balls-to-walls kind of way. But more than that, we are launched into an autobiography. Well, it's a biography too. Gonzo's closest friend, his childhood playmate and nearly-brother, begins to tell us all about himself, and all about Gonzo too. So we receive far more than standard adventure narrative or harrowing war ganderings; Gonzo and his buddy instead treat us to school days and a first introduction to gong-fu and girls; to university and first jobs (how I giggled at the Spanish archer, of which I'm a proud fellow recipient); and finally to a war in almost precisely the middle of nowhere in which our brilliant, witty and introspective narrator bemoans the hell of not being shot as civilians and sheep duck for cover and wish everyone would just leave their once pleasant land alone. 

Finally, finally the bombs begin to drop. The droppings hit the metaphorical fan and everything goes batshit crazy. If you've been smiling and marvelling up to this point at Harkaway's imagination, his skilful storytelling clearly underpinned by a strong sense of timing and poise, his ability to pull the rug out from under you repeatedly takes off on a rather more epic scale and mundane tasks like shopping or cooking get narrated with wit and energy. It's as though simply being in the presence of the narrator means things are a) funny and b) likely to get blown up, knocked down, atomised or otherwise in the turn of a page. 

So it's funny. But it's also moving. One can't help but smile that a martial arts fight to the death starts to involve tupperware, but suddenly becomes serious and painful. Or the grin is wiped off one's face with the  romance of the story, of which there is a fair dose, which starts off boyish and playful and gets seriously in the blink of a eye and becomes another way in which the humorous is transformed into the emotionally weighty. To try to create a novel and fill it with a whole gamut of emotional bathos and pathos, while also bouncing around merrily with all kinds of irony, understatement and linguistic creativity, is a very bold undertaking indeed. 

Is there a weakness to The Gone-Away World? Is it too clever for its own good? No, except in one tiny, dangerous way. It'll be an awfully tough act to follow. 

Buy it, read it, read it again, and hope Nick Harkaway has some more gems up his sleeve.

~~~

2009

Nick Harkaway

Windmill Books

The State Counsellor (Fandorin 6)

I've already reviewed the first five Fandorin adventures (starting with The Winter Queen) State Counsellor has been regarded by many as the best Fandorin narrative. It was the first book to be made into a film, and maintains popular support.

But I did not feel Akunin managed anything novel or thrilling with this offering. A gruesome murder implicating Fandorin sets the wheels of an investigation in motion. Very soon we see that dangerous nihilist revolutionaries threaten Russia. Different police inspectors and special agents get thrown into the mix; they all have their own reasons for helping or hindering the investigation. And in the middle, Fandorin, trying to piece together the evidence as best he can. The nihilists do not seem to particularly threaten. In fact, it felt almost as though Akunin was in some way attempting to foreshadow early twentieth century history by the actions of these revolutionaries, and that barely added anything to the narrative.

Part of The State Counsellor's weakness surely lies both in style and in villain. For the former, no distinct narrative voice deprives Akunin of one of his successful stylistic tricks (Compare Turkish Gambit or Special Assignments). Meanwhile, the latter, an altogether unimpressive character, Green, leaves much to be desired. There never seems to be a great threat to Fandorin. In fact, he is dispassionately removed from the majority of the drama. When one compares Green with earlier villains, particularly the master schemers of The Winter Queen and Turkish Gambit, or the terribly precise murderer of The Death of Achilles, he does not come off well. There are no major distinguishing features.

Fandorin's love interest for this story at least has a spark to her. Esfir Litvinova, a young society beauty, with revolutionary sympathies, is both unpredictable and fiery, making for a beautiful foil to Fandorin's inscrutable routines. Her very disdain for him, softening to attraction and even love, is a familiar pattern for females to follow with regard to Fandorin, but it's executed excellently here. The humour evoked by Fandorin's double confusion both with his case and the affairs of the heart is also particularly enjoyable.

The writing remains lively and I raced through the drama. But I was not wowed or awed like I have been with earlier Fandorin books. Has Akunin used all his tricks up? Am I missing a beat?

~~~
2008
Boris Akunin translated by Andrew Bromfield
Weidenfeld & Nicolson

Special Assignments (Fandorin 5)

Erast Petrovich Fandorin returns in two short stories, this time narrated by the young Anisii Tulipov. Akunin remains on form with these two tales of Fandorin's intelligence pitted against devious, dangerous Moscow criminals.

In The Jack of Spades, chance has Tulipov, who feels as though life has always gone against him, assigned to support the Deputy to the Governor of Moscow for Special Assignments (Fandorin of course). In such a position, Tulipov relates the strange habits of the young, grey-templed sleuth. Their quarry, a master of disguise, gives them the run of the city.

Then in The Decorator worlds collide as it seems Jack the Ripper may have made it to Moscow. The second story is a thrilling re-imagining of Ripper mythology, made all the more exciting both by Fandorin's intellect and the filter through which we gain access to it: Tulipov.

Akunin has struck a familiar tone with a third party narrator. While Turkish Gambit was perhaps my favourite of the Fandorin books, Special Assignments, despite this familiarity, does little to rise above the very high bar Akunin has set for himself. But the host of well imagined characters and locations, and the ability to spin a gripping story remains intact and I devoured both tales voraciously. Onwards!

~~~
2007
Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield.
Weidenfeld & Nicolson (UK); Random House (USA)

In Other Rooms, Other Wonders

Is it enough to take a literary style already heartily employed elsewhere and transplant it to a new country and culture to create a great literary movement? I would argue it is not, and further, that much of the praise heaped upon Daniyal Mueenuddin's collection of short stories indicates wonder at what he has done, rather than true literary merit.

In Other Rooms, Other Wonders is a series of short stories that all feature in some way or other the Harouni family. Sometimes it is K. K. Harouni, a rich businessman, who appears, but as often the stories detail the lives of various of his servants and retainers in and around Lahore. In other stories, like Our Lady of Paris or A Spoiled Man, we deal with relatives of the powerful K. K., lesser Harounis as it were. But such a style, of repeating characters and stories that seem to orbit a central theme or hint at a fully fleshed-out imagined world, is one that America has been familiar with from at least Salinger, while one might argue that as early as Vergil were writers playing with hinting at presences beyond the text, as Vergil himself does in the Eclogues. That is to say, Mueenuddin is not innovating in giving us a series of Pakistani stories all featuring the same interwoven characters, present and absent.


Nor is he innovating in setting those stories primarily in Pakistan. Again, much of the hype surrounding the book comes from readers' excitement in recognising a foreign place or way of life succinctly expressed in literature. But Mueenuddin is not the first to write about Pakistan, nor should he be praised only because his theme is Pakistan. In fact, if the only literary merit of a piece is that it describes a place rarely described, we are considering a travel guide over a work of literary merit.


These two problems in early comments on In Other Rooms, Other Wonders would not trouble me so much if the writing itself stood up to close scrutiny. Unfortunately it does not. After a rather insipid opening story, in which I believe we are meant to be shocked, while I hardly stirred, Mueenuddin draws us at a laborious pace through a host of self-obsessed, self-serving characters who can barely see beyond themselves, yet alone their own horizons. Perhaps there is truth in such a depiction, in the way in which a more feudal society can impose stronger restrictions on its occupants' dreams and aspirations. Yet Mueenuddin labours the point, just like he labours his characters. Nothing is left to the imagination; nothing is intimated or expressed without it being made explicit. Time and again the delicately expressed moments in an individual story that might have charmed me were then brusquely explained and pored over, leaving nothing left for me to ponder myself. Even Lily, my favourite story of the collection, is brought to an appallingly tedious conclusion by the unwavering pace of the writing.

I fear I am falling into the same trap; Mueenuddin's ideas are there, and many of them are engaging. But the writing cries out for an editor, internal or otherwise, to prune back some of the verbosity that dogs and overwhelms what could be handled beautifully and delicately.

~~~

2009

Daniyal Mueenuddin

Random House, India

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

Raymond Carver, the 'American Chekhov' as he so regularly gets dubbed, is a recent discovery for me. Perhaps because I'm just battling with my own attempts at short stories, it's particularly meaningful for me to find such a master. But more than likely, it's the fact that Carver manages something rather spectacular without even appearing to try to.


His stories, all set in the American mid-west, focus on ordinary lives of ordinary people. Or so it first appears. But scratch beneath the surface of any given story, and one sees that these people are extraordinary, that the events of their lives, even if they are described in the simplest, most unadorned prose, are tragic or epic. This is the real mind-blowing strength to Carver's work: his style, so unaffected and straightforward, only heightens the implicit drama of the scenes he describes.


Take 'Why Don't You Dance?', in which a man has moved all his furniture out onto his drive and gets a young couple drunk, or 'Gazebo', which opens with the line 

That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.

In both instances, one rushes to try to come to terms with the fact that these people aren't all right, that their simple lives, so simply told, are shot through with a hidden suffering. Or even the suffering need not be hidden. In 'Sacks' or 'The Bath', we read of the painful reunion of a son with his estranged father and of a road accident on the eve of a young boy's birthday. Both times I was struck by how it seemed somehow unfair that regular folk were suffering like this. It's a masterful, terrifying observation. It's Carver at his best.


There's the macabre too. 'Tell the Women We're Going' leads the reader along a familiar path, until one realises that one character's reticence is not that he's just a quiet man, but that he hides a horrific secret. Or 'The Third Thing That Killed My Father Off', a record of the decline of a good man before his son's eyes. But 'Popular Mechanics' bests them both for its intensity and agony. In the briefest of moments Carver has captured domestic struggle at its most violent and destructive. But he has not sensationalised it; he never does. He's packaged it up in a mere two pages of dialogue and action that seem so concise and factual but only emphasise the enormous tragedy of the scene. There's skill even in the titling, with 'Popular' hinting that we are reading something that happens regularly, that we should understand to be happening around the world. That's scary. That's great writing, to pose a question so succinctly. 


I'll read these again. Carver gets it right again and again. 


~~~
1981
Raymond Carver

The End Of The Affair

I picked up Graham Greene's The End Of The Affair while I worked at Vintage briefly; it's a Vintage Classic, and rightly so, as I found myself reading a book that demanded I keep a pencil close at hand to mark up sections of the text. It was written in such an eminently quotable and essential concise and brilliant manner that I was left feeling over-awed by reading it. In fact, I asked myself "Why had I not read this already?"


The story follows Maurice Bendrix, a writer, during the Second World War as he reflects on his affair with Sarah Miles. Through a series of chance meetings with Sarah's husband Henry, Bendrix embarks on a journey to find out what Sarah is up to now. 


The book is one that charts the depths of human emotion at its most intimate; the feelings of love and loss, of pain and hatred are ever present in Bendrix's language. His ability to ruminate over thoughts of jealousy and revenge without becoming tedious is impressive and this is the central strength of the novel, to go over much of the same ground repeatedly while managing to find new things to say, new ways to say the same thing.


There is also the timelessness of what is said; part of that feeling of awe, that frustration with not having read the book earlier, surely ties in to the fact that Greene managed to say something important, something that has stood the test of time, about love and the end of a relationship. He has written in a way that strikes a chord with the reader, that encourages them to identity with the feelings he has described,  to believe that Greene is writing about the reader rather than himself. Yet it remains intensely personal for Bendrix too; it's too easily to believe this is entirely autobiographical, but that effect remains prevalent.


Heartily recommend this book; wherever you're at in a relationship, it's worth thinking about the depth of feeling that love can bring about.


~~~
1951
Graham Greene

Rumo And His Miraculous Adventures

Walter Moers' books have been described as 'children's stories for adults'. Certainly they represent a fusion of childlike fantasy with fairly sophisticated wit that might more often be associated with the older reader. As such, they are a total pleasure to read. Rumo is no exception.


Set in the world of Zamonia, like the other Moers' novels, a place inhabited by anthropomorphised dinosaurs and beasts, the novel tells the story of its eponymous hero, from his birth, through to his many, as indicated in the title, miraculous adventures. Rumo is a Wolperting, half-deer, half-wolf, possessed with exceptional senses and combat abilities, razor sharp teeth and horns. From his initial capture and imprisonment, through to finding some sense of belonging in the city of Wolperting (suitably named, no?), to his quest to Netherworld, at every turn we see Rumo confronted by fearsome villains and no small dose of humour. Part of what makes the story so compelling is that while there is no lack of cynicism from the narrator, and from various sub-narrators who tell length stories explaining myths and history of Zamonia, essentially we are led both to support and care for Rumo. While the setting may be anti-heroic, while we may laugh at the absurdity of it all, yet I still found myself rooting for Rumo and hoping all would be all right in the end.


There's a host of characters to laugh at, besides. Smyke, the grandiloquent shark-grub who teaches Rumo much about fighting, along with everything else; Professor Nightingale, nocturnomath, essential both for plot development and a bit of a giggle at the 'academic' stereotype; Urshan deLucca, fencing master who's totally obsessed with the weather, and finds Netherworld, horrific as it is, an absolute delight, because it's free of atmospheric pressure and the like; the Copper Killers, alchemical robots that can't be stopped. As a work of imagination, Rumo is simply bewildering, but not at the price of engagement. Indeed, it's all consuming rather than off-putting, and one is drawn into the web of stories. As the threads come together in the denouement, I found myself nearly slapping a thigh in satisfaction; when I tried to explain to a friend what was so satisfying, I realised there were too many details to explain to make it worthwhile. I plonked the completed book in his lap instead. 


A joy to read, and mirthfully illustrated to boot.


~~~
2004
Walter Moers, translated by John Brownjohn

Tyrant: Storm of Arrows

I have yet to write a review of Christian Cameron's first ancient Hellenic adventure story, Tyrant. I must say, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Cameron merges an obvious obsession with Alexandros and the ancient world of the 4th Century BC with confident storytelling and some rather epic battle sequences. But sadly, the second novel in the series falls woefully short of the mark.


Tyrant: Storm of Arrows sees our hero, Kineas, an Athenian gentleman-mercenary, where we left him in the the Chersonese. He has defended Olbia against the Macedonian army led by Phocion and fallen for the Sakje warrior princess Srayanka. He has lost comrades too, heroes from the first book. But Niceas, his trusty squire, and the Spartan Philokles remain erstwhile companions. But now trouble is brewing in the East, and the Sakje vote to send troops to assist the Sauromatae who came to their aid against the Macedonians; this time, the threat is Alexandros as he cuts an unstoppable path through the East towards Baktria. 


Kineas starts to dream once more. His dreams are prophetic and he is considered a shaman by some of the Sakje. He is offered a choice: to rule Olbia as a just tyrant (if such a thing is possible, as Kineas himself doubts), or death in the East, fighting side-by-side with his love, Srayanka. He chooses the latter.


But it all goes wrong both in tone and detail. The dream sequences are barely mysterious, barely beyond step-by-step description of 'this happened, then this, then this' that are tedious enough. Alongside this, the descriptions of preparation, of travel, of conversation, also remain mundane. A secondary love interest is introduced with all the tact of a two phalanxes clashing shields; Kineas' doubts are boring, particularly given we already know the choice he has made and indeed the outcome it will offer. 


It's not that Storm of Arrows claims to be a thriller and fails. It makes no such claim. But where the first book used the historical detail as a background, a further lashing of authenticity, to the action, this one is far too bogged down in it. The historical detail becomes the rambling of a pedant rather than a hook into a realistic and engaging world reimagined. It's dry and peacocked, certainly to my taste. A shame, as there are three more books due in the series.


~~~
2009
Christian Cameron
Orion Books

Yellow Blue Tibia

Adam Robert's Yellow Blue Tibia is the record of the attempted alien invasion of the Soviet Union in 1986, told by science fiction writer Konstantin Skvorecky as he pieces together the disparate elements that make up the story. It's a good enough device, to write as a writer who is prone to flights of imagination and prides himself on his command of language. It's also a good plan to set the novel in the USSR and play some games with language and translation. Fortuitously enough, our hero can speak English so communication with American scientologists provides no problems.


But unfortunately, despite the obvious attention paid to narrative devices and structure, the novel falls flat for two main reasons:

1. It struck me as rather pat, rather trite, how elements combined to bring about the hero's death, the failed invasion. What felt as though it was building to a massive climax ended instead in a feeling of disappointment. If that was the intention of the author, as I hope it might have been, sadly he failed to pull it off in any meaningful or rewarding way. Instead, I was left deflated, and not because I felt that was the intended response of a reader, but because the finale had missed the point.
2. The setting and characters are by and large Russian. But Robert's experience of Russia, if he has any, is not in evidence in the writing. That in itself is not essential; what is, however, is that we aren't provided with mere caricatures of what a Soviet man might be like in the 80s. Yet there is something horribly garish about the jesting with 'yellow blue tibia', an attempt at rendering in English ya lublyu tibya, the Russian for 'I love you'. There's something garish about the pastiche of omnipresent KGB officers, about how everyone is an alcoholic bar Skvorecky. There's even something a little disappointing that the book's jacket has to include that silly attempt at mock-Russian styling in using letters from Cyrillic as though they made sense in English. They don't. It just looks ill-considered.

The premise is good enough, and Roberts' clearly knows how to manipulate elements of a novel to great effect. But there needs to be some kind of passion behind such a manipulation. Otherwise, we are reading an exercise in novel writing, not a novel itself.

~~~

2009

Adam Roberts

Orion Books

The Death of Achilles (Fandorin 4)

Erast Petrovich Fandorin returns, after six years in Japan at the Russian Embassy there, to Moscow, to his duties with the Third Section. But on the morning of his arrival he's met by a shock; his old acquaintance, General Mikhail Sobolev, is staying in the same hotel as Fandorin. What's more, Sobolev is found dead that very morning. Fandorin, of course, takes on the case immediately, out of duty and a sense of loyalty to his old friend.

What's changed then, to stop this being just same-old same-old? Well, for a start, Fandorin hasn't wasted his time while in Japan. In fact, he's immersed himself as much as he can in Japanese culture, particularly in focusing his mind and body to perfection as a detective and man of action. Furthermore, he now has in tow the lovable rogue of a retainer, Masa, who's bloodthirsty and lustful nature lead to all kinds of difficulties, not least because Masa doesn't speak a word of Russian.

Structurally Boris Akunin has also, once more, tried something a little different. He's returned to describing his hero from the third person, as in Azazel, rather than through the impressions or reports of other characters. But instead of a linear narrative, the tale is divided firmly into two; firstly Fandorin travels about town following up leads and tracking down the culprit behind what clearly could not have been a natural death; then we are transported to the Caucasus and the childhood and early life of a boy with strange pale eyes. This boy later becomes an assassin, and from there establishes a reputation as not only a killer-for-hire, but a man who never misses his mark. He is given the name Achimas, and leads a life of crime under barely any suspicion at all, so consummate are his abilities. It is only as the narration of his life story catches up to his most recent task that it becomes clear that Fandorin may have met his match in Sobolev's killer.

Akunin remains a master at spinning out a story with poise and charm; there's plenty of wit in this narrative, especially in the exchanges between Fandorin and Masa, and there's a fair share of mystery and thrills to keep the reader engaged. There's also a sensitivity to Achimas here, a sensitivity elsewhere not seen in Akunin. Could this be a stepping stone towards a more ambivalent view of Fandorin's enemies? Perhaps not, but I look forward to seeing where the series gets to next.

~~~

2005

Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield

Murder on the Leviathan (Fandorin 3)

As noted in my review of Turkish Gambit, I in fact read Murder on the Leviathan, or Leviathan as it is called in Russian, out of sequence. Fortunately, the events and setting of Leviathan are such that this did not mar my enjoyment of Turkish Gambit or The Death of Achilles.

At the close of Turkish Gambit, Erast Petrovich Fandorin, still recovering from the tragedy that befell him after his first major case (Azazel), takes a leave of absence once more, to travel to Japan and work in the embassy there. He seeks an escape from all that has happened, and only distance and time can heal the emotional wounds he has suffered. He books passage on the steamship Leviathan, on its maiden voyage from Southampton to Calcutta, but there is met by the strangest of circumstances.

Monsieur Gauche, police inspector of the Paris police, is on the trail of a ruthless murderer. He has narrowed down the suspects to nine travellers on the Leviathan, and by means of an arrangement with the ship's captain ensured that these passengers always have their meals with him in the Windsor dining room. So begins a criminal investigation, during which Gauche tries to ascertain the killer's identity from interviews with his fellow passengers. Fandorin, as Russian diplomat, falls under suspicion more due to Gauche's boredom with one of the other travellers, and he is moved into the Windsor suite. Of course he privately puts his not-inconsiderable talents to solving the mystery as well.

In yet another twist of narrative style, Akunin tells this story from various points of view. We have chapters given from different characters as they remark on their own take on events as they unfold aboard the Leviathan. There is the pregnant Madame Kleber, desperate for attention from all the men in the room, and spinster Clarissa Stamp, who takes quite a shine to the dashing Fandorin with his immaculate appearance and grey temples. Then in a brilliant piece of stylised publishing we are given access to excerpts from the diary of Gintaro Aono, Japanese samurai, on his way home. These are presented in such a way as to require the reader to tilt the book through ninety degrees as the type runs from bottom to top, rather than left to right. It's a simple trick but pleasurable none the less.

From these varying perspectives, we are left very much in the dark as to the culprit. Various narrators seem to have secrets they need to hide, but as the tension increases, so too does the confusion as Gauche chases down leads that end in nothing. Meanwhile, Fandorin sits ever so still, observing, considering and only getting involved when Gauche's suggestions may lead to wrongful accusation. It's an excellent touch, to see Fandorin played off against another detective and the comparison between the two only adds to gentle frisson of excitement underlying the whole book.

But the book is also very much a break for Erast Petrovich. The case is not his, nor is there any pressure on him to be more than a highly observant bystander. As such, the drama is somewhat diminished. It is, after all, a journey of escape for Fandorin, and Akunin succeeds in providing only mild danger throughout; this isn't a thriller in the same vein of the trials of Turkish Gambit or the hectic sprints around Moscow of The Death of Achilles. But it's a humorous, enjoyable portrait of the wonderful character of Fandorin.

~~~

1998/2004 - Russian / English editions

Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield

The Turkish Gambit (Fandorin 2)

In Britain, The Turkish Gambit was published as Turkish Gambit, and appeared third in the Fandorin series issued by Weidenfeld & Nicolson and translated by Andrew Bromfield. It becomes apparent with reading that the action of The Turkish Gambit follows closely from the close of The Winter Queen (reviewed here); I'm even inclined to start using the Russian title for that novel, too, as it informs as to the major criminal organisation Fandorin finds himself pitted against once more: Azazel.

Azazel have been recruiting charismatic orphans and preening them for nefarious, high-flying positions. After the disastrous conclusion of Fandorin's first adventure, he seeks oblivion by leaving the Third Section (Russia's detective bureau) and journeying to join the Russian front where the troops are engaged in the Russo-Turkish war.

But Akunin is more wily than to describe this to us in such a straightforward manner. Instead, we meet Varvara Andreevna Suvorova, a self-proclaimed 'modern woman' who is travelling to find her betrothed, Pyotr, who is also fighting at the front. In being so bold, and undertaking such a journey, Varya is sure she will prove both her devotion to Petya and her status as a thoroughly in-control feminist. But disaster strikes and she is left stranded in a Muslim tavern that's allegiance to Russia, given its proximity to Turkey, is dubious. Enter a mysterious young man with a stammer, a brusque manner, and hair that is black apart from white temples: Fandorin. Varya is rescued by him, but immediately takes offence at his prickliness. There's a delicious discrepancy between our own knowledge of the terrible tragedy Fandorin has suffered and Varya's own frustration with this taciturn gentleman, enhanced, of course, by our own sympathy for the young man, so clearly marked by his past experiences.

If Varya is upset by Fandorin, she's quickly offered diversions: cavalry commander Mikhail Sobolev, along with a host of journalists, meet Fandorin and Varya on the road to the Russian camp in the nick of time, carrying out a daring rescue against a band of bashi-bazouks. From there, the plot speeds up significantly; it's clear there's some sort of mole in the Russian camp, and Fandorin is tasked with worming him out. Furthermore, a certain Anwar Effendi has surfaced in the Turkish forces, a man already identified as one of the key members of Azazel. Fandorin, while refusing to return to the Third Section proper, must struggle between outwitting his wily enemy while also finding the mole.

The real charm of the whole tale comes from Varya; most of the narrative is told from her perspective, and again there's delightful humour in how she curses herself for being so attracted to some of the gentleman in the camp, each of them dashing and brave. Her betrothed, Petya, proves himself to be an utter wimp, and one can't help but feel pleased that Varya has other options on her plate. But most pleasing of all is her gradual warming towards Fandorin, whom she discovers is not only younger than her, but has dealt with more than she could imagine. As she notes how she has realised, with horror, that she's been missing him, the sense of triumph for Fandorin is wonderful. He's not sought her affection one bit, nor is he interested, but he's also acted with constancy and bravery throughout, without ever attempting to emphasise it. The bittersweet finale of the book, where Fandorin may be about to solve the case but never get the girl, is a joy to read.

Akunin's done something remarkable; he's taken that excellent character first fleshed out in Azazel and forced him through a terrible mishap, adding yet another layer of depth and engagement to an already charming individual. Fandorin's impressive powers of deduction are now tempered by patience and silence, making him all the more resolute and inspiring. A brilliant read.

~~~

1998

Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield

The Winter Queen (Fandorin 1)

Can a work in translation retain the charm and style of the original while also being accessible to the foreign reader? Boris Akunin's Fandorin series, or at least this first outing, proves conclusively it can. You may recall my reviews of his Pelagia books (1 and 2); there I suggested that while Akunin might be better known for his Fandorin tales, Pelagia still stood alone as a wonderful series in its own right.

But here I learnt why Erast Fandorin, young detective of the Third Bureau of the Moscow Criminal department, had won over the hearts of fans the world over. This novel, which follows Fandorin's first major case, at the tender age of 21, is thrilling from start to finish. The transformation our erstwhile hero undergoes as he is offered promotion and social betterment alongside danger and deception is marvellous to behold. The story ends with him as fresh-faced as it started, but he's learnt so much one can't help but feel the reader was also dragged along the maelstrom that picked up Erast and took him across Europe to Berlin, Vienna, Paris and London. He nearly loses his life countless times, only to be saved by luck or courage or desperation, or indeed a breathing technique he has been practising for the last few months.

That is part of the charm of the tale. Akunin has deliberately avoided imbuing his hero with a host of skills and abilities. Instead, he has this one breathing technique he works on, and then intuition and bravery, plus a mastery of English and German, and that's it. No super strength or cunning wit or airs or money or anything like that. Not even too much confidence, but a big dose of passion. It's what makes him a thoroughly human character and ultimately likeable. It's also what propels the entire story.

Plot-wise, having read some of the Sister Pelagia novels, I was well aware that Akunin was the master of a twisting tale. Here he excels as well; one can easily understand why this outing won him support and acclaim. In true form to a proper detective novel, the nemesis (or nemeses) hide in plain sight and the clues are available for all to see, should we so choose. There's a delightful discrepancy of awareness between characters internally, and between Fandorin and the reader that maintains suspense without becoming frustrating. That's part of the mastery here - a fresh, exciting plot that doesn't get revealed in plodding increments, but with a varying and engaging pace. Suddenly Fandorin will surge ahead with his realisations; at other times it is slower going as he searches for one clue that will suddenly illuminate a whole new area of investigation.

There's humour here too, and pathos. It got me thinking that I should recommence my Russian studies just to be able to read the rest of the series in the original. I'm also looking forward to the film of The State Counsellor, one of the later Fandorin titles. I chomped through this at such a rate that I know it must have been good, to not even notice turning the pages. Thoroughly recommended. Quick, light, fun and moving. All you want from a good detective novel.

***

1998

Boris Akunin, translated by Andrew Bromfield

Choke

I've not read any Chuck Palahniuk before. In fact, I struggle to pronounce his surname. But I've seen Fight Club and I saw the trailer for Choke and when it fell into my lap, and I was failing to sleep, I thought "Ok, why not?". So perhaps I've come to this novel from completely the wrong angle, from the angle of a guy who doesn't really appreciate what Palahniuk's done before, and really just saw that there was choking and sex addiction in the film trailer and wanted to check it out.

There is choking. By that, I mean, Victor, our anti-hero, chokes himself in restaurants to make ordinary people into heroes, as he's discovered that just about anyone likes to be made to feel like a hero, and will, in addition, reward financially the person they've saved. He's doing this for a good reason though, and not because he's a low-down scumbag: his mother is dying of a degenerative brain disease at a local hospice, and just to keep her there costs $3,000 a month. That's the second strand, the mother-son relationship, as his visits start to become more and more strange, as more and more of the old women start to believe he is the one responsible for personal tragedies they each suffered many years before. And the third strand of the narrative? Sex addiction. Victor is a sex addict. He can't help himself. In fact, he goes to three different sex addiction self-help groups a week, just to get more sex.

Don't go kidding yourself, though. The sex is in no way beautiful or erotic or in any way enticing in this book; it's grimy, it's banal and worst of all, it's a bit horrible. There's something pukesome about the way Victor refers to his member as his 'dog', and the way in which he lists to himself the different things he can think about to prolong his orgasm: rotting meat; grandmothers; car crashes; suppurating pores. This isn't sex to be enjoyed, either for him or the reader, but to be put up with and struggled through until the eventual release. Perhaps Palahniuk is a genius, for rendering what should be scintillating as mundane and off-putting, uncomfortable and so starkly factual as to be terrifying.

There's a plot there too, as the three strands come to some kind of climax - can Victor kick the addiction, stay the course with his choking so as to save his mother? And just what is the secret behind his parentage that he so desperately seeks? A twist in the tale early on pushes the reader down a slightly different path, as we begin to re-evaluate his actions in a new light, but the eventual final twist left me a bit let-down. I suppose it might have been that I was reading too fast, on a flight to London, and didn't give the import of the finale the chance to hit home, but I couldn't help but feel that Palahniuk was chasing a similar shock-ending to Fight Club and had just missed it.

Still, it's eminently readable, and goes down a treat, if you can stomach some rather graphic, disgusting sexual discussion, and the fact that as Victor claims, he is a loser that you don't want to read about. His voice is certainly compelling, as he moves between the mundane, the graphic and his own personal obsession with medical terminology. The repeated phrases were at times impressive and amusing, but at other times grated a little too much. It felt too consciously crafted for my liking, and too obviously so. I think I need to read a little more Palahniuk before I pass further judgment.

***

2001

by Chuck Palahniuk

Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk

The second of Boris Akunin's Sister Pelagia novels proved to be just as much, if not more, of a treat than the first, Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog. Beginning in medias res and immediately from where the first book left off, we are plunged into a tale that is structurally and suspensefully superior.

As Sister Pelagia and the Bishop Mitrofanii thought they had finally got to the bottom of the mysteries surrounding Mitrofanii's aunt and her bulldogs, they are confronted by a monk who has sped from New Ararat, a monastic community within Zavolzhie, Mitrofanii's province, to report that St Basilisk, the site's patron, is now haunting the region and warning monks of grave danger in the area. Pelagia of course wishes to investigate, but Mitrofanii feels that this is no matter for a woman, especially not a superstitious nun. Instead, he dispatches a series of other representatives. First, his protege of sorts, Andrei Lentochkin, whom Mitrofanii is keen to convert to Orthodoxy, makes his way to New Ararat, but his letters report failure, and eventual sectioning in the local mental institution. Second, the chief of police, Lagrange, a clear-headed man of courage and action, who meets with his death. Finally, Mitrofanii's trusted advisor, Matvei Bentsionovich Berdichevsky, the third member of Pelagia and Mitrofanii's inner counsel, sets out to get to the bottom of things. He too suffers a reversal of fortune.

All is left to Pelagia, and her ingenious use of disguise, to try to work her way to the bottom of the mystery. But time is against as Mitrofanii, after so many failures, succumbs to a debilitating heart disease and is laid low in his bedchamber. On arrival at New Ararat Pelagia quickly realises all is not as it seems, as the militaristic community veils many oddball characters and crazed individuals, and the lines between the madmen of the institution and the townsfolk are hardly drawn at all. Assumptions and false accusations lead her down a torturous path, where every new revelation throws up further questions and challenges to her, all building to an exciting crescendo - can she find out who has been masquerading as Basilisk, what his message really means, and save Berdichevsky and Lentochkin before it is too late?

A riveting read. I can't wait to get my hands on the third part, Sister Pelagia and the Red Rooster. In the meantime, I've ordered the Fandorin novels to keep me going!

***

by Boris Akunin

Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog

First published in Russian by Boris Akunin, I picked up this translation of the first in a series of books that followed on from Akunin's success with his Erast Fandorin novels. Here his new protagonist and investigator was no longer a Sherlock Holmes hero of derring-do, but a nun, Sister Pelagia, who teaches literature and gymnastics at the local convent, and is relied upon heavily by the bishop, Mitrofanii. Rounding off the trio of core characters is the loveable Matvei Bentsionovich Berdichevsky, converted to Christianity, assistant district prosecutor and father of thirteen. These three form the heroes of the novel, champions for justice in their distant backwater province of Zavolzhsk.

The plot follow two strands: Mitrofanii's aunt asks him to find out who is killing off her beloved white bulldogs, bred for their pure white coats except for one brown ear, their squatness and above all, their slobberiness. It seems like a petty request from a mad canine sympathiser, but Mitrofanii sends Pelagia to investigate, just on the off-chance something is awry. At the same time, recently arrived from St Petersburg is a canonical inspector, sent to cause trouble and stir up discontent in the province, by hook and by crook.

Fans of the Fandorin series have suggested that the leisurely pace of the Pelagia novels is a disappointing change; however, I found myself fully engaged not only with the characters, but with Akunin's wit in relating provincial Russian of the 19th century so wonderfully. It was brought to life for me by the manner in which the lazy laidback nature of the province was mirrored in Akunin's own conversational and humorous style. Other reviews have described the Pelagia novels as workmanlike. I can think of no higher praise, and it certainly highlights Akunin's artistry in bringing together such a relaxed but involving story. I'm now onto book 2, Sister Pelagia and the Black Monk - so far it reads as intriguingly as it's predecessor.

One final point. At one time in the story a certain Mrs Polina Lisitsyna arrives on the scene. She is everything Pelagia is not - glamorous, demure, highly sought after and beautifully turned out. Pelagia groans when she hears that Polina is to be involved in the investigation. I won't reveal the twist, of course, but well worth the wait.

***

by Boris Akunin

Eve: The Empyrean Age

World of Warcraft fan fiction; Matrix comic books; Warhammer novels; Transformers movies. It's fairly standard for a toy to become a film, or a game gets a book, or a book spawns a film trilogy which then spawns a game and a computer game. Anything can happen in this day and age.

For fan fiction though, the big hitters (Halo, Warhammer, Dungeons&Dragons, Star Wars) all seemed to offer the same thing: fairly standard, low-quality, mass produced paperback books, with spin-off characters and repetitive plots. The world itself was more engaging than the characters or plotlines. World of Warcraft books seem to be doing ok and that must be in part due to those obsessive fans (and we know warcraft collects them) who immerse themselves in the world so that even when no longer gaming they still want to read WoW.

Eve is a book of a game. This time, the game is Eve Online and the book took as its mission to write something of comparable depth and complexity as the game. The game, set in New Eden, an alternatively galaxy separated from Earth, allows the complete growth of a character within a space-age society that is both ruthless and demanding. The author, Tony Gonzales, has taken this futuristic universe, complete with pirates, warring factions, governments and mega-corporations, and woven a thread of three different stories into it. In some sense it is following the standard package for fan-fiction, by using the universe of the game as a starting point, and then adding characters, but it differentiates itself in terms of both character and plot.

As the book progressed, I was concerned that this triple-weave plot might wind up with a cliched ending, some kind of easy resolution, as Amarrian lord meets Minmatar fleet meets Caldarian revolution in some kind of 'closure' device. Instead, it became apparent that tragedy was the order of the day, and in fact the plots of Eve were leading to a fateful future (perhaps even the future in which the game is set, one in which Amarr and Minmater, Caldari and Gallente, battle endlessly). To try to pitch his book as some sort of pre-history to Eve Online rather than as a selected episode from the game gave a purpose to his tale and a freedom to narrate events in a manner of his own choosing. In fact, it almost appears as if Eve Online was merely used as a starting point for Gonzales, rich as the game is in history and immersive detail, and in fact once in that universe he made it his own, building upon already gleaned information to provide a level of authenticity and attraction to his tale.

Eve is not remarkable in using a computer game as its main influence; however, it goes further and achieves more from that standpoint than others I have encountered. Furthermore, it seems to glean the best elements from the sub-genre, while discarding the worst. Plot and characters are involving and well-drawn, and the prose is not bogged down with a undue amount of game references. In fact, the game heritage to the book is most noted in the meticulous attention Gonzales shows to naming each class of spaceship, displaying an impressive attention to in-game detail.

*****
by Tony Gonzales

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

READ THIS BOOK! It is beautiful and moving and poignant and funny and epic and destructive and emotional and wondrous and uplifting and crushing and brilliant and excellently-researched and absorbing and monstrous and great!

The book charts the rise to success of Josef Kavalier, a Czech Jew who escapes persecution prior to the Second World War to New York, and his American cousin Sam Clay. They are both 17, and combine Sam's imagination with Joe's artistic talent to start making comics. Their first success is with The Escapist, a comic that Chabon invented in keeping with those that abounded at the rise of the graphic novel in the 30s and 40s. (The book did so well that a real life version of The Escapist was written)

The plot is rife with twists and turns, and both Joe and Sam share a fair amount of ups and downs as they go from naive, idealistic cartoonists to powerful creative forces in the American graphic novel market. There's more than a fair share of heartbreak as well; any story that is bookended by the Second World War comes with a liberal dose of pathos. It's here that Chabon manages the story best. While his research of New York of the 30s and 40s is astounding, and one really starts to wonder if The Escapist did not in fact exist as a comic, it's the little details and the emotions of his characters that evoke a smile and more than once, a tear. Ultimately it's a heart-rending story about so many things it would be trite to start listing them. But it leaves one with the calm of a post-emotional breakdown and the joy of the resilience of the human spirit. Uplifting.


"that was totally wicked!"


*****
by Michael Chabon