And the Land is Dark – ‘The Round House’ by Louise Erdrich

I’ve been fortunate in 2013 to enjoy a number of terrific books. Books that brought a smile to my face and put joy in my heart. Books that I can hand to anybody and say, ‘read this, you’ll love it.’ The Round House isn’t one of those books. But it might just be the best novel I’ve read so far this year.  The stories I’ve gravitated towards in 2013 have tended to be contemporary, set in the UK and been about the absurdities of modern life. They have often mirrored my own existence. The Round House is far away from this.

Set in the recent past, 1988, in the American Midwest, The Round House opens with a rape and attempted murder. The victim is a Native American, Geraldine, mother of thirteen-year-old Joe. The narrative follows Joe as he and the rest of his community try to come to terms with the attack. It’s a slow meandering tale, but is incisive in its examination of crimes big and small.

There are many layers and nuances to this novel. At the highest level it’s a murder-mystery, but its true strengths lie much deeper than that. There is an examination of the complicated land politics that govern Indian reservations; the inconsistent rules that decide which law enforcement body can try and punish criminals. This problem and its deep ramifications provide the novel’s moral and ethical backbone. The role of Catholic missionaries for good and ill is looked at, as is the way in which Catholicism has become ingrained into Indian traditions.  It’s a fascinating portrayal of an ancient culture vying for recognition and acceptance in the modern world.

Beyond the tribe’s spiritual culture, it is also revealing about the mundane aspects of reservation life. Families, food, jobs, law and order, all artfully revealed. This gentle reverence for life’s small events put me very much in mind of the prose of Anne Tyler. Most of all however, this is coming of age tale. His mother’s terrible ordeal flings Joe from the border of adolescence deep into adulthood. He and his friends criss-cross the reservation hunting for clues to the identity of his mother’s attacker. Their interactions, as a unit, and their individual relationships are reminiscent of Stephen King’s story ‘Stand by Me’. The smooth innocence of childhood rubbing against the harsh realities of adulthood is expertly portrayed. It’s a beautiful evocation of the journey from boy to man.

This is a novel light on plot, yet strong on story. It’s characters are a beautifully drawn ensemble cast of heroes and villains, shirkers and grafters, friends and enemies. They made reservation life almost tangible to me, despite being cosseted here in middle England. From beginning to end, this is a powerful novel, with an important message. I didn’t always enjoy reading The Round House, but its quality shone throughout. This is a book to immerse yourself in, soak up its characters, their pain and their victories. High quality fiction and highly recommended.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Humanity – ‘The Humans’ by Matt Haig

Matt Haig’s novels have crossed my radar a number of times. The Radleys piqued my curiosity, but I’ve never got around to reading it. Whilst I worked in Waterstone’s I had so many requests for ‘that book narrated by a dog’ I felt I must read it myself, yet never managed to. The Humans, Haig’s latest novel, has had a fairly heavy presence on Twitter for quite some time and everything about I heard about it made me think it was my sort of book.

This is in part because Matt Haig is one of the few authors I’ve encountered that uses social media to his advantage. His congenial style, and willingness to converse, rather than plug, make you want to like him and his books. His wonderful blog for Booktrust doesn’t do him any harm either. So, when Canongate sent me a copy of The Humans to review, it was probably the highlight of my tiny blogging career.

I was not disappointed. The Humans is one of those rare books that makes writing look effortless. There is no strain in reading it. Nothing is forced, it’s just pure unadulterated storytelling. It’s the sort of book that makes you think you could be an author, ‘There’s nothing complicated about this, I could do it, no bother.’, belying just how much talent you have to have to write something this good.

The story is beguiling in its premise. Andrew Martin, professor of maths at Cambridge solved one of maths’ great unsolveables. At which point he was exterminated. He was then replaced with an alien life-form tasked with eradicating any evidence of his new theory, up to and including murdering anybody Martin had told. The imposter comes from a supremely intelligent species that operates through pure logic. They have decided the human race is not psychologically equipped to cope with the ramifications of Dr Martin’s discovery, and so, for the good of the universe, they decide to put the boot in.

This plan goes wrong from the outset, when Professor Martin’s doppelgänger finds himself naked, running down a Cambridge street. Instead of carrying out his mission, he becomes entangled with the law and processed into the mental health system. From here he starts to learn more and more about the humans.

‘Humans as a rule don’t like mad people unless they are good at painting and only then once they are dead.’

Much of the novel’s strength comes from everything about humanity being an anathema to its narrator. The alien questions all our basic assumptions and calls us on life’s absurdities.

‘A cow is an Earth-dwelling animal…which humans treat as a one-stop shop for food, liquid refreshment, fertiliser and designer footwear.’

The author derives much humour from this but he also uses it to prise the lid off humanity and give it a good stir. In this respect The Humans resembles The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but instead of a human going out into the universe, the universe has come for a home visit.

As the alien recovers from his ordeal, he sets about trying to do his job, but he finds it more difficult than he expected. He discovers fragility and compassion amongst humanity that he did not expect. Andrew Martin’s life was in turmoil, yet his family remained bound together, why was this? The alien delays his mission to find out more, sending him on a most unexpected journey.

It is Haig’s contention that the binding force of humanity is love, and it is our ability to feel pain that gives it strength. This novel contains many deep, contemplative observations on the nature of love, familial and marital. Its accuracy is breathtaking.

I recently read a YA novel (which I have yet to review) at the heart of which was a bright tempestuous relationship, that is only possible when one is young. As I enter my fifth decade, I found the skipping hearts and trembling innards rather silly. Haig’s novel is about the battered iron core that’s left after years of compromise and altered dreams. It’s about the real deal and is described with perfection.

In this respect The Humans reminded me of Plato’s Symposium, something I read many years ago when I was trying to find a reading for my wedding. Anybody looking for something fresh for a reading or marriage vows should read this book. It is filled with many beautiful passages that encapsulate just what love and marriage should be.

The final and perhaps most heartfelt strand of the novel is that of Prof Martin and his son. I won’t say too much as I wouldn’t do it justice, but the alien’s attempts to repair this foundering relationship are hilarious and heart-breaking all at the same time. They also strike fear into the heart of any dads of three boys that might be reading.

‘Your life will have 25,000 days in it. Make sure you remember some of them.’

It’s hard to describe just how good The Humans is. It’s a book that has something for everybody. After all, it’s about all of us. Funny and life affirming, it’s one of those rarest of books; a feel good read that will stay with you long after reading. Read it, share it, live it.

Many thanks to Canongate for sending me a copy of the book to review. Matt Haig can be found as the Booktrust writer in residence and on Twitter as @matthaig1. He’s well worth a follow. I will of course now be returning to Matt’s backlist to finally read all those other interesting sounding booksm

Quest for Lost Action – The City by Stella Gemmell

It’s difficult to know how to approach Stella Gemmell’s The City. She is the widow of one of Britain’s preeminent heroic fantasy writers, David Gemmell, author of Legend, one of the genre’s finest novels. She was (I believe) David’s editor for his entire career, and cited as co-author on his last book, published posthumously. The City is Stella Gemmell’s debut novel, but clearly she is an experienced writer. It seems unfair to compare her work to her husband’s, disrespectful even, after all they’re separate people, yet it’s almost impossible not to.This is partly due to the obvious similarities between The City and many of David’s novels. Most of his later novels were historically based, and although The City is out and out fantasy, it feels very much based on real-world historical attitudes and cultures. Characterisation is superficially similar. Most of David’s fantasy novels contain a superannuated warrior giving his all to defend the weak, always in impossible circumstances. The City has them in abundance. Yet here they are given a frailer side. David’s characters were rarely given to introspection. Stella’s have motives beyond defend the weak and try not to die. Unfortunately, as a result, all the pace has been sucked out of the novel.The City is a tapestry; a weave of slighted characters, plotting to avenge themselves against a corrupt megalomaniac. Supreme ruler of The City (it is never given a name) ‘The Immortal’ is rarely seen, yet revered and feared by his subjects. At his behest, The City is perpetually at war with it’s neighbours. Countries and realms have been and gone, but the war, and The City, grinds on and on. The City itself is made up of layer upon layer of buildings. New structures have been thrown on top of old, giving rise to a subterranean city that is as busy and populous as those parts at street level. The City is a labyrinth of streets, tunnels and sewers, twisted and gnarled with age, much like The City’s politics; Byzantine in many ways. It is here in which the novel’s main problem lies. Those who wish to bring The City down feel like they are going into battle with the Civil Service. The City has become a bureaucracy for waging war, it’s ruler a faceless government official.It’s a potentially a neat device. A ruler who is never seen, who is clearly several hundred years old. He’s known to use proxies; does he look old? Young? has there been more then one Immortal, or has it always been the same man? This uncertainty makes assassinating him distinctly more difficult, but it’s hard as a reader to care what happens. War is bad, we’re told. The Immortal doesn’t care about how many of his subjects die in his wars, we’re also told, but the man himself is hardly ever in the novel, so it’s hard to care that much what happens to him.

Before long it’s obvious that something unusual is going on, but exactly what isn’t made clear until the novel’s dying stages. Not in itself an issue, but the reveal is awkward in the extreme. It’s like a James Bond film; one of the ‘baddies’ goes to great lengths to explain what’s going on to one of the ‘goodies’ that he has at his mercy. This level of exposition is unforgivable in any novel, especially after 500 pages of hard reading. (Said baddie then does something completely inexplicable, that I can’t describe because I’ll spoil the book, but it makes no sense whatsoever.) There is no real hint as to any of this as we read, so it’s impossible to meet this horrible example of ‘telling’ with much more than a shrug of the shoulders.

There is some nice meditation on the futility of war, but that alone isn’t worth the entry fee. Read All Quiet on the Western Front instead. It’s not a fantasy novel, but it’s only half the length and says ten-times more. There are some strong characters in this book, but the novel is crying out for one of them to take the story by the scruff of the neck and go looking for a plot. David Gemmell’s plots were often too simplistic, this one is so subtle, it doesn’t really exist. The City contains some nice ideas, some beautiful prose, and even one or two memorable characters. What it lacks is any heart, and its far far too long. Things do rally before the end. The last hundred pages are exciting, but if I hadn’t been reading out of loyalty to David, I would have given up long before I’d reached them.

Many Thanks to September at Transworld for sending me an advanced copy of this book. 

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Dinner Conversation

About this time last week, I was ready to publish my review on Herman Koch’s The Dinner. I didn’t much care for it. I found the premise interesting, but the execution woeful. The structure of the novel irritated me, and the narrator was so unreliable, it made me question the worth of listening to his story at all. Whilst this raised some interesting questions about narrative reliability generally, questions, which in all honesty, made my head hurt, the book overall, failed to sustain my interest.

I was about to let The Dinner have it with both barrel,s but then Alan at Words of Mercury posted his thoughts on the book. If you don’t follow Alan then you should; he always offers unexpected viewpoints and describes them with rare eloquence. His review was as thoughtful as ever, but disturbingly, largely positive. He clearly found something in the book I had not.

Thanks to Twitter, I was able to talk to him about his experience and compare it to mine. After a short exchange, a couple of things fell into place, mostly to do with the unreliability of the narrator. OK, I still didn’t think much of The Dinner as a book, but I couldn’t help but notice my desperate need to talk about it. My wife also read it, and as soon as I’d finished, I had to seek her out, to question her, to find out what she thought. Would she validate my opinions or offer an alternative view?

In turn, this had me thinking about the act of reading in a vacuum. Normally, I read, digest and review without any external input. Indeed, I usually actively avoid outside influence so as not to colour my judgement, but can a book properly be analysed without discussing it? Should a prospective reader of a book ever take a single person’s viewpoint before making a decision? Well, probably not. I almost never buy a book without looking at several reviews, positive and negative, but is this enough?

Each single review is a discrete view. A host of review brings out something like agreement, but only a discussion can bring about true consensus. This of course is one of the draws of a book group. Read a book alone, understand it together. I’ve often gone into a book group with one view of a book and come out with another. My views have be affected both positively and negatively.

What does this mean with respect to The Dinner? Well I didn’t enjoy it, but I have spent a lot of time talking about it, and trying to understand it. It is, therefore, rather hard to argue convincingly that it’s a bad book. It’s divisive, which is clearly the author’s intention, but maybe in more ways than he imagined. I find it hard to recommend reading The Dinner, but if you do then I strongly suggest you do so in a group. You may well find the discussion goes on for a lot longer than a three course meal.

To summarise:

What I didn’t like.

• The narrative is not just a single dinner party, but a series of flashbacks and reminiscences.  I think the book would have been far more interesting if it were confined to the table
• Given the history revealed, it’s hard to imagine  this dinner party ever being agreed to by all parties
• Characterisation is off kilter. Nobody feels real.
  
• Unbelievable representation of medical facts.

What I liked.

• The inclusion of an adopted son gives an interesting angle on nature vs nurture.
• The questioning of whether parents know what’s best for their children.
• It’s funny.

Whilst I didn’t enjoy The Dinner, the question of the reliability of Paul’s  story has plagued me since I put it down. The idea of him skewing the nature vs nurture debate to absolve himself from his family’s breakdown is fascinating.  We all rewrite our histories.  Some of us go to more extremes than others.

Many Thanks to Alison at Atlantic Books for providing me with a copy for review. 

Just What Kind of Mother Are You? by Paula Daly

There is something very combative about the title of this book. It demands that you pay it closer attention. ‘Just What Kind of Mother Are You?’ Voicing this question aloud is one of middle England’s most sacrosanct taboos. Let’s be honest, you don’t ask this question to find out whether they’re a hommous and breadsticks kind of mum. In a world where offspring rivalry defines everything, the question is like a cudgel to the head, yet most of (parents) us ask it internally every day. Sometimes of other parents (‘What? Really? They can have two?’, as no parent has uttered to another, ever.), but more usually of ourselves. In the modern world to fail one’s children is life’s biggest crime, and its a crime we’re obsessed with.

Too many sweets? Not enough clubs? Too many clubs? By them an iPad? Take them to Legoland? Organic or Processed? MMR or homeopathic? From the moment our children are born, we place them on pedestals. We want them to have everything and want to be everything to them. Some parents cope with this better than others, or as Paula Daly points out in her novel, some appear to cope better than others.

Lisa is a working Mum of three. She works tirelessly for a dog charity. There’s not enough hours in the day and certainly not enough money in the bank. Staunchly loyal husband, Joe, is a taxi driver. Whilst he is by no means an absent father his presence is unpredictable. With so many balls to juggle, occasionally Lisa drops one. This time her simple error has disastrous consequences. She was meant to pick up a friend’s child and have her stay the night. By the time she realises she’s forgotten, Lucinda has been missing for 18hrs.

That is the elegant premise of JWKOMAY? Just the thought of it instils dread. How could you face the parents? Your own children? How do you carry on with the day-to-day? How can you help? How should you interact with the police investigation?

What follows is a smart, snappy whodunit that’s menacing yet unsensational. The story flits between viewpoints. We follow Lisa as she crashes around trying to make things better. She has been friends with the family for a number of years, but there’s some previous tension there too. Tensions that immediately resurface. DC Joanne Aspinall adds the procedural element of the story. I really liked her as a character. She is tough but human, and best of all she’s not derivative. She picks away at the case, taking the view that its nearly always the family. It yields interesting results.

The final contributor to the story is the kidnapper. We are treated to a few omniscient observations of his thoughts and actions that genuinely creeped the hell out of me. Too many books these days go for gore and depravity. These pieces are just the wrong side of normal, and all the more disturbing for it. They reminded me of Frederick Clegg from ‘The Collector’. Updated and pacier for a modern crime fiction audience.

The story as it unfolds is exciting, but not exceptional. There are a couple of coincidences that I felt were unnecessary, and the plot as a whole, although unexpected, was a little far fetched. But that’s OK, because, like the best crime novels, this book isn’t all about the crime. It’s about the people and the crime’s ramifications. The depiction of the chaos of modern family life is spot on.

Above all, this book is about cutting ourselves some slack. Relax, you’re not the only one making a hash of it, we all are. Every picture of perfection has a flaw behind it. JWKOMAY? is an ode to the relentlessness of modern motherhood. I’m a stay at home Dad and could recognise many of the characters and attitudes present in the book.

This book put into perspective that no matter what else my wife does, first and foremost she’s a Mum. That’s why she’s the one sorting stuff out after a long day at the office whilst, I read and write reviews. It’s not that I’m lazy, my day is hard work too, but somehow she sees all the things that need doing, when I can only hear the call of the kettle. On finishing the book, I gained further respect for the wonderful job that she does. A job that, as Paula Daly is all too aware, she thinks she’s failing at. I should help her more…

This gentle insight is what sets Just What Kind Of Mother Are You? apart from the field. This is a fine debut that should grace many beaches over the summer, and fill countless book groups with heated discussion.

Many Thanks to Alison at Transworld for an advance copy of this book. 

We take care of our own – ‘Gemsigns’ by Stephanie Saulter

Stephanie Saulter’s Gemsigns is a slow-burning thoughtful dystopia. It’s set in the nearish future, after a devastating global pandemic. The Syndrome, a neurological disease, swept across the globe killing millions. National squabbles were put aside, as a worldwide search for a cure began. The solution was genetic engineering. Resistance to the syndrome was bred into future generations; genetic disease and disability become a thing of the past. Humanity is saved.

But all is not rosy. In what could be termed a double-dip dystopia, genetic modification continued. With a generation destroyed, a huge work-force was required, fast. Genetically modified humans or Gems, became more extreme, more tailored to specific jobs. Entrenched in intellectual property rights and directly owned by the Gemtech corporations that built them, the Gems became little more than slaves.  A two tier society was created, but this sustained oppression was untenable in the long term, giving birth to The Declaration, a treaty that gave Gems their freedom and some basic rights. The Gems are free, but mistrusted. Are they human, sub-human or superhuman? And who decides?

The novel opens a week before a vital conference for Gem assimilation. One of the protagonists, behavioural scientist Eli Walker, is to present his findings at the meeting, but as he tries to gather evidence in the final seven days, tempers are running high. He is surrounded by a strong supporting cast, all with a vested interest in the outcome of the conference.

Though not without its faults, I found Gemsigns to be a thoroughly absorbing read. The world-building is extraordinary; massively complex. The political, religious and ethical ramifications of Saulter’s premise are manifold, and she has painstakingly constructed a believable environment in which to explore them. The problem is there are large amounts of exposition. It may be pages of fascinating information, but its still being dumped on the reader. It’s most definitely a case of telling rather than showing.

Still, if what you are being told is interesting, it doesn’t matter too much, does it? Some might disagree but I think the author more than gets away with. In front of her solid background there plays out an exciting story; a moral and ethical tussle laden with religious imagery and corporate greed. This a story about prejudice, about acceptance, but above all it’s a tale about what makes us human. Like the best science fiction, it uses speculation to examine our own world in more depth.

The conclusion to Gemsigns is fast-paced, with a pleasing twist. A twist that feeds back into the narrative, altering its character’s preconceptions as well as those of the reader. You could perhaps argue that the author’s voice is a little too partisan, but we were never going to root for anybody other than Aryel and the rest of the Gems.

This is the first novel in the (brilliantly titled) ®evolution trilogy. It works as a stand alone novel, but is left open for a whole lot more. With such excellent world building in place, this could turn out to be an exceptional series. Whilst not quite in the league of Jonathan Triggell’s impeccable Genus, with which it shares many themes, Gemsigns is a thought provoking read that stands apart from a crowded genre.

Many thanks to the team at Jo Fletcher books for providing me with a copy of Gemsigns.

Back to Human – ‘The Machine’ by James Smythe

The Machine. Where to start? Author James Smythe is causing something of a stir in the world of books, or at least he is in the bit I frequent. His previous two novels (The Testimony and The Explorer have been understated, strongly thematic literary science fiction (whatever that is?). I loved them both.

The Machine is probably the least accessible novel of his I’ve read, but it’s also the best. It’s packed with themes and ideas, and delightfully, the story is nested inside itself, turning the reader’s understanding of the novel on its head.

Set in the near future, in a decaying Britain, Beth is taking delivery of three large parcels. There is something clandestine about this. The parcels are marked ‘exercise equipment’ but this is not what’s inside. On the black market Beth has bought The Machine. We learn that these machines were miracle cures for dementia patients and traumatic stress sufferers. The Machine can manipulate memories; it can take them away, it can put them back.

The machines were heralded as medical marvels, but something went horribly wrong. Now they are outlawed. Victor, Beth’s husband fell victim. An ex soldier, he suffered traumatic stress after being injured in the field. They tried to replace his memories. Instead they wiped his brain. Now Beth hopes to put those memories back.

Smythe’s first two books were not without their detractors. I’ve seen reviews pooh-poohing his involvement in creative writing courses (Smythe teaches the subject), effectively accusing him of putting style over substance. This is not an opinion I subscribe to, but The Machine is unlikely to bring any of these people back into the fold. This is a highly stylised piece of writing. There are no speech marks to delineate dialogue, often there isn’t even a line break. This gives the novel a stream of consciousness feel, which takes some time to acclimatise to. It’s a very deliberate decision on the author’s part and initially it’s hard to see its justification. All I can say is that by the novel’s close the choice is fully justified.

The opening half of the novel, is slow, almost bumbling. Beth is preparing the machine, her flat, her life for the arrival of her husband. It’s like watching somebody fiddle with the place settings before an important dinner party. Of itself, not terribly interesting, but it’s hugely telling. Smythe uses this time to set his scene. By the time Vic has returned home, we understand Beth’s world, her loneliness, her isolation.

This book will inevitably be compared to Frankenstein (indeed the back cover of my copy does so). There are undoubted parallels, and it is from here, thematically, that the story bursts into life. There is an amazing scene where Beth is using the machine to refurnish Vic’s memories and the electricity is cut off. This inversion of Frankenstein’s Monster’s animation, is inspired, particularly when combined with the raging storm outside. These two pages alone make The Machine worth reading; they stopped me in my tracks. The written word at its most powerful.

But the author is not merely content with reworking a classic, he has plenty of themes of his own to explore. Though completely different in style to one other, The Machine unifies Smythe previous two novels under a thematic umbrella. All three novels explore isolation, faith and belief. The use of the machines, is considered (by some) as ungodly; messing with the soul. Which links into the novel’s main questions, What makes us human? Are we an aggregate of our experiences? Are we defined by our memories?

Part of the novel’s appeal, is that anybody reading it can relate to its central premise. Who hasn’t wished they could remove a terrible memory, who wouldn’t like to repaint a fading reminiscence of a happy event? Needless to say, Beth’s plan to regain the man she loves does not go well. Again this provokes questions. Does she love the man, or her memories of the man? With different memories, is he the same man?

As things deteriorate, it’s impossible not to read on in grim fascination. By this time novel’s style is irrelevant, the story is utterly compelling. Much like The Explorer, as The Machine hurtles towards its conclusion Smythe pans his lens out to reveal the bigger picture. Once we can see everything, we realise nothing has been left to chance. Every choice Smythe made was deliberate, the structure of his novel meticulously planned. The finale is as breathtaking as it was unexpected.

I thought Explorer was good, but The Machine is staggering. Buy it, read it, then buy copies of it for your friends, because you are going to want to talk about it.

Thanks to James for sending me a copy of the book. He can be found on Twitter as @jpsmythe

E.Aster Bunnymund and the Warrior Eggs at Earth’s Core by William Joyce

The heroically titled second volume of William Joyce’s Guardians of Childhood, takes over immediately from where volume 1 left off. Pitch has been vanquished, but is sure to return. North, Ombric and Katherine are in the Himalayas, and the children and creatures of Santoff Claussen are alone, watched over only by the ever vigilant and valiant Nightlight.

Unsurprisingly things go wrong, but not before Ombric discovers a time machine and attempts to prevent Pitch’s fall into despair. As he tries to alter history, he is stopped by a seven foot bunny, who wields a staff with an egg on the end.

Any novel that employs a gargantuan cottontail as its deus ex machina better not take itself too seriously, and fortunately E. Aster Bunnymund… does not. It’s a beguiling riot from start to finish, filled with rich language and surreal shenanigans. The plot is almost non-existent, but magic and excitement burst from every page.

My seven year old, devoured this book. It was an amazing sight, seeing how immersed in it he became, how thrilled he was by the Easter Bunny and his army of eggs. It’s not all high-jinx. There is somber element added through the Bunny’s misgivings about the more destructive elements of human nature.

Once again the book is a beautiful object. Great cover art and beautiful illustrations inside, compensating for a thinness of plot. The world building is beautiful; a beguiling modern fairy-tale. Before he’d even finished my son was asking me to order the next part in the series. After all that chocolate, who else could it be next but the Tooth Fairy?

It rakes at my heart – ‘The Crane Wife’ by Patrick Ness

I should declare up front that I was predisposed to love this book. Patrick Ness’s Chaos Walking trilogy is one of the finest rendered dystopian visions in print. The middle volume, The Ask and The Answer is one of my all-time favourite books. The Crane Wife, by the Decemberists is one of my favourite albums. Both book and album draw their inspiration from the same Japanese Folk-tale. Ness opens his novel with a Decemberists lyric and acknowledges their brilliance in his afterword.

The novel opens with divorcee George being woken by a keening sound from his garden. Investigating he finds an injured bird. A white crane, its wing pierced by a long and ancient arrow. Shortly afterwards he meets Kumiko. His life is never the same. Before Kumiko George’s life is prosaic, but together they make fantastic art. Their relationship is passionate, yet unearthly. It causes ripples in every corner of George’s life. Kumiko touches everyone she meets.

The Crane Wife is a pitch perfect tale about the hazards of love. Love in every sense; familial, romantic and in friendship. The greediness of love; the need to possess, the need to be possessed. The selfishness, the selflessness. Love with all its contradictions. It is also story about stories. How the same story can be told a different way for every viewpoint. This theme is picked out beautifully at the beginning and remains lurking at the back throughout the entire novel.

The writing is sublime. Funny, razor sharp and devastatingly accurate. Interleaved between the main narrative is a folk tale, central to the main story yet entirely separate, it is very different in style, and may not suit all tastes. Towards the novel’s climax the folk-tale and real-world narrative dove-tail, giving the book a sense of magic and wonder. I’m not always a fan of magic realism, but this is both gentle and in keeping with the book as a work of art.

To unpick The Crane Wife for review is to diminish it. It is a tale about the beauty found in everyday life. Compelling from start to finish, I was unable to stop reading, even after switching out the lights. The characters and their incomplete travails played upon my mind in the dark of the night. The only way to find peace was to turn the lights back on, and devour the conclusion. Exceptional.

Other great reviews of The Crane Wife can be found at Niall Alexander’s review on Tor.Com and Words of Mercury

Many Thanks to Canongate for an advanced copy of this book

Imagination running riot – ‘A Face Like Glass’ by Frances Hardinge

It took me at least a hundred pages to feel my way into this book. Probably because it confounded my expectations. It’s a children’s book, so I envisaged an easy read. It’s critically acclaimed,  so I was expecting a high quality tale. What I hadn’t expected was something so mind-bogglingly creative. I recently read Catherine Fisher’s excellent Obsidian Mirror, a simple story,well told. I hoped for something similar. Instead I found my self-treated to a convoluted, crazy tale, with ruthless inquisitors, insane map-makers and exploding cheese. It’s a riot of the imagination and a work of creative genius.

The story opens inside the catacombs of a reclusive master cheese maker (see, it’s odd from the outset) Seven years earlier he found a stowaway. A stowaway who had somehow circumnavigated all of his defences. When he saw her face he was so terrified he made her wear a mask, and destroyed all his mirrors. That girl was Neverfell. She will change the world.

The novel is set inside Caverna, a subterranean kingdom, riddled with passageways and intrigues. It’s like a proving ground for Alice in Wonderland characters. Caverna is as a peculiar a setting as it’s possible to imagine. Its single most unusual attribute is that its denizens only have a fixed number of facial expressions. Each one must be learnt. The rich have many, the poor as few as four. Neverfell, the novel’s protagonist is unique. She comes from the outside, and her face is like glass. Everything thought and feeling she has is transparent. She cannot lie. It’s a fantastic device. A character whose integrity is unimpeachable. Hardinge has great fun with it.

Some of Caverna’s other delights include, a supreme ruler who never sleeps, shutting down one side of his brain at a time. Cartographer’s who can drive people insane just by talking to them. A master criminal, who’s as elusive as he is cunning. Wine that makes you forget, perfume that makes you attractive and cheese that is highly unstable. Add to this, a political family that make the Borgias look like the Beverly Hillbillies, and some bone-crunchingly inventive assassins and you have a potent brew indeed.

Once I’d felt my way into the book, it was impossible not to be entranced. Hardinge’s use of language is phenomenal  The book appears to be marketed at fans of JK Rowling, but the word building and intricate imagery make the Potter novels look like Spot the Dog. The novel is suffused with a soft and delicate wit. There is villainy of the highest order, and heroism of epic proportions. There is some obvious but important allegory, and at the centre beats a very good story.

After a shaky start, I loved A Face Like Glass, a beautiful and original novel. It’s a book that deserves to be read far and wide. I would recommend it for children with strong reading skills and adults whose sense of wonder is still alive. There really are very few books like it.