And I think that is why Emma Donoghue’s Room makes me so damn angry.

A brief synopsis: Room is the story of a young girl who is kidnapped by a loner and kept in a tiny room in his back-garden. She gives birth to a boy and raises him within the small room where they are at the mercy of the loner. The story echoes recent real-life crime cases – Josef Fritzl and his daughter, Natascha Kampusch, and Jaycee Lee Dugard – but is a work of fiction detailing life within confinement and subsequent events. Room has been shortlisted for the Man Booker prize and has won many major literary awards.

The subject matter is not the problem. Although it would be easy to step into “misery literature” territory, Room sidesteps this neatly by leaving out most of the actual abuse. Indeed, Donoghue is not preoccupied by the grisly details (which may disappoint some readers, I am sure) but instead she wants to explore how human beings respond to extraordinary situations and to each other. She employs the five-year-old boy, Jack, as the narrator of the story – undoubtedly to defamiliarise to an already unreal scenario.

And Jack as the narrator is the problem with Room.

I can understand the lure of using Jack as the narrator as it avoids a lot of sticky situations for Donoghue as a writer (as discussed above) but Jack the five-year-old narrator is wildly inconsistent. He uses abstract concepts like “sarcasm” in context and says “hippopotami” with correct declension – but Donoghue also has him saying “I finded him” and “I knowed.” So, the five year old kid can wield correct Greek grammar, but not use standard English strong verbs?

Russian literary critics used to differ between fabula and syuzhet: fabula is what happens; syuzhet is how it is told. Emma Donoghue has a firm grasp on the fabula part of her story, but Jack-as-narrator is a structural (syuzhet) problem that messes up Room in a very big way. It is not just that his language usage is woefully all-over-the-place but the pacing is off, any characterisation is by necessity very flat, and the internal logic has extremely big flaws.

And, so yes, reading Room made me angry.

I thought it was awful.

I have been reading a lot lately, but I don’t write much about the books I read for some reason. As always, feel free to catch up with my reads on GoodReads – the widget is to the right.

But I am still going to tell you exactly what I think of this book.

You may know that my day job involves meeting lots of knitters and offering technical advice. As part of this day job I get often asked which book I would recommend for beginning knitters. I usually recommend Debbie Stoller’s Stitch & Bitch because it gives a beginner information I think is vital: in-depth notes on needles, yarns, and patterns that understand different skill levels. However, S’n'B suffers from three flaws: the pattern styles are outmoded, the yarns used are rarely available to a UK knitter, and once you have graduate from being a beginner to a intermediate knitter, you won’t find the book super-useful.

The Knitting Book (KB) ticks the boxes that S’n'B does not do – whilst still delivering the entry-level information that a beginner needs. KB is actually jaw-droppingly all-inclusive. You get a section on tools and materials that explains everything from needles, yarn weights and how to understand a ball band to colour theory, how to use blocking wires, and garment care.

The section on techniques had me reeling. The beginner gets a competent and assuring run-down of how to cast-on and how to do basic stitches. Intermediate knitters get tips on shaping, knitting in the round, and using colour. Advanced knitters? Oh heavens: cast-on methods I had never heard about, two-colour i-cord, ways of knitting backwards, clever buttonholes..

.. can you tell that I’m actually pretty shocked to have encountered a book that combines traditional tried-and-tested methods with trendy Ravelry-style techniques? I am so used to seeing knitting books that essentially just repeat what hundreds of older books say (“there are three ways of casting on, you pick up stitches this way, baby garments are only knitted in baby wool..”) that I am honestly taken aback from the sheer knitterly joy and unbridled freedom that I see in KB. This book is clearly written by people who understand there has been a minor earthquake within knitting in the last ten years and who want to combine the sense of everything is possible with the UK’s proud knitting heritage.

The pattern section is particularly strong on this point. Intelligently it picks up on techniques previously showcased and delivers accessible designs for knitters of all skill levels. The designers must be used to dealing with knitters on a daily basis because I can see so many of my usual queries being answered: easy accessories (also for men!), gift ideas, and baby items. Want to learn how to do fair isle? There is a small project idea for that! Fancy giving socks a go? Three different patterns are available at increasing difficulty. Every pattern has hints and tips – I wish all patterns came with these little features as they would make my life a tiny bit easier.

I have three patterns that I personally want to try: the cabled wrist warmers (I was just given the perfect yarn for them), the Jelly Fish scarf (which looks super cosy), and the Harlequin scarf which uses Kid Silk Haze in a colour-graduating fashion. Mmmm, Kid Silk Haze..

Are there any drawbacks to KB? Yes, of course there are. It is more expensive than, say, Stitch’n'Bitch. It is not particularly portable and will most likely become a reference book residing on your shelves rather than being dragged with you to knitting group. Some beginners will feel overwhelmed by its wealth of information and run away screaming. I am unsure about the stitch dictionary section: you first see it straight after the tools & materials section, but the actual instructions only appear sections later – this feels a bit random. It is not styled to within an inch of its life nor does it have beautiful people wearing the knitted samples in a stylish home. KB is much more utilitarian than that.

I am trying to be objective here – truly I am – but KB is a cracker. I see and get offered so many knitting books and I rarely come away feeling like I have uncovered a gem. I’m clearly not the only one to feel this way, though, as I have been told this title is already being translated for overseas markets. I am very, very glad to have this as part of my library. It is going right in next to Montse Stanley & I am going to use this for many years to come.

The Gentle Art of Knitting is pretty in a comfortable, yet aspiring way. The photography is lovely, the layout is stylish (but not dauntingly stylish) and the writing has a spring in its step. I was not surprised to find that Brocket is a blogger because her writing has a certain immediate, chatty style to it. I know I’m supposed to be charmed by her book and herself, but I have problems with the book.

I am well-educated middle-class woman who likes making things. I also like things with a story. And I appreciate aesthetically pleasing things. I am the target audience for this book but I feel condescended towards:  Reading The Gentle Art of Knitting I feel like I am not good enough because I have not chosen the right wine to go with my knitting (but Jane can help!); I am not good enough because I did not pick up 20 skeins of Cascade 220 on my last breezy weekend trip to New York (but Jane did!); And I am not fun and retro enough to have a knitted tea-cosy for my teapot (but Jane sure is!). There is a sense that my own life is slightly lacking but that Jane Brocket hovering behind me will gently correct all my tiny flaws.

I am not sure where this lingering sense of inferiority is coming from. Ms Brocket’s designs are not exactly earth-shattering: a knitted apron, a bog-standard ripple crochet blanket, a chevron scarf.. There is exactly one pattern I like in this book – a pair of pillows – while the rest of the patterns feel nondescript. Designs do not need to be complicated, of course, but I somehow expected more from a book with such a heavy emphasis on aesthetics. I somehow expected a cohesive design strategy..

(There is even an strange bit devoted to “cult knitting patterns” which has her describing the Clapotis scarf and The February Lady Sweater. This section feels very odd, very tacked-on, and oddly dated.)

It is a UK book, yet most yarns used can only be bought in a handful of shops throughout the country. We are not even talking unicorn yarn here, just straightforward US workhorse yarns: Cascade 220 and Blue Sky Alpaca. If Jane Brocket wants to use yarns that is more exclusive than what you can find in your average UK yarn shop, why use quite plain US workhorse yarn? Why not track down The Natural Dye Studio? Fyberspates? The Knitting Goddess? If exclusivity is not her aim, why not promote UK companies? Rowan? Debbie Bliss? Sublime? Her readers will thank her for being able to buy the suggested yarns.

But then again it’s a book for knitters that do not knit. It is lifestyle porn in the same way as Nigella’s cooking shows, Kirstie Allsopp’s TV crafting and the Sunday newspaper colour supplements are inviting you to buy into a lifestyle. As a knitter who does like to knit, I am not sure what to do with this book.

I have tried hard to think of The Gentle Art of Knitting‘s unique selling proposition but I cannot really find one. At the end of the day it is an aspirational lifestyle blog locked into a book. There are many knitting and lifestyle blogs out there – many of which are far better than this book – and I can read them for free. I can also buy far better pattern books at a fraction of the price.

I’m sure I wouldn’t have spent nearly 700 words on the Harry Hill knitting book. I’m also sure I wouldn’t have felt so disheartened either.

Good reads: I discovered Andrew Crumey and I look forward to more books by him. Moebius Dick was my favourite out of the three Crumey novels I read in 2009. AS Byatt’s The Children’s Book was incredibly satisfying and I re-read the last twenty-five pages twice before finally closing the book. I finally read Donna Tartt’s The Secret History and while I continue to struggle with North-American fiction (Atwood notwithstanding – long story) and I had a few quibbles with certain subplots, I enjoyed the read. The best read of the year was undoubtedly Michel Faber’s Under the Skin. It was one of those “nasty little books” I love so much. An incredibly well-written, tightly plotted and genre-defying novel I know I will be revisiting in years to come. It’s not often I find a new favourite read.

Uneven reads: I read Adam Roberts’ Yellow Blue Tibia this holiday season and I wanted to love it. Its premise sounds like something I would like – Soviet Union, science fiction writers and the possibility of multiple realities – but I ended up being disappointed. Roberts’ writing is sloppy (as is the editing), the tone is uneven and the book does not live up to its premise until fifty pages from the end when you get the feeling Roberts is finally writing the book he wants to write. I was very unimpressive with a running gag about a man with Asperger’s Syndrome which was wholly unnecessary to the plot and jarred badly. Still, the last fifty pages or so redeemed the book from being merely a bad read. It was an uneven and occasionally interesting read. Flann O’Brien’s minor classic The Dalkey Archive was also a comedic read but a more successful one. I was not entirely enthralled by it, though, but I am glad I finally read it. Junot Diaz’ Oscar Wao was another book I thought I would love more than I did. I am still not sure why it did not work for me and it continues to nag me.

Bad reads: I really didn’t like Ross Raisin’s God’s Own Country. It read like Raisin had read Iain Banks’ vastly superior The Wasp Factory and felt the book needed sheep. Audrey Niffenegger’s much-hyped The Time-Traveller’s Wife was a huge disappointment to me. I thought it would be a genre-hopping, intelligent novel and instead it was chick-lit in disguise. Honestly, if I wanted romance or sheep-herding, I’d be reading Georgette Heyer. Wait a sec..

Goal for 2010: reading fewer Georgette Heyers, reading more from the unread pile(s), get hold of the latest books by Margaret Atwood and Colm Toibin.

The curious thing is that I started to really get into the socio-economics described by Heyer. Usually she is praised for her knowledge of early 19th century fashion and her distinct language usage (la!), but as I was lying in bed reading one novel after one, I started paying attention to money. Who has money? Who hasn’t? What do they do with the money? How does money flow through the novels? How does money connect and separate people? Gosh, I almost feel like a Marxist literary critic..

A Civil Contract sees an impoverished aristocrat marrying a wealthy trader’s daughter and through the marriage attempt to improve his estate’s farming conditions. It is not a wildly romantic novel (no passionate embraces; no swooning) but a rather pragmatic look at class differences and social aspirations. While the book is far from being Great Literature, I found it convincing and interesting. I’m not sure I will read it again (unless I discover an hitherto unknown passion for early 19th C drainage problems) but it is certainly one of Heyer’s beefiest novels.

The Unknown Ajax is a straightforward read compared to A Civil Contract. The hero and heroine flirt, chase ghosts, encounter smugglers and fall in love. Lather, rinse, repeat. What I loved about the book, though, was the fact that the hero is a Yorkshire woollen mill owner(!) and Heyer devotes several passages to the discussion of fleeces, crimp, sheep breeds, and the economics thereof. Just the thing to read when you’re in bed and too weak to knit.

At the end of it all David pondered if I like reading Heyer because of a) the fashion discussions (I am a costume history devotee), b) the Yorkshire sheep or c) the many, many dogs with distinct personalities? I like to think it’s a combination of all three plus the sparkling wit, the often ludicrous language and the knowing use of literary references (like the Shakespeare, Pope and Byron quotations in Venetia, possibly my favourite Heyer novel).

Speaking of things Romantic, I have begun knitting the Percy (Bysshe Shelley) shawl in Old Maiden Aunt 2ply alpaca/merino in the Bracken colourway. I paged through my well-thumbed copy of Shelley’s Collected Poems earlier today and was amused by the doom and gloom I encountered. I had forgotten how Gothic he can be..

Ah, and the title? Enjoy Chet Baker’s version of it on YouTube..

I do not know why I’ve read three Scarlett Thomas novels because if you take away the colourful packaging of a) metafiction (”The End of Mr Y”), b) anti-consumerism (”PopCo”) and c) popculture (”Going Out”) you get pretty much the same novel.

New Age health solutions? Check. Schrödinger’s cat? Check. Main protagonist being into her math puzzles? Check. Slightly deviant sexual orientation painted in a fairly vague way? Check. C-category drug use? Check. Vegetarianism or some variant upon it? Check. Internet featuring heavily? Check.

Andrew Crumey’s novel, Mobius Dick, has me hoping that I have found the novel I thought I had in my hands when I read The End of Mr Y. It is a dazzling, original novel which defies easy categorisation (postmodern metafiction? science-fiction? thriller?). Like Thomas’ book, Mobius Dick takes its cue from theoretical physics, the idea of parallel worlds and the intersection between literature and science. However, unlike Thomas, Crumey is in full control of his material and does not take the reader on unnecessary detours (although getting to the “end” is quite a roller-coaster ride).

Will I read more Crumey novels and discover he is a one-trick pony much like Ms Thomas? I hope I’ll end up discovering a new favourite author. Right now it feels as though I have. Explaining the plot of Mobius Dick terrifies me slightly, so suffice to say that it feels like a bit Jorge Luis Borges mixed with David Mitchell and a dash of early Alasdair Gray. Heady.

It read a bit like really decent fanfiction in the sense that it subverted canon, told the story via a secondary character and fleshed out the world of Oz (like, just how did they build the Yellow Brick Road and why?). Like much fanfiction, the book also adds a healthy dollop of sexuality to a familiar story.

Did I like it? If it had been fanfiction – i.e. self-published fiction by someone whose day-job does not involve literature – I would have sung its praise because it is clever, inventive and does a marvellous job at humanising a character who’s cardboard Evil in the original book. But it’s not the work of a smart fan. “Wicked” is professionally published, has a John-Updike-in-the-New-Yorker recommendation on the front cover and its author talks about his book being a parable for the Vietnam war. This is where I begin to have serious reservations.

“Wicked” simply isn’t good enough for that sort of pretension. It’s a fun read with its fair share of structural and characterisation problems (most of which are forgiveable, admittedly, except for the middle third of the book which is one big mess) but it does not go any deeper than that. Maguire sets up quite a few interesting points – the distinction between Animals/animals; attitude towards sexuality; the divide and interdependence of science/religion – and completely fails to follow up on these points. Other Half has another two Maguire books set in Oz. I will be reading them at some point, but I’m not in any rush.

Related: Gregory Maguire reimagines “The Little Match Girl” for NPR.

I finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s excellent The Road yesterday. Its sparse, exquisite prose reminded me of Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead as did the preoccupation with love and tenderness. However, while Gilead is about a place and staying there, The Road travels through nameless towns, through woods and across mountains. It deals with a world where there are no places or localities – insofar as ‘place’ is situated in time (cf. Foucault and the discussion of space/place) or in memory. McCarthy’s book is bleak, austere and shockingly beautiful. It is also a strong contender for Best Read of 2008.

Speaking of which, one of the best reads I had last year was the flawed but absolutely fascinating The End of Mr Y by Scarlett Thomas. I just picked up her PopCo and I am somewhat reassured by reviewers insisting that despite the ghastly cover, it is ‘intelligent and witty’.

Finally, astute readers with stalkerishly attention to blog-details may note that I have re-designed Fourth Edition and that it now bears an astonishing resemblance to a certain blogspot blog I kept years and years ago. What can I say? I’m retro.

The plot outline: 18th century Britain. Catholics and Protestants live side by side uneasily. The young poet Alexander Pope is heading to London to make his name. He encounters a situation he’ll later immortalise in the wonderful mock epic The Rape of the Lock. So, by all accounts you get literary history in the making, the (in)famous flirt between Lord Petre and Arabella Fermor (as immortalised in the poem), religious troubles and a look at the early 18th century landscape. Ms Gee knows a helluva lot about the period and therein lies the real problem of this book.

I cannot enjoy it as fiction. The characters speak wonderfully witty early 18th century English but they all speak in the same manner. There is no distinct turn of phrase, no subtle nuances to their voices and after a few pages it begins to grate. The characters are not fleshed out, they never leap off the page and the plot drags. Furthermore, because Sophie Gee has her characters repartee so beautifully, the more modern phrases she occasionally employs spring out and annoy. As an expert writing on the literary and political landscape of early 18th century London, Gee convinces, though. I wish she had written a nice, witty treatise on that subject – she has apparently written academic articles on the matter – but it’s not very likely that little book would have made it to my little secondhand bookstore.

I did find Read for Pleasure through googling for Sophie Gee, so not all’s lost.