Books 2010: Scarlett Thomas – Our Tragic Universe
I am reading a lot at the moment. Scarlett Thomas' latest novel fell into my lap at the local library and I was happy to take it home with me. I am equally happy to take it back not having spent any money on it.
Let us recap what happened last time I read one of Ms Thomas' books:
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.
But I still like her novels (..) even if they feel like a Linda McCartney meal. You know, easily digested vegetarian fare with a touch of celebrity to it?
Our Tragic Universe? It reads like a diluted version of the above padded with Narratology for Dummies, Tarot cards, jam-making and pages about how difficult it is to, er, knit socks. Everything falls into place once Scarle Meg figures out how to knit socks on double-pointed needles. I wish I were making this up.
Okay, a more sophisticated approach:
Clearly Our Tragic Universe wants to have a plotless plot or even be that paradoxical beast: an approachable antinovel. Whatever plot it has, it revolves around our protagonist attempting to write a hip, Zeitgeisty novel without a plot. Ah, funnily enough the novel itself mirrors the non-existing novel within. So far, so refreshingly clever (or depressingly metafictional, depending upon your mood). Sadly, Scarlett Thomas knows how to do this intellectually (we know this because the books bangs on and on about the theories) but her novelistic chops let her down.
Our Tragic Universe is a mess, and not even an entertaining mess.
Scarlett Thomas thanks Andrew Crumey in her notes. Crumey writes the sort of novel that Thomas thinks (or wishes or pretends because her books are all about pretending) she is writing. Go seek them out. I'm currently thirty pages into David Mitchell's number9dream - he is that rare beast: an author who is a chameleon but also is constantly himself. Mitchell does marvellous things with narrative structure and is essentially a storyteller at heart. Another author I would recommend you read instead of spending time/money on Our Tragic Universe.
(Our Tragic Universe is actually worse than my other recent read, Julia Quinn's Splendid, which is terribly sad because Splendid is set in Regency London and has characters slipping in and out of 1990s Valley-speak.)
The Skies, Now Undisturbed
The wise elders would explain that inside the aircraft, passengers, who had only paid the price of a few books for the privilege, would impatiently and ungratefully shut their window blinds to the views, would sit in silence next to strangers while watching films about love and friendship - and would complain that the food in miniature plastic beakers before them was not quite as tasty as the sort they could prepare in their own kitchens.
The elders would add that the skies, now undisturbed except by the meandering progress of bees and sparrows, had once thundered to the sound of airborne leviathans, that entire swathes of Britain's cities had been disturbed by their progress
Alain de Botton wrote his piece in reaction to the last few days' "travel chaos" (i.e. man is not greater than nature). I am reminded of Ben Marcus' The Age of Wire & String, a strange little book which I struggled to understand. I think it is the ritualised language both de Botton and Marcus use.
Completely unrelated: Death Metal Lyric OR William Blake Quote? Go on ..
Meanwhile I am still torn on whether to use a particular yarn for a particular cardigan pattern. When I look at the yarn I think "texture! cables! I have 1700 yrds!" but the cardigan is rather plain and takes 1050 yrds. Woe.
Linkage
A few links to tide things over:
- A few weeks ago a perceptive blogger wrote about volcanic activity in Iceland. Seeing as Northern Europe's airports are more-or-less shutdown due to a massive cloud of volcanic ash coming from Iceland, you might find it an interesting background read. Also: Katla, another Icelandic volcano, could well be about to get ready to rumble.
- Speaking of Eyjafjallajökull, have you seen this fantastic photo taken by a local farmer?
- And this is how to pronounce Eyjafjallajökull (links to sound). Not what I expected.
- Pictish writing?! The idea sounds ludicrous. Language Log explains.
- Best places to eat in Glasgow for the budget-conscious? The Guardian has a few ideas.. and handily includes a photo of the 78 (one of my favourite hang-outs) plus the opening paragraph explains why I love my new home.
- If you love fashion history or even costume history, chances are you will have heard of Prinny - King George the IV - a man so fond of bling that he built entire bling buildings where he could wear fabulous clothes with his bling and eat outlandish food. Glass of Fashion has been to see an exhibition of some of Prinny's outfits.
- Literary T-shirts. The double-think t-shirt is pretty cool. Others leave me wanting.
- Douglas Coupland has teamed up with Penguin Books for their 75th anniversary. Speaking to the Past is seriously gorgeous stuff with typical Coupland 'little ironies'. One for the bookmarks.
- Finally, Auntie Beeb asks why we need oil painters in a war zone.
Rufus Wainwright last night was very good, but I had certain reservations. More on that later - I also have a finished object to share and some thoughts about a certain free-for-all pattern.
Still Waters
Yes, it continues to be cold. The novelty of snow has long worn off. My sole source of weather-related amusement is the media who insist 60,000 people will die in the Big Freeze, the British Army is being set in and the beginning of food shortages lead to soaring prices. Yesterday night BBC News ran a Breaking News! story which was - and I kid you not - that snowflakes were seen falling in London. Panic, panic, panic.. but I do find it annoying that we have to pour hot water down our loo every few hours so that the pipes do not freeze. One part of our apartment building had to be shut down because the pipes burst. If ever there was an argument against pipes being stuck to the outside of buildings and exposed to the elements, then this is surely it? Oh you wacky Britons.
While I was at work yesterday (and hello to those of you who came visiting), David went for a walk along the River Kelvin. It is almost completely frozen and signs are up warning people against letting their dogs run unto the ice. Despite all the stern signage, Dave did spot a few illiterate animals out and about on the ice - including a little mink drinking a bit of water. I continue to be amazed at how much wildlife we have on our doorstep, even if we live in the middle of a sprawling city.
I'm currently reading Glen David Gold's Carter Beats the Devil which I gave David for Christmas (he hasn't had a chance to start it yet as he is reading his way through the other five novels I gave him). I bought it because I knew how much Dave had enjoyed Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay and I got a similar vibe from CBTD. If you like Kavalier & Clay, early 20th century popular entertainment or maybe even Wilkie Collins, I think CBTD might appeal. I'm certainly enjoying the glimpses into vaudeville performances, music halls and larger-than-life personalities.
Finally, I'm listening a fair bit to Martha Wainwright's album of Edith Piaf songs, Sans Fusils Ni Souliers A Paris. You can get a taste of it by watching Martha singing L'Accordéoniste on Jools Holland's show (youtube link). Her darling brother is touring Britain in April and I'm hoping for a concert ticket for my birthday.
Work As If You Live in the Early Days of a Better Nation
I do not know how many of you have read Alasdair Gray's excellent dystopian novel, Lanark: a Life in Four Books? It takes place partly in Glasgow and partly in an imaginary Glasgow, known as Unthank. In Unthank the characters are forever chasing sunlight whilst seemingly dying of a symbolic disease known as 'dragonhide' (Yes, well, Lanark isn't your average book). Right now I am feeling like I'm living in Unthank-Glasgow and not Glasgow-Glasgow because sunlight seems just out of reach and like something I vaguely remember from a dream.
I have a lot of time for Alasdair Gray. He is one of those novelists I am never sure whether people will like or not. I tend to recommend Poor Things as the gateway to Gray's oeuvre: it reads like a postmodern feminist Frankenstein; it is exuberant and giddy; and it is wildly entertaining. Unlikely Stories, Mostly is a rare beast: a short story collection which feels like a cohesive book and which is also a compulsive read. The stories ranges from short childhood snippets to the fantastic typographic fantasy of "Sir Thomas' Logopandocy" about Sir Thomas Urquhart (it remains my favourite piece by Gray). Lanark tends to divide people - my boyfriend still cannot believe that I like a book that nasty and unpleasant, but then again he has not read Gray's 1982, Janine which is Gray's tour-de-force in sheer unpleasantness and utter despair (and I really like that one too).
I once spent a lot of time looking at how Alasdair Gray imagines the Book as an object. 1982, Janine is not only a typographical wonder (at one point the protagonist attempts suicide which is portrayed in visual poetry) but its hardcover is beautifully decorated by Gray himself. I always try to get hold of Gray's books in hardcover whenever I can because underneath the dust jackets, you get elaborate beautiful books. Gray also writes his own blurbs, controls the typesetting and draws his own illustrations. The Book of Prefaces is as close as Gray has come to a postmodern Gesamtkunstwerk. The book is beautiful, of course, but Gray adds an extra layer by writing prefaces to the selected prefaces and writing prefaces to those prefaces. It is all rather dazzling.
And as fate would have it, I have ended up in Glasgow. Alasdair Gray lives just a few streets down from me (I may have said "Good afternoon, sir" once or twice), my local pub features his artwork and my boyfriend has drawn him at art class. Strange how these things work out.
Read more about dear Ally Gray and his artwork or his writing and remember that Poor Things is the best place to start. Meanwhile I shall continue to chase sunlight.
The First Of Many: The Times’ Books of the Decade
Oh dear, we are going to be inundated with "The Best XYZ of This Decade!" lists, aren't we? One of the first Best Books of the Decade list comes from the Times (thank you, kimfobo) and is an eclectic mix of high- and low-culture, fiction and non-fiction, and Anglophone and translated works. I am not quite sure what the editorial guidelines were - maybe "try to include stuff people have heard of"?
Anyway, allow me a moment of indulgence as I track the ones I have read:
- 97: The Brief, Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. I posted about this book earlier this year. Generally favourable towards it, still.
- 66: Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell. It is not my favourite Mitchell novel (which is either yet to be written or Ghostwritten, depending upon my mood) but CA is great. Still cannot believe anything this clever ended up as a serious contender for the Booker Prize (miaow).
- 62: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters. I still have not made up my mind regarding Sarah Waters as a serious novelist, but her Victorian novels are very entertaining.
- 61: The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst. Or, That Gay Novel Wot Won The Booker. I said it then and I'll say it now: Hollinghurst writes exquisite English and his sentences are ever so beautiful, but he still needs to find the right plot for his style. I will read Hollinghurst just for the way he uses the language.
- 46: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. Maybe I should try this one again because I didn't get the hype surrounding it.
- 30: The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. Okay, I read this one for work, mkay? Sentimental drivel of the worst order with incredibly implausible plot points. Mawkish and horrid. No, I didn't like it and I don't care if this book changed your life, omg.
- 29: The Accidental by Ali Smith. This one really got book people talking but I left my copy at Aberdeen Bus Station on purpose as it left me absolutely cold.
- 25: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon. For some people this book was a revelation (you know who you are). I couldn't connect with it (which is rather apt for a book about autism, I guess).
- 22: The Amber Spyglass by Philip Pullman. This is a bit like Marmite, I suppose. Some people love this book; others could not get into it all. For the record, this is one of the few books that reduce me to tears every time I read it. Go on and mock me.
- 19: The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen. Or, Yet Another MAJOR North-American Novel That Karie Just Couldn't Get Into At All.
- 17: Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling. My favourite is still the Prisoner of Azkaban, but Deathly Hallows did make a Saturday at work pass that much more quickly. I actually cannot recall the plot.
- 12: A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. Dear The Times, Eggers has become an incredibly influential publisher and he does very wonderful things with the-book-as-object, but we can surely agree that he should never ever be allowed to write another book. AHWOSG is one of the worst books I have ever read in my entire life - and I have read quite a few.
- 10: The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. When compared to Eggers' novel, The Da Vinci Code comes across as an astounding piece of literature with a keen eye for detail, a witty turn of phrase and an intricate plot. When compared to standard literature, Brown's novel is an overblown piece of ludicrous prose, flat characterisation, ridiculous plotlines and simplistic thinking. I read it for work and got exactly what I thought I'd get: an airport novel which earns brownie points for not having a picture of Tom Hanks in an awful wig on the cover.
- 9: Atonement by Ian McEwan. I get the feeling that I would not get on with whoever edited this list because this book is yet another one of my literary pet hates.
- 2: Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. Is this chosen for its literary qualities or because of its cultural significance (i.e. "omg, the Iranians are people too!"). I enjoyed reading this but I wouldn't put it second on such a list.
- 1: The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I described this novel as "superb" and it continues to nudge me ever so often. Exquisite sparse prose and incredibly moving, I have no qualms about this being called "the book of a decade".
Boredom Sets In
A brief link today pilfered from elsewhere: Hey, Oscar Wilde!. It is "a personal art collection of various artists interpreting their favourite literary figure/author/character". I really like this Winnie the Pooh.
Health update: I managed to get dressed and head outside today. Okay, I went across the road to the local supermarket and I went straight back to bed afterwards, but it's progress!
Speaking of progress, I finished the yoke on David's sweater tonight. He tried it on and we quickly agreed that the textured design on the yoke didn't work. I ripped back the 40-ish rows and I'm back to the drawing board. I know some might complain, but I'm fine with it. after all, I'd rather have him liking the finished sweater than me finishing something quickly which will never get worn. My shawl is also progressing well (and the list of unlistened-to podcasts is dwindling fast)..
.. I just want to get better really, really soon. If you think my blog posts are dull, imagine how I feel.
Deja Vu
YouTube Comment or E.E.Cummings? One of the funniest 20th century poetry/21st Century internet crossovers I have seen today. Not that I have seen that many, of course.
After a few weeks of awe-inspiring knitting productivity, my busy fingers have become almost idle. I cast on, knit maybe twenty rows, decide the project doesn't thrill me and I rip it all out. Lather, rinse, repeat. Possibly it is the continuous failure of Topstykke that haunts me. The pattern is great, of course, but I keep messing up:
- I cast on too few stitches and tried to remedy this whilst on a fast moving bus to Aberdeenshire filled with shouty Russian students.
- I cast on the correct number of stitches but lost my stitch markers somewhere between a sofa and the kitchen table (a 3 year old nephew might have been involved).
- I cast on correct number of stitches, got all of the set-up row right and blissfully knitted on until I realised that I was knitting a size up from what I'm supposed to knit.
- I cast on correct number of stitches, got all of the set-up row right and blissfully knitted on until I realised I had twisted my cast-on and I was knitting a moebius-shaped top which will be impossible to wear (in this dimension, at least).
So I think it is time to let Topstykke rest for a few weeks whilst I get other things done. David's sweater is a top priority (he won the Halloween costume competition, by the way) and I want to have another lace shawl on my needles (Aeolian, I'm looking at you). I just hope that I can stick with those two projects and not rip them out after twenty rows.
Shockingly enough I have begun reading again and am currently one-third through Iain Banks' Transition. Banks strides the literary and speculative fiction divide, but cunningly uses a middle initial "M" to differentiate between the two genres. Interestingly, "Transition" is being marketed in the UK without the "M" (i.e. it is not speculative fiction, you fools!) whereas the US market gets courted with the "M" (hey, it's speculative fiction!). My favourite Banks novel, The Bridge, is a non-M novel but is more speculative than many genre novels. It's all about marketing, isn't it? So far I'm enjoying the novel, in case you were wondering..
Little Women & Werewolves
Yes, the classic "Little Women" has fallen prey to the publishing trend that started with "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies". Joy. I never read the Austen-goes-supernatural novel. I mean, I still have issues with casting Colin Firth as Darcy in that BBC mini-series, so imagine what issues I'd have suddenly encountering zombies in the midst of Pemberley!
Anyway, the synopsis of "Little Women" reads thusly:
In this retelling of Louisa May Alcott's classic, the beloved little women must keep not just the wolf, but the werewolves, from the door...and the kindly old gentlemen next door and his grandson may have some secrets to hide — or share with the March girls.
There is a silver lining, though. On io9, commentators have fun trying to come up with the next installments in this classics-goes-monstrous trend and they're really quite funny:
- A Sentimental Education of Vampires
- Canterbury Tales from the Crypt
- Uncle Tom's Kraken
- Love in the Time of Cthulu
- The Barchester Martian Chronicles
- The Handmaid's Tail
Can anyone come up with a synopsis for any of these?
Man Booker? It’s Me, Karie Rantypants.
- Genre writers complain about chosen genre being ignored by the mainstream literary establishment.
- Mainstream literary establishment responds by saying that genre fiction is never submitted to major literary awards by its publishers.
- Genre writers sulk and go "at least we have plenty of readers unlike mainstream literary fiction"
- Mainstream literary establishment snarls: "[genre fiction] is in a special room in book shops, bought by a special kind of person who has special weird things they go to and meet each other."
- Blogs pick up on spat.
- And I weigh in with an essay-length comment on the history of the Man Booker Prize because I've been commenting on the Man Booker prize and its ways since the beginning of time.
My comment in expanded format:
Booker prize winners have had fantastical elements despite claims to the contrary. Keri Hume's the bone people (1985) springs to mind with its fusion of quasi-religion, magical realism and utopian vision. David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas got very, very, very, very close to taking the prize in 2004 while Atwood's The Blind Assassin took the prize in 2000. Both novels use science-fiction as part of their mise-en-abyme structures. Both authors have written other books which both arguably belong to the speculative fiction genre.
Personally, I am not a huge fan of the Man Booker prize for various reasons: I think it promotes a certain type of literary fiction which does not reflect the myriad of exciting literature being produced in the Commonwealth; I think it has become too focused on easily-marketed books (the Kelman win in 94 really was wretched for booksellers and the Man Booker has taken great care not to alienate the High Street since); I think too much importance is being given to the Man Booker over several other literary prizes; I think the idea of a literary prize is, by its very nature, somewhat dubious.
But the Man Booker does not exclude books with fantastical or science fiction elements more than, say, the Hugos ignore David Mitchell (who is one of the best young novelists working in the English language) or Margaret Atwood (who is one of the best novelists working in the English language, full stop). The Hugos have their Neal Stephensons, their China Miévilles and their Neil Gaimans just as the Man Booker has its Ian McEwan, Julian Barnes and Salman Rushdie. Same difference. Same sense of ghettoisation.
Now I'm going to go have dinner, curl up with the last rows of my Ishbel shawl and have a lazy Friday evening with my partner. But I'll probably rant about the Man Booker some other day. The award is rewarded shortly, you know, and I will have Opinions.