Nickel and Dimed

Barbara Ehrenreich is such a great journalist, I'd read her on anything, even if I wasn't particularly interested in the subject. But in Nickel and Dimed - On (Not) Getting By in America - her subject is the struggle on the fringes of affluent Western culture, and those who struggle it. Having struggled on a few fringes myself (oh to be an Artist in this benighted place) I was moved by those among whom Ehrenreich lived & worked while researching this book. Acknowledging her priveleged middle class background, and knowing she couldn't really 'experience' poverty, nonetheless she steps away from her safety nets & tries to make do on her minimum wage jobs - finding accommodation, health care, food, petrol. Finding support and unexpected kindness. But also finding deeply ingrained desperation, no hope that anything will improve, and an unfightable undertow in the struggle of the working poor.

Many of my fellow Australians would recognise this clawed existence (although we do have universal free health care here). I earlier spoke of my "struggle". But I come from the robust lower middle class, had good health care as a child, which set me up physically, lived in a house with two parents until I was 17, speak this language English well, and have always been encouraged to strive for goals beyond the daily need for food and shelter. Reading of the people in Ehrenreich's stories gave me pause, and made me angry. And made me vow never to again to say "Oh I'm so broke".

What Makes Sammy Run?

Budd Schulberg, who would go on to write the novel Waterfront & the screenplay from it On The Waterfront, shocked Hollywood in 1941 with this novel. It concerns the rise and rise of unscrupulous, out-for-himself Sammy Glick as he makes his way from copy-boy at a New York newspaper, clambering over bodies, to become a big-shot Hollywood producer. The pithy prose & vivid characters, along with a rolicking plot, make this novel a "read it all on one go" book.

The New York Times named it "best first-novel of the year". Schulberg's father, the legendary producer B.P. Schulberg, told him "You'll never work in this town again. How will you live?". He was fired by a purple-with-rage Sam Goldwyn, Hedda Hopper accosted him to harrumph "How dare you", and Louis Mayer wanted to "deport" him. He was attacked simultaneously by the Communist Party and John Wayne. In fact, even in the mid-sixties, Wayne tried to strangle Schulberg at a party, then challenged him to a duel.

Of great interest, though sobering, is Schulberg's Afterword, written in 1989. He laments "The book I had written as an attack on antisocial behavior has become a how-to book on Looking Out for Number 1."

Lean Mean Thirteen

Stephanie Plum rampages through another reckless romp. Threatened by flame-throwers, menaced by thugs, attacked by exploding beavers, it's just another day in the Burg for our intrepid bail enforcer. Surrounded, supported and thwarted by her motley crew - handsome cop Morelli, lithe dangerman Ranger, spandex decked ex 'ho Lula, hideous Joyce Barnhardt, gun-toting Grandma Mazur, and fed my her long suffering mother - Stephanie finds herself prime suspect in the murder of her ex-husband (and Joyce-plougher) Dickie Orr. She must solve the crime, collar bond skippers, eat pizza, lasagne, cake and macaroni cheese, all while juggling the manly lusts of Morelli & Ranger, and facing her fears in a midnight cemetary. Oh, and she wrecks another car.

Lovers of Janet Evanovich's cool & messy broad will be thouroughly satisfied. And if you haven't met Stephanie yet - go and do it right now.

Blindsight

Maurice Gee is one of new Zealand's best writers of fiction. In Blindsight he achingly unravels the entwined family relationships of the Ferrys, in particular the brother and sister, as narrated by the now old Alice. An unknown young man arrives on her doorstep and his soft insistence breaks open her carapace, and reveals the darkness at the heart of her family. "Father taught us how not to love" is the first line of this novel, and by the time it is repeated as the ending I felt wrenched by this story, yet strangely calm. Gee's prose is incisive and unsentimental - as is his protagonist. He has the ability to involve the reader with his characters, who scarcely seem to be characters but living beings with all their faults and regrets, yet all their painful ability to - yes - love.

Lost For Words

We need a bit of joy today, wouldn't you say? The marvelous Hugh Lunn gives us these words to live by.

Whack oh the diddley-oh! (my late father John used this expression & the alternate Whack oh the duck!)

When things were going along swimmingly, everything is tickety-boo or everything's hunky-dory.

He's happy as a sand boy, she's over the moon, I'm pleased as Punch (that well known wife- crocodile- & cop-beater)

When a man was tickled pink at the sight of a woman, he would report to his mates "My word she was beaut" or "By crickey she was a looker" or "My word she was good-oh."

So my feiends, I wish for you a day that is crackerjack, a real doozey, and that soon we're all be living the life of Riley.

Noise, The Proposition, Look Both Ways

For some reason this week I haven't been reading my books at all. Lots of newspapers & magazines (I am a magazine fiend) and of course the interwebs.

I have also been watching a lot of Australian films on DVD. I try to see them in the cinema, but a few have gotten past me for various reasons, so I'm having a fest at home.

See these:

Noise, written and directed by Matt Saville. This has just been released, and I saw it at the cinema. It is a wonderful brooding meditation, compelling, wrenching, ambiguous as our lives are.

The Propostion, written by Nick Cave (yes, that Nick Cave) and directed by John Hillcoat. I was reluctant to see this film for a long time because I knew it was extrememly violent. But the evocation of Australia & Australianess elevated this "Western" to a more thoughtful realm. Though set Back Then, the film talks of the Australian character today, and our uneasy relationship to the land we inhabit.

Look Both Ways, written and directed by Sarah Watt. This is a quiet and compelling film, treating grief, inarticulacy, and the strange ways of strange loves. Beautiful.

The Restraint of Beasts

If you're after bone-dry wit, writing of surpassing economy, and all you need to know about burying bodies standing up in post holes, this is the book for you. Set in the cut-throat world of professional fencing, and featuring Magnus Mills' trademark odd shaggy specimens of Modern Man as characters, this book is a chilling joy, a creepy treat, an hilarious tragedy.

Then read All Quiet On The Orient Express. You won't be sorry.

Child of My Heart

Many years ago I read and thoroughly enjoyed Alice McDermott's Charming Billy. Now, many years later, I have read Child of My Heart. So you don't have to.

I'm not a big fan of sweetness and sentimentality. And I had an immediate antipathy to this book. But in despite of that, I plugged on.

The story isn't bad; children in the off-season in the Hamptons, the main character, the older girl, budding into adolescence.

But the problem with this book - and it is a large & ultimately insurmountable one - is that the narrator "I" character should have been the observed "she" character. In other words, if the writer wants to have a pretty, charming, beloved character, it's far better to have her observed by another ("she was pretty, charming and beloved") rather than be the narrator ("I am pretty, charming and beloved. Everybody thinks so.") Unless, of course, the narrator turns out to be unreliable, or their smug self-satisfaction is to be devastated by a rude awakening. How I longed for a very rude awakening. But the book continued sweet, sentimental & self-satisfied to the end.

Oh, and a kid dies in the book. Cheap.

Really lovely cover, though.

Wigfield

Oh happy happy joy joy. Read this immediately, it's a romp. Amy Sedaris, Stephen Colbert & Paul Dinello serve up a souffle of crack cracks. Come to Wigfield, with its three mayors, nine titty bars, and mysterious fires and gruesome deaths too numerous to enumerate. Our guide to Wigfield, Russell Hokes, races to write 50,000 words (as required by his reluctant publisher) before the damn Dam explodes in a shower of concrete and well-placed fireworks.

Thanks to Colonel Colonel for pointing us in the direction of Wigfield, the Can-Do Town that Just May Not.

Due Preparations For The Plague

Here is an uneasy meld of a thriller with the drama of the abandoned child, or in this case, children. A plane is highjacked and all the hostages eventually killed, excepting the children who are offloaded*.

With this one, I really don't know what I think. I would relish hearing the views of any of you who have read it.

Jeanette Turner Hospital is such a great writer, that the strength of the prose alone carried me along. It's a good story, while disturbing. The thriller aspect works only to a certain degree. But I found I didn't really connect with or care for any of the characters - maybe that is deliberate & we are supposed to regard the events dispassionately. Maybe. I like the idea of interconnectedness, and so I enjoyed that aspect of the book. There is a set piece in an underground bunker filled with nerve gas. This section I found poignant and genuinely thrilling, & the part where I was emotionally involved. However, when I finished reading I laid the book down with a "meh".

Anyone else read it?

*This is not a spoiler as we discover this in the first chapter.

Atonement

I came late to Ian McEwan. I read Enduring Love last year & was enraptured. I bought The Innocent (paying retail price!) and was left gasping for breath (in a good way.) Each McEwan I read become my favourite, and so it is with Atonement. The story is involved and the characters complex, yet he writes with such utter simplicity. This is a superb book on the nature of ourselves as flawed human beings. I cried at the end - not only for the lives of these imaginary people (ain't it strange?) but also because the book was finished & I would never again read it for the first time.

After finishing Atonement, I picked up and put aside four books after reading a page or two. I was restless & hungry for more transporting writing. Luckily I've landed on Blndsight by Maurice Gee, a delicious follow-on.

Lost For Words

Today, our lesson is from the Book of Hugh Lunn, chapter 8 "Domestic Science", verse 2 "Making Do". I often swear I am going to economise. Here are some superb suggestions from an Australia gone by.

Because people had to be frugal there were many recipes for imitation meals. Such food was prefaced with the word mock. There was:

mock crab: cheese, Worcestershire sauce, mustard and tomato sauce mixed into a sandwich paste
mock chicken: minced tripe* with herbs in a white sauce, popped into vol-au-vents
mock duck: rump or bladebone steak rolled in a mixture of breadcrumbs and butter, then baked
mock goose: alternate layers of lamb's fry# and potato and onions, baked.

When you couldn't even afford the cheapest offal, there was:

mock brains: rissoles made from leftover porridge, beaten egg, and onion
mock tripe: onions and butter boiled in milk and thickened with flour

Bet you can't wait for your mock dessert:

mock cream: milk, cornflour, butter, sugar
mock ginger: vegetable marrow, sugar, ginger powder, lemons
mock pears: sweetened, boiled choko**

*from the stomach of an ox
#lamb's liver, fried up
**Hugh says "Everybody grew a choko vine over the dunny (outside toilet) or the back fence. It produced bountiful crops of pear-shaped chokoes. Chokoes were boiled, then split length wise, and the seeds removed. Your mother might say chokoes had a delicate flavour. They were almost tasteless, but not tasteless enough."

Hugh is right. I once made my mother cry when I refused to eat the chokoes she served up. We were broke & she had nothing else to give us. I still remember the disgusting slimey vegetables more than 40 years later. There used to be a rumour that Cherry Ripe bars were made with chokoes, not cherries. Bleaughhhh.

I made this

Yes, dear readers, not content with just reading books, I've made one.
I love that there are many parts of the book-binder's art that are invisible in the finished work. But they are essential.













I tore these pages.





















Oh how pretty.







These are my remarkable French Lace binding stitches. Hand done, you know.









And a gorgeous corner to finish it off.

The Lighthouse

Phyllis Dorothy is an old favourite of mine, a very reliable procedural writer. My crime fiction taste runs as much to this Restrained English style as to Hardboiled American or Tartan Noir (via Larrikan Aussie, naturally). But somehow I found The Lighthouse, though well plotted & apparently imaginative, did not grab me, grip me or even pluck at my sleeve. I don't want to put you off this book, or indeed any of P.D.James' wonderful canon, but for me this one was bland. We love a great crime novel, and The Lighthouse is, perhaps, simply predictably good.

Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late

Following the scintillating brilliance of Pigeon's first outing Don't Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus, Mo Willems' story here exposes the machinations of our mini-Machiavelli Pigeon as he tries to wheedle, threaten, demand, charm and skive his way into staying up late. Line destined to become a classic: "You wouldn't say no to a bunny, would you?"

Bambi vs Godzilla

No, not Marv Newland's sublime 1969 film "Bambi Meets Godzilla". The astringent David Mamet holds forth on the nature of the film business, in particular how film narrative works (and how it doesn't). Its sub-title is "On the Nature, Purpose and Practice of the Movie Business", and he delivers on that with penetrating criticism and acerbic wit. Mr Mamet's appreciation of the craft of film making, as practiced by the craftspeople, is palpable. He digs the nuts and bolts of the work. He has great stories to tell, and is a consummate storyteller. In the process, he talks about how we are as human creatures, our purity, our venality, our common mix of both.

I like Mr Mamet's plays & films. I like very much his prose writing, its simplicity, pointedness, particularity, and boldness. For me, through his writings on theatre, film and writing itself, he constant delves beyond to refer to our humanity. And he is funn-nee.

The back cover quotes (inter alia*) Steve Martin thus: “David Mamet is supremely talented. He is a gifted writer and observer of society and its characters. I’m sure he will be able to find work somewhere, somehow, just no longer in the movie business.”

*inter alia appears by kind permission of Stan Orbit

The Steep Approach To Garbadale

Iain Banks, in his writerly guise or in his sci-fi Iain M Banks hat, is a marvelous writer. Here, writing marvelously, he has fastened onto a good story. He tells of the extended family Wopuld, bound by relationship and by the family business, seen through the eyes of one son who rejected family and business, but finds he needs to reconcile himself in order to live in a good manner. Banks is unsentimental, and the language and images are powerful and clear-eyed. A surprising narrative device satisfies and pays off on the last page. There is relish in the telling and in the reading of this tale, and there is authenticity. Banks considers questions we may also have - on our place in the family, their influence in our shaping, and the line between loyalty and suffocation. Oh, and a couple of good non-squirmy sex scenes.

The Two Minute Rule

I love Robert Crais' investigator Elvis Cole and the series of LA-set crime novels in which he appears. Here in The Two Minute Rule, Crais creates a new character, a reformed bank robber trying to go straight, investigating the murder of his policeman son in the face of official stonewalling. I read it. I enjoyed it mildly. The book is well crafted, the characters set up to be interesting. But somehow for me this one doesn't have the Divine Spark of Life. Yes, it is only a crime novel, but the best of the kind are marvelous literature. This is more a quick snack to fill the gap, then forget.

Lost For Words

Things not going your way? There's no excuse for your language not to be lively. Try these handy phrases.

We're up shitter's ditch.
Up shit creek without a paddle in a barbed-wire canoe.
I'm gonna kick the first dog I see.

The Turn of The Screw

I have never read any Henry James before. This spooky novella was a marvelous introduction. I relished his prose, which must sometimes be followed like a twisted string leading the reader gently on to - oh my god what's that outside the window! It is unutterably creepy, stark and yet ambiguous. At a Christmas party, an 'I' narrator tells of his friend, who reads out the written account of an unnamed woman. This makes the work at once immediate, and ungraspable. And there's no creepy like two creepy kids. (shudder). What shall I read next of Mr James?

Mister Pip

Lloyd Jones writes in the voice of a young black girl. The impersonation is riveting, without a false note. Out of simple language he builds ecstasy and horror, resilience and compassion. This is a beautiful novel, with a strong story simply told. It speaks of the power of stories themselves, the anguished love of divided families, and the hope for a moment of benevolence from Fate, even if it's just a floating log.

One Good Turn

I like Kate Atkinson's work tremendously, and this novel, while not my favourite, was a thoroughly satisfying read. Here she makes a further foray into the crime genre she exploited so brilliantly in Case Histories. One Good Turn is set in Edinburgh during the Festival, and if you've ever been that adds to the pleasure. Beginning with a hideous incident of road rage, we follow those involved and those watching on. Atkinson twines her disparate and seemingly unrelated charcters into a tight coil, climaxing with a smart crack of the whip. Mixed in with her gripping plot, Atkinson's sly humour delights.

Lost For Words

More gems from Australia's rich vocabulary, being eroded on a daily basis.
If you are surprised, don't be content with a mere "Goodness me", try any of the following:

Stiffen the wombats!
Stuff me with the rough end of a pineapple!
Wouldn't that rot your socks!
Wouldn't that blow a hole in your nightie!
Cripey crows!
Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!


thanks again, Anaglyph

All Quiet on the Orient Express

I scoffed Magnus Mill's book in one shuddering gulp. The dead-pan, drought-dry prose stuck in my throat and made me want to throw the book across the room whilst simultaneously devouring it. Plodding, literal sentences build one on the other, and slowly slowly the creeping dread invades the reader's mind and body. Horrifyingly ordinary, hypnotically plain, subtle and electric. The voice that calls "Look behind you!" in the cinema is constantly on one's lips, viz "For god's sake, Unnamed Narrator, get out of there!". Top marks.

As recommended by Colonel Colonel. Well done, that man.

Ulysses, chapter one

There's these fellows in a Martello tower. Buck Mulligan has a shave. There is some chat about milk and Irishness. They go out and lock the door with a big key. Buck Mulligan has a swim. Stephen Dedelas teaches schoolboys Latin. And sums. In the headmaster's room, under the watchful eye of a portrait of Albert Edward Prince of Wales, British parsimony is praised. Dedelas walks on the crunchy shore with his eyes closed. When he opens them, the world is still there. He thinks of a visit to his bedridden uncle. He thinks about a time in Paris, with the Absinthe and the gunpowder cigarettes. A dog sniffs at a dead dog like a dog.

Joyce: "History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake."
Joyce: "the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head";
Joyce: "Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeis, ooos."

I always intended to read Ulysses. I have finally started. I don't understand it. There is Latin & French, as well as Joyce's own idiolect. I've been reading chapter one for a week. But I am surrendering to it. It is compelling, divine. Some descriptive paragraphs leap vividly from the page, making me feel that this is the only way such a thing can be rendered in words. I'll post each chapter as I get through it. My coarse summary cannot begin to indcate the luscious, voluptuous, ineffable dark brilliance of the book.

The End

I have been a faithful reader of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events since The Bad Beginning. His dark playfulness tickles me in the right places. His love of language is infectious and silly. The dedication in each book to his lost love Beatrice is an object lesson in razor's edge navigation between humour and horror. It was with melancholy satisfaction that I finished The End, the thirteenth and last book in the series. In this one, Snicket (Daniel Handler) displays an encompassing compassion which is moving without being sentimental, and is a perfect grace note to the series.

As always, Brett Helquist illustrates with disturbing charm.

We Thought You Would Be Prettier

I thought it would be funnier.

A Cold Case

In 1970, Frank Koehler killed Pete McGinn and Richie Glennon in New York. The Police knew at once who had done it. They failed to apprehend Koehler. In 1992, the Police made the assumption Koehler was dead in order to close the case. In 1997, Andy Rosenzweig was nearing retirement as chief investigator for the district attorney of Manhattan. He was reminded of the case. He became intrigued by it. Had Frank Koehler been given the ultimate 'free ride'? In being declared dead, had he got away with murder?

Philip Gourevitch follows Rosenzweig's investigations in this terse and elegant book. It's not a whodunnit. Rather, it's as if we hear the thoughts of the men & women involved in this strange case. And eventually, most powerfully, we hear from Koehler himself.

Housekeeping

Marilynne Robinson's voluptuous prose drew me into this simple story. Late in the book she asks "When did I become so unlike other people?", and it is the peculiar ones, the outsiders, the transients who shine in Housekeeping. The drowned ones in the lake by Fingerbone hold sway over the tight little town. And where is there room for Ruthie, growing up like her drifter aunt Sylvie, looking like her mother Helen who drove a car into that lake. For Lucille, survival means clothing herself in the appearance of conformity, and fleeing the shifting house built by her railwayman grandfather. This gorgeous little book makes me want to read Robinson's other novel, Gilead. And I'll let you know when I do.

Lost For Words

Hugh Lunn's Lost For Words is subtitled "Australia's lost language in words and stories". It is as scrumptious a book as ever you could wish to dip into. And I do dip. Here is a sample. Watch for more.

If you arrive somewhere worried about being in trouble you say "Will I throw my hat in first?"

[When you start working in a bookshop, most people stop giving you books as gifts. A very classy friend gave me this for my last birthday.]

Lords and Ladies

I've just ripped through Lords and Ladies by Terry Pratchett, one of his Disc World novels. He never fails to amuse and entertain. Here is his delicious take on Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream where the Elves are really nasty. Naturally the witches save the day. I particularly like the advice of old crone Nanny Ogg to the new Bride-To-Be: "'I gave her a few tips. Always wear something in bed. Keeps a man interested.' 'You always wore your hat.' 'Right.'" And later, more on the hat, viz: "Nanny Ogg raised her hat and carefully lifted down a bowl of cream, custard and jelly which she had secreted there. She was a great picker-up of unconsidered trifles."

title page #1

I borrowed this copy of The Polysyllabic Spree from my local library. I like libraries. This is a brand new book. I thought I was the first to borrow it. But someone had been there before me. Someone who doesn't think that Writing In Books is Satanism. Someone who couldn't find a more apposite book in which to express their views. A book called "Catholicism Is Great" for example, or "Religions I Have Known". The library is located in Kings Cross. Our epigrammist could have found many many examples of Satanism just outside the door. Why did they choose the Hornby book? There may be some things we are just Not Meant To Know.

The Complete Polysyllabic Spree

The Complete Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby is a collection of columns he did for The Believer magazine on books he was buying and books he was reading each month (not the same thing). This book has been enormously enjoyable. Constrained by The Believer's policy of No Slagging Off, Hornby tries to read only those books he will enjoy. What relish - not to read those books we Should Read, but those we Want To Read. Hornby's book has inspired this blog, so I am pleased to acknowledge his influence. And also his absolution - he writes that "I suddenly had an epiphany: all the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal." So all those books I have yet to read which threaten to smother me one night, a huge sliding pile of words, are justifiable - even if I never read them. Hooray!