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.