Tag: book review

the Garden of Evening Mists by Tan Twan Eng

Malaysian/British writer, Tan Twan Eng

A Straits Chinese retired judge, Yun Ling Teoh, returns to spend her last days in a house in the Cameron Highlands in Central Malaya during the Communist guerrilla war with the British in the early 1950s. It was here, as a young woman, she was apprenticed to Aritomo, a famous Japanese gardener, who once was the gardener of the Emperor of Japan. This back story, their working and emotional relationship with the backdrop of WWII and the Malaya Communists against the Japanese, is THE story.

This is the second novel by Tan Twan Eng after his successful debut, The Gift of Rain (2008) which was long-listed for the Booker. His third novel, The House of Doors (2023), was also long-listed for the Booker. This one suffers from the cliched ‘second novel syndrome’. In this case, not as original and complex as the first, and not as imaginative and assured as the third. This is a personal opinion despite it being short-listed for the Booker. I enjoyed reading it but without that thrill of attachment. Like all three Tan novels, they transport you to a time, place, threats, joys and sensibilities that are completely alien, but therefore fascinating, to a contemporary reader. Of course, the raw human emotions we all know about. This one also has that Eastern flavour of wisdom and sage-like belief in elements of the world that we can’t quite grasp but which may guide or steer us in directions we haven’t planned.

Her sister, enamoured by Japanese gardens, disappeared during the war and Yun Ling wants to built a Japanese garden in her honour. Aritomo refuses to design one but offers to teach her how to design it herself. Yun Ling’s internment by the Japanese, her apprenticeship to Aritomo and her relationship with him form the spine of the narrative. The events, conversations and relationships appear ‘soft’ and incidental. I knew this work had been made into a movie in 2017 and although my interest wavered I reasoned that if there was cinematic interest in this work there must be a pay off. I continued reading and I am so glad I did. This is a ‘slow burn’ of a book … war, imprisonment, romance, intrigue, a tattoo! – there is so much I haven’t mentioned – but all will be revealed in a very satisfying climax. Highly recommended. I wait patiently for book number 4.

Here is a short video of Tan Twan Eng talking about this book.

by Categories: Booker Prize, British Literature, Historical Fiction, Literary criticismTags: , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The River Capture by Mary Costello

Irish writer Mary Costello

This novel, The River Capture (2019), is Costello’s third published work, her second novel. The style is literary and immersed in family values, loyalty, obligation, and what happens when all of these are challenged; it is written with the sensibility and skill we associate with Irish literature. Luke O’Brien is a thirty something teacher, a Joyce scholar, who took leave to care for dying relatives but then continued his sabbatical to deal with the family land in county Waterford on the banks of the River Sullane. There he also tends to his favorite, but very old aunt, Ellen. They are very close. Luke is a man in tune with nature, not religious, but believes in the uniqueness of the individual free of labels or what any other individual may think of him. He is willing to consider that natural objects, animals, including humans, trees and water are infused with special energy and may also contain elements of memory and the future. Like all natural things, everything, including mankind, will pass to allow for what is next.

When two rivers collide due to climatic devastation, geological disruption or similar, one captures the other and a third unexpected river is born: a river capture.

A young woman, Ruth Mulvey, hears about him and his passion for animals and asks him to take over the care of a young, but abandoned dog. This meeting develops into a relationship, emotional and sexual, and is hoped by both participants to develop even further. But then Luke introduces her to Aunt Ellen. She is aware of this young woman; more significantly, she knows her father. A family secret is revealed and Ellen, his devoted aunt, places a huge burden on his shoulders and mind.

Up to this point, almost half of the way through, the format is usual and expected: literary fiction, narration of elegant language, relevant and insightful dialogue (as it should be) that builds to a tension created by the revelation. An accomplished opening.

Then things change. Not only for Luke, who is devastated, and the choice he’s given, impossible, but also for the reader: the format changes. This can be seen as a metaphor for the state of Luke’s mind. Nothing is as expected. the rest of the novel is a description of Luke’s state of mind and choice of actions, what he believes and what he doesn’t; what he does to overcome the bolt of lightning that hit him far square in his heart and mind. The revelation is so devastating that the book itself is affected. The book no longer reads like a novel.

This unique and rare literary device was not, for this reader, entirely successful. It eroded most of my emotional investment in the characters and narrative. It became, or felt like, an academic exercise, and a repetitive one, and although I read it to the end, I have to admit I skipped bits.

However, Costello is a very good writer and I look forward to her next.

Click the link for my review of her first novel, Academy Street (2014).

by Categories: Book review, Irish literatureTags: , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

The Swerve by Stephen Greenblatt

Stephen Greenblatt, Professor of Humanities, Harvard University

It has been suggested, more than once, that the greatest thought that mankind has ever made is that matter is neither created nor destroyed, it is just rearranged … endlessly. In other words, there is a finite number of atoms but an infinite number of their combinations. One of those combinations is you. This is one of the ideas of the Greek philosopher, Epicurus (341 – 270 BCE) and he got the idea from someone a little bit older, his teacher, Democritus (c. 460 – c. 370 BCE). It’s been around a very long time.

I’m a fiction nerd, but every now and again a non-fiction work, catches my eye. The Swerve: How the Renaissance Began (2012) is the story of Poggio Bracciolini (POH joh BRA cho LEE nee), a papal secretary, scribe and book-hunter, who in 1417 discovered a manuscript called De Rerum Natura (Of the Nature of Things) written by Lucretius around 55 BCE. It had been lost for over 1500 years. It was, is, an elegant and beautifully written poem describing the natural world in strong Epicurean ideas.

  • The Universe has no creator or designer; everything comes into being as a result of a swerve, which is also the source of our free will
  • Nature ceaselessly experiments ( this is the idea at the heart of Darwin’s theory of Natural Selection)
  • Humans are not unique
  • The soul dies and there is no afterlife; death is the cessation of all feelings, including fear
  • All organised religions are superstitious delusions, which are invariably cruel
  • The highest goal of human life is the enhancement of pleasure and the reduction of pain and the greatest obstacle to pleasure is delusion
  • Everything is made of minute, invisible and eternal particles, atoms, floating in a void (scientifically proved by Jean Perrin, via John Dalton, Robert Brown and Albert Einstein, in 1909)

Like any passionate book-hunter, Poggio was ecstatic. He had it copied – he is also credited with designing the font we know now as Roman – and circulated. Of course, only to people who could read sophisticated Latin and that meant highly educated people who invariably were clergymen. In a world where all aspects of life: commerce, travel, governance, art, architecture, music and science were dominated by the Catholic Church, the discovery of this poem was like a bomb going off … slowly.

It influenced writers and thinkers for centuries: Leonardo di Vinci, Thomas More, Shakespeare, Milton, Spencer, Montaigne, Voltaire, Isaac Newton, Ben Johnson, Copernicus, Galileo, Thomas Jefferson, (he owned 5 Latin editions of the poem) to name a few. But the incredible impact of Lucretius’s poem is not only measured by the influence it had on writers and thinkers but, more importantly, by the multiple efforts the Catholic Church created to oppose it.

Greenblatt has used novelistic techniques to tell the story not only of Poggio and his discovery but also of the characters he interacted with and the times in which he lived and worked. This is not a dry academic tome. It is a lively account of how one lived and worked in the early years of the Renaissance. For example the Council of Constance was arranged to end the Western Schism (1378 – 1417): three men had claimed simultaneously to be Pope. It is estimated that over 100,000 people descended on the small German town, Dukes, royalty, administrators, ambassadors, cardinals, archbishops each with his own retinue of servants, cooks, maids, scribes as well as opportunists, singers, actors, barbers, acrobats and over 700 whores. It is an engaging and wondrous read.
Lucretius wrote that atoms did not move in a straight line but they randomly changed course. He called it a swerve. According to Greenblatt that is exactly what Lucretius’s text did: its trajectory was a straight line to oblivion, but it swerved and was found. Thousands of fragments and editions exist today all over the world.

by Categories: Book review, Literary criticism, Non-fiction, prose, reading, RenaissanceTags: , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Flesh by David Szalay

Hungarian-British writer David Szalay

I posted recently my views on Szalay’s 2016 novel, All That Man Is, which was shortlisted for the Booker. This, his latest, Flesh, won this year’s Booker and is in the same mould. The former is a collection of short stories about nine unrelated men; the later is a collection of stories, scenes, about the life of one man, István, beginning in Hungary when he is fifteen years old. Like all the men in All That Man Is he says ‘I don’t know’, ‘OK,’ and ‘Sure’ a lot. He is not the driver of his own destiny. Women play far more important roles, his neighbour, his boss’s wife, his wife and ultimately and ironically, his mother. From a rudderless boy he becomes a soldier, a bodyguard, a wealthy man, a step-father, a father and … well, you’ll just have to read it to find out; no spoilers here. There are only a few clues as to what happens to him between the stories, scenes, of his life that Szalay chooses to feature. His style is minimalist: short sentences, simple language, stark facts without much linguistic adornment, a bit like István. This had the effect of causing this reader to gasp – I love it when a writer makes me do that – several times since the gob-smacking events are relayed with such simplicity and directness that they leap out at you like a favourite uncle who hides behind a door and says Boo! I had to re-read several of these events again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Although women and sex feature he is not exploitative nor unkind. He doesn’t use women, women use him, and he’s thankful to them. Without women you wonder how he would have survived. I love Szalay’s style as it respects readers’ intelligence and allows us to bring our own experience and understanding to fill in what he doesn’t say. He makes the story of a plain man an interesting one. I have criticised the Booker judges in the past for awarding the prize to a writer for writers; this one is a writer for readers.

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All That Man Is by David Szalay

Hungarian-British writer David Szalay

Since Szalay has won this year’s Booker with his latest novel Flesh, I saw I had this 2016 Booker shortlisted novel on my bookshelf and hadn’t read it. So I did, before I reach for the new one. His title makes you think he is referring to mankind. However, a more apt title would be All That Men Are. And my response? Not much. I mean the men, not the book. The book is great! This is not a novel but nine unrelated short stories about nine different men. Their only connection is that they “are facing the same question” so says the blurb on the back. Several of these men are rudderless, inarticulate but all of them need a good shaking while you scream, ‘Get over yourselves!’ Most are losers, some are manipulators, two of them are waiting or wanting to die. One, a Hungarian called Balázs is all muscle and ‘I don’t know’s and his understanding of ambition revolves around how long it might be until his next cigarette. What is remarkable about this book is that Szalay, a master of language, manages to make these men’s stories fascinating. Can’t wait to get my hands on Flesh! And the more I read about it, it seems to concern the 10th man that didn’t make it into this 2016 book. I’m not going to let his choice of characters deter me, and neither should you; he writes about people like us: unremarkable, but with compassion and skill that is surprising and utterly enjoyable.

by Categories: Book review, Booker Prize, British Literature, Literary criticismTags: , , , , 1 Comment

The Temple by Stephen Spender

Stephen Spender (1909 – 1995)

This book began as an early attempt by the British poet to write a memoir about a holiday in Germany in 1929. It was unpublishable because of its libellous and pornographic content according to the law at the time. Many books were banned then, including Ulysses by James Joyce, The Well of Loneliness by Radcliffe Hall and paintings by D.H. Lawrence. During a particularly lean period in the early sixties, Spender, by then an established, but poor, writer, sold the first draft manuscript and promptly forgot about it. Fast forward to 1985 when a friend told him about the manuscript he had read in the rare books section of the University of Texas. Spender wrote for a xerox copy (remember Xerox?) and re-wrote it between 1985 and 1987 turning it into “a complex of memory, fiction and hindsight”. He changed his own name to Paul Schoner and faintly disguised W. H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood as Simon Wilmot and William Bradshaw respectively. It is, what we now call today, auto-fiction. It is also one of a rare group of autobiographies that is written in the third person. Another example of this is James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. The Temple, its original title, was finally published in 1988. Germany between the wars had a reputation of being very liberal, emphasising personal freedom. Nothing at all was happening in England. Young Englishmen went to Spain for politics and to Germany for sex. The story is indeed an account of Paul Schoder’s holiday in Hamburg 1929 – 1931, the people he meets, the cafes and bars he frequents, the senses he explores, and the danger he foretells: the rise of the extreme right in the form of the Nazi Party. Only a few understand the danger; most are complacent, believing that their first parliamentary democracy, The Weimar Republic, will withstand the threat – it will pass. The parallel to our parliamentary democracy today and the rise of the Right, almost 100 years later, will not be lost on you. Part of the attraction for the young Englishman is the German youth who idolise the human body, praising it, showing it, using it, hence the title, The Temple; ironically from a biblical quote. It is full of ideas, conversations about ideas and characters and events that portray these ideas or are in contrast to them. I loved this book, and will undoubtedly read it again. There is so much to be gained from it, not just as a reader but as a writer: his use of the nameless, but god-like, narrator and his unjudgemental descriptions of feelings and experiences that are heightened, exaggerated, and sometimes invented in order to make a point, explore an idea; these are all part of the writer’s varied and colourful palette. Highly recommended.

by Categories: Auto-fictionTags: , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Intermezzo by Sally Rooney

Irish writer Sally Rooney

A few hundred pages into the novel I was struck by the narrative format; actually Rooney employs two narrative formats.

This is the story of two brothers and their bumpy relationship following the death of their father.

Peter, 32 is a lawyer and Ivan, 22 is, well, nothing much but a wiz at chess but scraping a living from his checkered passion is not easy.

Peter has two girlfriends; Ivan has one. Peter seems happy but Ivan is happy. I feel sorry for Peter but I love Ivan. 


Sally Rooney is quite a literary phenomenon. Most of the action goes on in her character’s heads. She is a digger of truth about what goes on in the human mind which is often at odds with the way people behave. Especially men. So eager is she to explore our mental shenanigans, she sometimes overdoes it a bit. That’s a minor criticism.  

But back to the double narrative styles: for the chapters about Peter the narrative is almost stream-of-consciousness. Short sentences. Shorter phrases. Even just one word followed by a full stop. They all tumble over each other. It pretty much reflects Peter’s state of mind: full. His two girlfriends, his high pressured job, what to do about his under-achieving brother, and did he love his father. Enough? Ivan’s chapters are more conservative, the third person narrator is more conventional: long sentences, precise grammar, at a slower pace. This is Ivan. He’s a simple soul not much concerned with material matters but he knows love when he feels it. Although I’m not a fan of stream-of-consciousness narration it works here; it works for Peter. Another grammatical technique binds the narratives together. The dialogue, there’s a lot, isn’t punctuated. A modern trend. But it is easy to follow. When you listen to an audio book – another modern trend – the punctuation is not read yet it is always clear who says what to whom. 

I am almost to the end so I cannot tell you what happens. It’s a great read. I’m loving it. If you haven’t already give it a go.    

by Categories: Book review, British Literature, Literary criticismTags: , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Wifedom by Anna Funda

Australian writer, Anna Funda.

Yes, Wifedom (2023) is about George Orwell’s largely forgotten wife, Eileen O’Shaughnessy, and the important, yet unacknowledged role, she played in his life and work, but it is more than that. It is an excoriating assessment of the general neglect of women who are gathered by artistic men for their own personal and artistic betterment.

A high-wire act is not awe-inspiring if you can see the wires. Invisible and unacknowledged, a wife is the practical and often intellectual wiring that allows the act to soar; and for it to be truly astonishing, the wires, and the wife need to be erased both at the time, and then over time.


Her portrayal of George Orwell – real name, Eric Blair – reveals him to have been cantankerous, needy, useless at any manual work, generally ill and egocentric without anything, except his writing, to be egocentric about. A sexual predator and a misogynist: he treated women as mere service providers. Also, Funda doesn’t hide her mild contempt for Orwell’s many biographers, all men, for erasing Eileen O’Shaughnessy from their books just as Orwell did from his work, like some male club of matedom keeping it all in house, slaps on the back and “Well done old chap!” But remember, in the mid twentieth century, patriarchy was still the dominate force.

Funda has come under some criticism for ‘trashing’ a famous writer’s reputation, but as she explains in the text, a ‘good’ book can be written by a ‘bad’ man. Understanding more about him, his wife and marriage doesn’t lessen her admiration for Orwell’s work – she may not now love the man but she still loves his writing.

I read Funda’s first book, Stasiland (2002) and loved it for telling compelling untold stories of life behind the Berlin Wall. I read All That I Am (2011), her first novel, and remember nothing about it. Here, Funda, has audaciously combined biography, memoir, polemic, social commentary and imagined conversations: fiction – it’s a heady mix and a great one – to create a truely memorable world of a forgotten woman who contributed much to the artistic output and fame of her husband. Her life with Orwell was one of poverty, struggle, sacrifice and determination but with an unwavering belief in his art and the ultimate success of it.

She followed him to Spain where he wanted to fight against Franco. He didn’t do much; she did a lot; she worked for the political organisation he was fighting for. After Franco’s victory she, her colleagues, and Orwell were in danger. She narrowly escaped imprisonment – when some of her colleagues did not – and, along with her own, saved his life. In his Homage to Catalonia (1938), his account of his experiences in the Spanish civil war, which she edited and typed, she is never mentioned.

He needed her but she didn’t deserve him.

So women are said to have the same human rights as men, but our lesser amounts of time and money and status and safety tell us we do not.

Animal Farm (1945) and 1984 (1949) are now classics, his most famous works, and rightly so, but both had great input from the writer’s wife, not only as editor, typist, and researcher, but also as a contributor and sounding board, sometimes in bed, for his ideas, slip-ups, and decisions.

Funda reprints Eileen’s letters to friends where you can hear her whimsical tone, sense of humour and self-deprecation which are characteristics of the ensemble of characters in Animal Farm. You can ‘hear’ Eileen’s influence.

The golden age of feminist literature may be over but here’s one that should, and probably will, be added to that lexicon. It’s a great and uplifting read. Highly recommended.

Here is a fascinating interview with Funda by Sarah Ferguson on the 7:30 Report from July 2023.

by Categories: Literary criticism, memoir, Non-fictionTags: , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The Shepherd’s Hut by Tim Winton

Australian writer Tim Winton.

I can clearly understand that once Winton heard the untethered voice of the teenager, Jaxie Clackton, in his head there was nothing he could do but tell his story. Write it down. Rudyard Kipling said “When your Daemon is in charge, do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait, and obey.” Here, Winton’s Daemon is Jaxie Clackton.

The plight of the boy, a victim of his brutal drunken sole-parent father is known by everyone but no-one intervenes, not the neighbours, not the social workers, not the police. The opening is confronting; violence always is. Everyone expects him to retaliate one day. As it turns out, he doesn’t need too. A freak accident does the trick. It’s obvious to the boy that he’ll be blamed. Jaxie is no ordinary lad, he is undereducated but street-smart, resilient, cautious and in love. He steals a car and disappears into the Australian bush on the way to the only person who understands him: Lee, his pretty 15-year-old shaven-headed cousin with eyes of different hues.

Jaxie tells his story. If course language offends you don’t pick this one up.

As Jaxie’s supplies run low he needs to make some difficult choices. Again, fate comes to his aid. He discovers Fintan MacGillis, an old dero living in a dilapidated hut surviving on goats, guilt, and a meagre veggie patch. Although it seems these two have nothing in common there is a lot, deep down, they share. Otherness mainly. Fintan, a defrocked priest, has been ousted, but thinly supported, by the Church. His crime seems obvious but is never confirmed. Jaxie is wary and suspicious but they form a bumpy relationship which lasts until Jaxie discovers another crime.

The Shepherd’s Hut (2018) is a story about friendship, trust, survival, and redemption and Jackson Clackton’s voice and character will stay with you for quite some time. If you know Winton’s work you’ll relish this. I loved reading this book.

I’m all set now for Winton’s latest, Juice. It came out in October 2024.

Here is a very brief description by Winton of his creation, Jaxie Clackton.

by Categories: Australian Literature, Book reviewTags: , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Stone Yard Devotional by Charlotte Wood

Australian writer Charlotte Wood

This is a book about memory and how, as we age, we grow to understand our former imprecise and naive selves as we try to make sense of the world around us.

The narrator, an environmental activist, wife, mother, and atheist leaves her life and family behind to live in a remote religious community of nuns in the Monaro region of Southern NSW where she grew up. It’s a penny-watching community, understandably, viewed with suspicion by the locals, especially women, but where a local man helps out with the more physically demanding chores. Once the narrator is settled and eventually pleased with the decision she had made her life and that of the community is visited by three challenging occurrences: the return from overseas of the remains of a long lost, and murdered, nun from the community, a high-profile nun who was once the narrator’s schoolmate but an outsider due to poverty and public violence, and a mouse plague. All three interruptions spark questions about death, choices, what is sacred, commitment, parents, especially mothers, the truth about childhood events, forgiveness, and prayer.

‘I shovelled the compost and spread it, shovelled and spread, preparing the soil and waiting for things to make sense. Tried to attend, very softly and quietly, which is the closest I can get to prayer.’

Prayer isn’t an email to god seeking answers or gifts; it’s a form of meditation where the pray-er tries to make sense of what they believe.

Although the narrator is an unbeliever she joins in with the daily religious observances and finds solace in the routine and order they give her life. In fact the easy reading of it has a meditative effect, a consequence I particularly welcomed.

The book is also a testament to the emotional strength of simple clear and uncluttered language especially since it made the short list of this year’s Booker Prize. The format is similar to a diary, anecdotal, episodic, where daily actions are recorded juxtaposed with daily memories in an attempt to ‘work them through.’

I don’t think this book would appeal to young people as the attraction here is thoughtful consideration of a past life in order to come to an understanding of the kind of person you are and to forgive yourself for missteps in thinking and actions which were not entirely your fault.

Here is a short but succinct video of Charlotte Wood talking about this book.

by Categories: Australian Literature, Book review, Booker Prize, Literary criticismTags: , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment