Tag: fiction writing

All the Conspirators by Christopher Isherwood.

Christopher Isherwood, British born American writer, (1904 – 1986

The 1920s was a period in English literature defined by intense experimentation, stream-of consciousness, away from linear narration and a concentration on the inner turmoil of characters. Notable works include, Ulysses (1920) by James Joyce, Mrs Dallaway (1925) by Virginia Woolf and T. S. Elliot’s The Wasteland (1922). American journalist and editor, Bill Goldstein, who co-founded NYTimes.com Books describes the year 1922 as a ‘literary earthquake’ in his 2017 book The World Broke in Two. Isherwood could not have missed this stumbling lurch into modernism and not been unaffected by it. He began writing All the Conspirators in 1926; it was published in 1928, the year before he moved to Berlin. Phillip Lindsey, a fey young man, as most middle-class men of the times seemed to be, who wants to simply paint and write is thwarted in his creative desires by his strict conservative society and family. A tragedy, yes. Isherwood incorporates modernist techniques with, in this reader’s opinion, not good enough reasons nor skills. Switching from the third to first person is clumsy and some passages are incomprehensible despite multiple readings. Isherwood is famous for the stark honesty of his auto-fiction. Had his life been a little more like his anti-hero’s I might have been more emotionally engaged and therefore enjoyed it more. In my recently-aquired Isherwood bro-mance (beginning with Christopher & His Kind) I’m looking forward to his latter works.

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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).

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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.

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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.

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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.    

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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.

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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.

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The Gift of Rain by Tan Twan Eng

Malaysian/British writer, Tan Twan Eng

This book is the best of what fiction can do: it takes you out of your time, your place, your beliefs, your expectations, and your complacency. Its appearance of truth, verisimilitude, is so strong it’s hard not to feel that this is memoir – how does he do that? – yet Tan Twan Eng, the Malaysian / British author, was born in Penang 30 years after the action, 1941-46.

The novel is written in two parts. The first and longer is a slow burn of friendship, self-awareness, family, and discovery. The second is a rollercoaster ride as WWII decimates the contented and almost healed world of the protagonist, Phillip Hutton, the Chinese / British son of a wealthy English businessman whose completely English family seemed complete before he came along.

Phillip’s Chinese mother was his father’s second wife. Although the youngest, he feels he is in the middle: in the middle of everything, being pulled this way and that, fielding heavy demands on him from every angle: the Malay locals, his Chinese forebears, his English father, and, most importantly, his Japanese instructor in the ancient Japanese martial art of aikijutsu, testing his loyalty, his responsibilities, his obligations, and his sense of self. Phillip gathers all these strands of himself into one comprehensive knot and so is able to finally understand himself and his place in the world, or so he believes. Then the war arrives in December 1941 and everything unravels. But young Phillip discovers that all those strands of his life that he thought were fighting him, pulling him, were actually teaching him; he does the unthinkable, then recants, then … no, no spoilers here.

For anyone interested in the mysterious art of writing fiction don’t bother with all those vlogs on YouTube giving free writing advice from ‘experts’ most of which look like they’re just out of high school; you’ll find out more about writing fiction by reading this book, but read it like a writer: search for the ‘way’ and ‘how’ he writes and understand how he makes it so real.


The Gift of Rain (2007) was Tan Twan Eng’s debut novel, and it was long listed for the Booker Prize as was his most recent, The House of Doors (2023). I’m now searching for his second, The Garden of Evening Mists (2011), also a prize winner – it won the Man Asian Literay Prize – and which has been adapted for big screen by HBO.
Highly recommended.

Here Tan Twan Eng talks about the perils of being a new writer.

Listen to Tan Twan Eng’s advice to new writers here.

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