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Showing posts from August, 2013

Books of Note

Universal Harvester by John Darnielle

Not surprisingly, like a lot of John Darnielle’s music, particularly those songs on the album The Sunset Tree (Pale Green Things springs to mind and is very much worth listening to), his writing only slowly reveals itself and its narrative direction. Not in any turgid or tedious fashion, but rather in an unhurried, gentler and more thoughtful way. Universal Harvester rolls gently along its path with only a few disconcerting and probably deliberate hiccups. It starts in Iowa in the 1990s with a young man, still living at home with his father but unable to leave because of the weight of his mother’s death, years before, in a car crash. The trauma tethers Jeremy and his father together like the gravitational pull of a dead star in a comfortable and predictable but numb orbit, but it’s never something that either of them can discuss openly.
Jeremy works at a VHS rental store, so we’re assuredly early-Worldwide Web era. His job is simple, repetitive, and keeps him and his father in entertai…

The Quiddity of Will Self by Sam Mills

It’s hard to say, when asked as I was recently at a meeting of local writers (who you can follow on Twitter if you wish), who might be my favourite author. If you look at my book shelves, you might see groupings of books by modern authors such as (WARNING - gratuitous alphabetical roll-call):
Paul Auster, John Barth, Richard Brautigan, Thomas Bernhard, Jim Bob, T.C. Boyle, Karel Čapek, Jonathan Carroll, Stephen Donaldson, Glen Duncan, Tibor Fischer, Peter Høeg, Michel Houellebeq, Bohumil Hrabal, Ismail Kadare, Andrey Kurkov, John D McDonald, Harry Mullisch, Haruki Murakami, Cees Nooteboom, Victor Pelevin, Thomas Pynchon, Jon Ronson, and Kurt Vonnegut (my usual go-to favourite when I don’t have the energy to explain).
In addition, you might just spot every book ever published by one William Woodard "Will" Self (minus Sore Sites which mysteriously vanished while moving house a few years back). Whilst a fan, and also willing to admit experiencing an embarrassing and sometimes di…

The Twelve by Justin Cronin

Before I get sidetracked into the usual "books are only a device to talk at length about pseudo-intellectual concerns, make dull jokes and pass reference to the suffering of mild and trivial anxieties" side-show, I think I should start this review with an appropriate bang.

I hate Stephen King.

Now I don't know him personally (although his pictures creep me out) and I'm sure he's a nice chap and all that, but his books are formulaic, predictable and appeal to the lowest common denominator-type reader. Not that this is a bad thing (I'm sure James Patterson wouldn't be a multi-multi-millionaire if this were so) but it makes him completely uninteresting to me, because I'm more concerned with pseudo-intellectualism etc. and so on. Hate might seem too strong a word, but it really has gotten to the point where even the mention of his name makes my teeth grate (in keeping with the vague dental theme begun in a recent review I shall hereby disclose that I suffe…