As I am sadly no longer a child, I have not read any of Michelle Paver's other books, but apparently they are a big hit among the younger readership.
And on the evidence of her new adult novel, Dark Matter, I am not remotely surprised.
Because I don't think it would be too presumptuous to suggest that this book might become something of a modern classic. I absolutely loved it, for a number of reasons and I do hope that Paver continues to write for older readers alongside her other work.
Showing a superb understanding of how to build tension and horror without ladling out the incidents too generously, Paver has created a story that offers just the right balance of dread, menace and possible ambiguity, while giving only the tantalising glimpses of her monster that I find more satisfying than a gore-drenched big reveal.
She presents a story that also has the right mix of research and a creative new setting that is more immediately gripping than your standard haunted house, but also keeps things very simple in a narrative sense, which is no mean feat for a writer to achieve.
Frustrated scientist Jack Miller is offered the chance to escape his boring office job in 1930s London by joining a meteorological expedition to the Arctic. Initially irritated by his upper class team mates, he begins to warm to one of them and the adventure starts to look like the life-changing opportunity Miller has been looking for.
But a series of accidents and problems begins to shrink the team before they even arrive at their destination, ending up with Miller being forced to spend several weeks alone at the isolated cabin while his two remaining colleagues go back to civilisation for medical treatment. By this time, the sun has set for the last time on the Arctic winter and Miller faces four months of darkness before it will rise again - worse still, the failing of the light seems to have roused another resident of the frozen landscape.
No ghost story is complete without the possible suspicion over the narrator's sanity and Dark Matter messes with the reader's mind just as effectively as the ghostly apparition messes with Miller's. There is also a really nice subtext to it which is brave and unusual, giving this apparently simple tale a bit of depth that really lifts it above the norm.
Paver is clearly not a one-trick pony who has mastered the art of pleasing children. She is a genuinely talented all-rounder and I very much look forward to her next literary outing.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Review: The Small Hand by Susan Hill
The Woman in Black is one of my favourite books and it appears to be universally popular, spawning not only a long-running stage production but also a new film, due to star Harry Potter poppet, Daniel Radcliffe.
I suppose the trouble with having a massively successful and respected hit is that you are always going to spend the rest of your life trying to repeat it. Hill is a hugely gifted writer and all of her books that I have read have entertained me greatly, so I do not suggest for a moment that they are not good reads in their own right. But the ghost story is a genre in which it is notoriously hard to hit the right buttons and when you have pulled off a near perfect execution once, it might not be easy to remember the combination a second time.
Two of Hill's other books, The Man in the Picture and The Mist in the Mirror, are decent enough ghost stories but I found they completely lacked the chill factor that The Woman in Black brings in bucketloads. So I came to The Small Hand with only middling expectations.
Beautifully bound in an embossed jacket, this book is a very attractive addition to any collection and I am a sucker for a book that looks and feels divine. Funnily enough though, the lovely cover does add something not only to the reading experience, but to the story itself. This very short novel follows the adventure of Adam Snow, a dealer in antiquarian books and the luxurious feel of the cover and the stylish font seem to add credence to his world, as if the reader might have picked up one of Snow's own treasures.
Stumbling across a derelict house in deepest Sussex one day, Snow explores the overgrown garden and is considerably alarmed when he feels the unmistakeable sensation of a small child's hand softly gripping his own. The experience haunts him and understandably makes him want to find out more about the garden's ghostly resident. But as time goes on, the small hand becomes less gentle and appears to reveal a malevolent intent.
Set in the present day, The Small Hand nevertheless manages to convey the sense of timelessness and 'other worldliness' at which Hill excels. I suppose not all ghost stories have to be terrifying to succeed and there is certainly a disconcerting atmosphere to the book. But unfortunately I just didn't find it scary. It just didn't touch those magic buttons that leave you unsettled, creeped out or revisited by certain images when you are alone at night.
For me, the mark of a great ghost story is that at some point in the future, you kind of wish you hadn't read it. And sadly The Small Hand leaves me untroubled.
I suppose the trouble with having a massively successful and respected hit is that you are always going to spend the rest of your life trying to repeat it. Hill is a hugely gifted writer and all of her books that I have read have entertained me greatly, so I do not suggest for a moment that they are not good reads in their own right. But the ghost story is a genre in which it is notoriously hard to hit the right buttons and when you have pulled off a near perfect execution once, it might not be easy to remember the combination a second time.
Two of Hill's other books, The Man in the Picture and The Mist in the Mirror, are decent enough ghost stories but I found they completely lacked the chill factor that The Woman in Black brings in bucketloads. So I came to The Small Hand with only middling expectations.
Beautifully bound in an embossed jacket, this book is a very attractive addition to any collection and I am a sucker for a book that looks and feels divine. Funnily enough though, the lovely cover does add something not only to the reading experience, but to the story itself. This very short novel follows the adventure of Adam Snow, a dealer in antiquarian books and the luxurious feel of the cover and the stylish font seem to add credence to his world, as if the reader might have picked up one of Snow's own treasures.
Stumbling across a derelict house in deepest Sussex one day, Snow explores the overgrown garden and is considerably alarmed when he feels the unmistakeable sensation of a small child's hand softly gripping his own. The experience haunts him and understandably makes him want to find out more about the garden's ghostly resident. But as time goes on, the small hand becomes less gentle and appears to reveal a malevolent intent.
Set in the present day, The Small Hand nevertheless manages to convey the sense of timelessness and 'other worldliness' at which Hill excels. I suppose not all ghost stories have to be terrifying to succeed and there is certainly a disconcerting atmosphere to the book. But unfortunately I just didn't find it scary. It just didn't touch those magic buttons that leave you unsettled, creeped out or revisited by certain images when you are alone at night.
For me, the mark of a great ghost story is that at some point in the future, you kind of wish you hadn't read it. And sadly The Small Hand leaves me untroubled.
Review: Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters
Anyone who has ever read any of my other reviews of Sarah Waters' books will have already heard about - and been immeasurably bored by - my enduring admiration for her work.
They will also be familiar with my mixed relationship with said work, so I won't rehash it again. Suffice to say, Waters' debut novel was the last one I came to and it has stirred up rather heated debate in the little book group in my heart.
It is no surprise that critics and readers alike were gripped and excited by this new writer, who showed a brilliant ability to characterise, to create a sense of place and time, to sprawl her characters' stories across many settings and situations, just as real life itself tends to spew all over the place, rather than just chunter along nicely on a pre-set, pre-destined course.
And for that reason, I liked Tipping the Velvet very much. Not having seen the TV adaptation, the storyline had not already been spoiled for me and I enjoyed the way in which the central character Nancy makes her way from naive starstruck oyster girl, to rent boy and decadent 'tom', as she tries to find her true identity in Victorian London.
Everybody knows that Tipping the Velvet is absolutely bursting with girl-on-girl action and I can confirm that the adaptation was no exaggeration of the book. The central section in particular is so full of heaving bosoms, damp 'spendings' and choice terms for a lady's private parts that I became convinced a crusty copy of this book must be tucked under the mattress of every teenage boy in the land. It's so full-on that it actually becomes boring and loses its titillation factor, but I suspect even that is a purposeful and clever technique employed by the author.
At the beginning of her story, Nancy is young, inexperienced and frightened by her burgeoning feelings for her friend Kitty and the tentative, gentle sex reflects that. Later on, betrayed and jaded by the world, Nancy almost loses herself in the abandon of sex as a way of life, indeed, a way of earning a living. If the reader is bored with the constant depravity, then Nancy most certainly is and this pulls the role of physical gratification back into perspective for both character and reader.
All in all, a highly entertaining read, just don't give it to your gran for Christmas.
They will also be familiar with my mixed relationship with said work, so I won't rehash it again. Suffice to say, Waters' debut novel was the last one I came to and it has stirred up rather heated debate in the little book group in my heart.
It is no surprise that critics and readers alike were gripped and excited by this new writer, who showed a brilliant ability to characterise, to create a sense of place and time, to sprawl her characters' stories across many settings and situations, just as real life itself tends to spew all over the place, rather than just chunter along nicely on a pre-set, pre-destined course.
And for that reason, I liked Tipping the Velvet very much. Not having seen the TV adaptation, the storyline had not already been spoiled for me and I enjoyed the way in which the central character Nancy makes her way from naive starstruck oyster girl, to rent boy and decadent 'tom', as she tries to find her true identity in Victorian London.
Everybody knows that Tipping the Velvet is absolutely bursting with girl-on-girl action and I can confirm that the adaptation was no exaggeration of the book. The central section in particular is so full of heaving bosoms, damp 'spendings' and choice terms for a lady's private parts that I became convinced a crusty copy of this book must be tucked under the mattress of every teenage boy in the land. It's so full-on that it actually becomes boring and loses its titillation factor, but I suspect even that is a purposeful and clever technique employed by the author.
At the beginning of her story, Nancy is young, inexperienced and frightened by her burgeoning feelings for her friend Kitty and the tentative, gentle sex reflects that. Later on, betrayed and jaded by the world, Nancy almost loses herself in the abandon of sex as a way of life, indeed, a way of earning a living. If the reader is bored with the constant depravity, then Nancy most certainly is and this pulls the role of physical gratification back into perspective for both character and reader.
All in all, a highly entertaining read, just don't give it to your gran for Christmas.
Friday, 12 November 2010
Review: Stone in a Landslide by Maria Barbal
The phrase ‘in a nutshell’ could have been invented to describe Maria Barbal’s short and occasionally sweet story.
Although the book is now in its 50th edition, this is the first time Stone in a Landslide has been translated into English. Described as the quintessential Catalan modern classic, the very short novel is an extraordinary exercise in brevity.
Filling just over 100 pages, Barbal proves that an economic use of the right words can tell a story just as well as an essay 10 times as
long. Divided into crisp chapters – many of which are no more than a few paragraphs – the book takes readers on a whistle-stop tour through a poor Spanish woman’s life, but a tour which feels as comprehensive as any epic novel.
When she is 13 years old, Conxa leaves her large family and is sent to work for her childless aunt and uncle. Although her youth is comprised of hardship and relentless work, she begins to feel happy in her new home and eventually meets Jaume, a charming young man who makes her heart sing. But the intervention of the Spanish Civil War will have far-reaching consequences for Conxa and her family.
With just a few lines, I was transported from a child’s birth to her teenage years, yet I was left with a fully rounded picture of the young woman she has become. With the turning of a few pages, I saw a feisty matriarch become a ‘shrivelled sparrow’ as age catches up with her and I felt like I hadn’t missed a moment of her long life.
Conxa’s story is not always a happy one and as the years pass, the reader can’t help pondering some of life’s sadder truths. But this is a wonderful achievement and a must-read for anyone with an interest in the potential of language.
Although the book is now in its 50th edition, this is the first time Stone in a Landslide has been translated into English. Described as the quintessential Catalan modern classic, the very short novel is an extraordinary exercise in brevity.
Filling just over 100 pages, Barbal proves that an economic use of the right words can tell a story just as well as an essay 10 times as
long. Divided into crisp chapters – many of which are no more than a few paragraphs – the book takes readers on a whistle-stop tour through a poor Spanish woman’s life, but a tour which feels as comprehensive as any epic novel.
When she is 13 years old, Conxa leaves her large family and is sent to work for her childless aunt and uncle. Although her youth is comprised of hardship and relentless work, she begins to feel happy in her new home and eventually meets Jaume, a charming young man who makes her heart sing. But the intervention of the Spanish Civil War will have far-reaching consequences for Conxa and her family.
With just a few lines, I was transported from a child’s birth to her teenage years, yet I was left with a fully rounded picture of the young woman she has become. With the turning of a few pages, I saw a feisty matriarch become a ‘shrivelled sparrow’ as age catches up with her and I felt like I hadn’t missed a moment of her long life.
Conxa’s story is not always a happy one and as the years pass, the reader can’t help pondering some of life’s sadder truths. But this is a wonderful achievement and a must-read for anyone with an interest in the potential of language.
Review: The Anatomy of Ghosts by Andrew Taylor
Set in the claustrophobic and rather grimy atmosphere of 18th
century Cambridge, this book is deceptively entertaining.
With many historical novels, the sheer weight of background research can bog down
the story, as the author heaps their hard-won period detail onto the page. Determined to show that no stone has gone unturned, they can allow authentic ambience to suffocate the characters and alienate the readers. Andrew Taylor’s murder mystery, however, does not fall into that trap.
There can be no denying that the book heaves with atmosphere – one can practically
smell the stench as characters make their way through dingy back alleys or deal with overflowing chamber pots. For all the delicate niceties of college life and
etiquette, the book does not shy away from the more stomach-churning elements of life in Georgian England. Pretty saucy in places too, The Anatomy of Ghosts takes the reader on a rather fun journey into a disturbing and, possibly, supernatural mystery.
Having lost his son to the River Thames, John Holdsworth is disgusted to see how a
medium gains control over his distraught wife. In response, he writes The Anatomy of Ghosts, a book which aims to destroy the idea that spectres exist.
Unable to get over her grief, his wife is driven to suicide and the formerly prosperous bookseller faces a grim future. So when he receives a proposition to catalogue a dead Bishop’s library in Cambridge, it looks like his fortunes are taking a turn for the better. But Holdsworth soon finds that the Bishop’s
widow has an alternative mission for him.
After declaring that he has seen the ghost of a friend’s dead wife, her son Frank has been taken to a mental hospital. The mother is desperate for Holdsworth to
disprove the existence of the ‘ghost’ and return her son to health. Holdsworth’s investigations lead him into Jerusalem College’s murky world of politics and privileged young men, resulting in a brush with the brutal Holy Ghost Club and the enigmatic Elinor Carbury.
Sizzling with sexual tension, The Anatomy of Ghosts is a real page-turner with a difference. It feels worthy and intelligent without being dull and, based on my first encounter with his work, I will be heading straight to the bookshop to pick up more of Taylor’s novels.
century Cambridge, this book is deceptively entertaining.
With many historical novels, the sheer weight of background research can bog down
the story, as the author heaps their hard-won period detail onto the page. Determined to show that no stone has gone unturned, they can allow authentic ambience to suffocate the characters and alienate the readers. Andrew Taylor’s murder mystery, however, does not fall into that trap.
There can be no denying that the book heaves with atmosphere – one can practically
smell the stench as characters make their way through dingy back alleys or deal with overflowing chamber pots. For all the delicate niceties of college life and
etiquette, the book does not shy away from the more stomach-churning elements of life in Georgian England. Pretty saucy in places too, The Anatomy of Ghosts takes the reader on a rather fun journey into a disturbing and, possibly, supernatural mystery.
Having lost his son to the River Thames, John Holdsworth is disgusted to see how a
medium gains control over his distraught wife. In response, he writes The Anatomy of Ghosts, a book which aims to destroy the idea that spectres exist.
Unable to get over her grief, his wife is driven to suicide and the formerly prosperous bookseller faces a grim future. So when he receives a proposition to catalogue a dead Bishop’s library in Cambridge, it looks like his fortunes are taking a turn for the better. But Holdsworth soon finds that the Bishop’s
widow has an alternative mission for him.
After declaring that he has seen the ghost of a friend’s dead wife, her son Frank has been taken to a mental hospital. The mother is desperate for Holdsworth to
disprove the existence of the ‘ghost’ and return her son to health. Holdsworth’s investigations lead him into Jerusalem College’s murky world of politics and privileged young men, resulting in a brush with the brutal Holy Ghost Club and the enigmatic Elinor Carbury.
Sizzling with sexual tension, The Anatomy of Ghosts is a real page-turner with a difference. It feels worthy and intelligent without being dull and, based on my first encounter with his work, I will be heading straight to the bookshop to pick up more of Taylor’s novels.
Review: Affinity by Sarah Waters
Although I was aware of Sarah Waters' existence for many years before reading her work for the first time, I had never really been tempted to pick up her books because I was mainly familiar with the TV adaptations of her stories. I say 'familiar' but I hadn't actually watched them. Obviously, the screening of Tipping the Velvet several years ago could only have failed to enter your consciousness if you were living on the moon - lesbian Victorian action? Come on!!! - but I'm afraid I didn't tune in.
Until fairly recently, I probably had Waters pegged as a Catherine Cookson-style author, a peddler of bodice-busting potboilers and that genre holds absolutely nothing of interest for me as a reader. It was only when I picked up Waters' latest work, The Little Stranger, that I realised my mistake. It immediately became one of my all-time favourite novels and I vowed to read the rest of her canon as a matter of urgency. After reading The Night Watch, I was utterly converted and I am pleased to say I now have her complete five books on my shelf (in alphabetical order, natch).
Since then I have read her books in, I believe, reverse chronological order. And funnily enough, I think my affection for them diminishes slightly in accordance with that. Don't get me wrong, no matter what aspects of her stories I might find unsuited to my personal taste, there can be no denying that Waters is a superb storyteller who keeps you hooked until the very last page. But I enjoyed Fingersmith slightly less than The Night Watch and Affinity is probably on a similar level for me.
Compared with the complex narrative weaving Waters employs in The Night Watch - which, despite my enormous regard for The Little Stranger, I think is probably her finest work to date - Affinity is a simple enough tale. A troubled middle class woman tries to atone for a past mistake by becoming a Lady Visitor at London's forbidding Millbank Prison, where she attempts to brighten the grim days of the female prisoners within.
It is only a matter of time before her attention is captured by the enigmatic Selina Dawes, a well-known medium who was imprisoned after a young woman suffered injuries during a seance. Whether or not Dawes' talents are genuine remains to be seen, but she certainly weaves an unshakeable spell over our heroine.
Dawes' story is revealed in flashback, even as her present day relationship with her enraptured visitor advances towards its nerve-shredding climax. This is a highly effective device, as nothing is more guaranteed to keep pages turning than the promise of a secret soon to be revealed.
I liked this story better than Fingersmith, as the intentions of the main character appear purer than either of the female leads in the latter book. There was also a notable absence of sex, with Waters focusing more on the electricity between two women forbidden to touch, not just by society but by prison rules. The heroine is sympathetic and this unsatisfied longing worked better, I found, than more explicit scenes described in Waters' other books.
Although to date I have preferred Waters' post-war stories, Affinity is still a gripping and infinitely readable tale with a decent twist.
Until fairly recently, I probably had Waters pegged as a Catherine Cookson-style author, a peddler of bodice-busting potboilers and that genre holds absolutely nothing of interest for me as a reader. It was only when I picked up Waters' latest work, The Little Stranger, that I realised my mistake. It immediately became one of my all-time favourite novels and I vowed to read the rest of her canon as a matter of urgency. After reading The Night Watch, I was utterly converted and I am pleased to say I now have her complete five books on my shelf (in alphabetical order, natch).
Since then I have read her books in, I believe, reverse chronological order. And funnily enough, I think my affection for them diminishes slightly in accordance with that. Don't get me wrong, no matter what aspects of her stories I might find unsuited to my personal taste, there can be no denying that Waters is a superb storyteller who keeps you hooked until the very last page. But I enjoyed Fingersmith slightly less than The Night Watch and Affinity is probably on a similar level for me.
Compared with the complex narrative weaving Waters employs in The Night Watch - which, despite my enormous regard for The Little Stranger, I think is probably her finest work to date - Affinity is a simple enough tale. A troubled middle class woman tries to atone for a past mistake by becoming a Lady Visitor at London's forbidding Millbank Prison, where she attempts to brighten the grim days of the female prisoners within.
It is only a matter of time before her attention is captured by the enigmatic Selina Dawes, a well-known medium who was imprisoned after a young woman suffered injuries during a seance. Whether or not Dawes' talents are genuine remains to be seen, but she certainly weaves an unshakeable spell over our heroine.
Dawes' story is revealed in flashback, even as her present day relationship with her enraptured visitor advances towards its nerve-shredding climax. This is a highly effective device, as nothing is more guaranteed to keep pages turning than the promise of a secret soon to be revealed.
I liked this story better than Fingersmith, as the intentions of the main character appear purer than either of the female leads in the latter book. There was also a notable absence of sex, with Waters focusing more on the electricity between two women forbidden to touch, not just by society but by prison rules. The heroine is sympathetic and this unsatisfied longing worked better, I found, than more explicit scenes described in Waters' other books.
Although to date I have preferred Waters' post-war stories, Affinity is still a gripping and infinitely readable tale with a decent twist.
Review: Harbour by John Ajvide Lindqvist
Anyone who is a fan of vampires will be familiar with Let The Right
One In, Lindqvist’s chilling tale of a young girl who is not as she seems.
The masterful thriller was adapted into a highly acclaimed Swedish film, which has in turn undergone the obligatory Hollywood
remake. That novel was possibly the definitionof ‘dark’, yet the quality of the characters shone through and I was gripped from start to
finish. So I approached Harbour with a high level of anticipation and my expectations were met in some respects, not in others.
In terms of inventiveness, Lindqvist is not afraid to expect a certain amount of intelligence from his readers. Or at least, the ability
to pay attention. By inventing a whole new mythology, he asks readers to take a few sizeable leaps of faith and the jury is still out on whether he
has provided a soft landing. Starting with a compelling premise, he immediately captures the attention and presents a mystery which has readers’ minds working from the earliest pages.
When a young couple, Anders and Cecilia, take their daughter across the frozen harbour to visit an old lighthouse, the child inexplicably disappears into the barren landscape. Two years later, the grief-stricken couple have parted but Anders is unable to move on with his life. Battling a drink problem, he returns to the island of their torment and finds himself being slowly sucked into a terrifying mystery that tests the boundaries of human understanding.
Lindqvist regularly blends the magical into the mundane, something which achieves varying degrees of success. Although a bizarre sub-plot involving a retired magician and his intriguing pet is handled delicately, the book’s tone seems to veer from a low-key, creepy ghost story to a fully blown horror tale with
huge doses of fantasy thrown in. Personally, I preferred the quieter, dreadfilled
scenes that revealed mere glimpses of terror and I was slightly disappointed when
the story seemed to be grasping at epic solutions that didn’t really make sense. But I would always rather read novels that aim high and fall short, instead of those written to formula by authors who are afraid to explore new territory.
Whether or not you love Harbour will depend on your taste in supernatural
thrillers, but Lindqvist is definitely one of our most interesting contemporary
writers.
One In, Lindqvist’s chilling tale of a young girl who is not as she seems.
The masterful thriller was adapted into a highly acclaimed Swedish film, which has in turn undergone the obligatory Hollywood
remake. That novel was possibly the definitionof ‘dark’, yet the quality of the characters shone through and I was gripped from start to
finish. So I approached Harbour with a high level of anticipation and my expectations were met in some respects, not in others.
In terms of inventiveness, Lindqvist is not afraid to expect a certain amount of intelligence from his readers. Or at least, the ability
to pay attention. By inventing a whole new mythology, he asks readers to take a few sizeable leaps of faith and the jury is still out on whether he
has provided a soft landing. Starting with a compelling premise, he immediately captures the attention and presents a mystery which has readers’ minds working from the earliest pages.
When a young couple, Anders and Cecilia, take their daughter across the frozen harbour to visit an old lighthouse, the child inexplicably disappears into the barren landscape. Two years later, the grief-stricken couple have parted but Anders is unable to move on with his life. Battling a drink problem, he returns to the island of their torment and finds himself being slowly sucked into a terrifying mystery that tests the boundaries of human understanding.
Lindqvist regularly blends the magical into the mundane, something which achieves varying degrees of success. Although a bizarre sub-plot involving a retired magician and his intriguing pet is handled delicately, the book’s tone seems to veer from a low-key, creepy ghost story to a fully blown horror tale with
huge doses of fantasy thrown in. Personally, I preferred the quieter, dreadfilled
scenes that revealed mere glimpses of terror and I was slightly disappointed when
the story seemed to be grasping at epic solutions that didn’t really make sense. But I would always rather read novels that aim high and fall short, instead of those written to formula by authors who are afraid to explore new territory.
Whether or not you love Harbour will depend on your taste in supernatural
thrillers, but Lindqvist is definitely one of our most interesting contemporary
writers.
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