Generally, I'm not a great reader of the crime genre. There's something about endless murders, maverick coppers and the constant one-upmanship of crime authors trying to create the most gruesomely televisual demises which does very little to whet my literary appetite.
But a recent change in my financial circumstances has led me to curb my spending on new novels and forced me to skulk back to the bookcase, in search of all those books I haven't yet read. The unappreciated gifts, the unfinished snooze-fests, the ones I'd been lent without asking and wished my benefactor had not been so kind.
One such book was a freebie that came with a loyalty cardholder's magazine published by a well-known high street book emporium. Small, lightweight and bendy, The One From The Other looked like cheap pulp fiction. And just like that much-maligned genre, it was bloody entertaining.
If I do read crime fiction, I want it to have a little something that distinguishes it from the rafts of contemporary adventures in gritty murder that practically block out the sun on the literary horizon these days. And in this aspect too, Kerr's novels score highly with their period setting.
Set in 1940s Berlin, the story stars hard-bitten German private detective Bernie Gunther and the dialogue crackles with his cynical witticisms. Described by many critics as Raymond Chandler-esque, Kerr's writing is actually different from that - set against the backdrop of a war-ravaged Germany and the lingering hangover of Nazism, the all-too-real cruelty and fear that had terrorised the country just a couple of years earlier adds a real edge to the action. As a non-Nazi who has seen his country go to the dogs and been forced to bear it if he wants to hold onto his skin, Gunther has more to be cynical about than the average New Yoik gumshoe.
Gunther is a compelling lead character, smart and witty yet with a callous streak that gives him a Jack Bauer-type quality of unsettling ruthlessness. Dripping with period detail and Kerr's intimate research, right down to the brand of shoes worn by the protagonist, the story is a really gripping and entertaining ride, boasting a humour and film noir flair that lifts it above the norm.
I enjoyed The One From The Other so much that I reached into my increasingly shallow pocket and am currently devouring one of Kerr's earlier Gunther novels, which is set in the 30s and gives a terrifying take on pre-war Germany as Hitler makes his sickening rise to notoriety.
Based on these first two brushes with Kerr's work, I can confidently predict that he will become one of the few authors whose entire canon will grace my cheap Ikea book shelves in time. Just as soon as I can drag myself out of the gutter and back to the book shop...
Sunday, 2 January 2011
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Review: The Quickening Maze by Adam Foulds
Not knowing anything about this book before I bought it, I'm afraid my shallow tendencies got the better of me and I allowed myself to be completely befuddled by the marketing.
By which I mean the mention of some award or other on the cover and, indeed, the cover itself. When it comes to books, I am an absolute sucker for embossing, gilding and general frue-frue. While a battered old paperback edition of a well-thumbed favourite has a certain charm, if I can fill my shelves with pretty, tricksy, olde worlde keepsakes, then fill them I will.
So it was the rubber that got me. Before your mind starts delving into the filthiest sewers you can conjure, let me clarify what I just said. The edition I picked up boasted a strange plasticine quality to its cover; it was literally grabby. So I bought it and attempted to read it.
It is always a warning sign when you have to 'attempt' to read anything. If you find yourself willingly distracted by other books after the first couple of chapters; if you glance at your bedside table three months later and find yourself thinking, 'oh yeah, I'd better finish that I suppose', then the book has failed to do its job.
The Quickening Maze does have some good qualities. It's short, for a start. Okay, so that's a bit unfair. It's well written, well researched and boasts plenty of descriptive flair. But Jesus Christ, it's boring. It's so boring that it has even had a knock-on effect for an internationally renowned poet (more on that later).
The central focus of the story is on the 19th century poet John Clare, who as a young man found occasion to be incarcerated in a private mental institution run by a twice-bankrupt chancer who is still pursuing his fortune. When Alfred Tennyson's brother checks in with a severe case of 'madder than a box of frogs'-ism, the unscrupulous proprietor thinks he has secured his meal ticket.
This is the most interesting part of the whole story, sadly it is also the least featured. For the rest of this mercifully brief novel, we have to endure the asylum owner's unattractive daughter's attempts to get laid and the increasingly tedious woodland ramblings of schizoid Clare. I got so bored that, when I spotted a volume of poems by the unfortunate Clare in a bookshop today, I thought, 'no thanks pal, your lyrical tidbits can go untasted in this household'.
Which is completely unfair on poor old Clare, so I suggest his ghost comes back and haunts Foulds to within an inch of his life. Don't get me wrong, the guy is a talented writer who clearly knows how to string a sentence together. But a gripping story seems to have eluded him on this occasion. Maybe he should have thrown in a car chase. Or two.
By which I mean the mention of some award or other on the cover and, indeed, the cover itself. When it comes to books, I am an absolute sucker for embossing, gilding and general frue-frue. While a battered old paperback edition of a well-thumbed favourite has a certain charm, if I can fill my shelves with pretty, tricksy, olde worlde keepsakes, then fill them I will.
So it was the rubber that got me. Before your mind starts delving into the filthiest sewers you can conjure, let me clarify what I just said. The edition I picked up boasted a strange plasticine quality to its cover; it was literally grabby. So I bought it and attempted to read it.
It is always a warning sign when you have to 'attempt' to read anything. If you find yourself willingly distracted by other books after the first couple of chapters; if you glance at your bedside table three months later and find yourself thinking, 'oh yeah, I'd better finish that I suppose', then the book has failed to do its job.
The Quickening Maze does have some good qualities. It's short, for a start. Okay, so that's a bit unfair. It's well written, well researched and boasts plenty of descriptive flair. But Jesus Christ, it's boring. It's so boring that it has even had a knock-on effect for an internationally renowned poet (more on that later).
The central focus of the story is on the 19th century poet John Clare, who as a young man found occasion to be incarcerated in a private mental institution run by a twice-bankrupt chancer who is still pursuing his fortune. When Alfred Tennyson's brother checks in with a severe case of 'madder than a box of frogs'-ism, the unscrupulous proprietor thinks he has secured his meal ticket.
This is the most interesting part of the whole story, sadly it is also the least featured. For the rest of this mercifully brief novel, we have to endure the asylum owner's unattractive daughter's attempts to get laid and the increasingly tedious woodland ramblings of schizoid Clare. I got so bored that, when I spotted a volume of poems by the unfortunate Clare in a bookshop today, I thought, 'no thanks pal, your lyrical tidbits can go untasted in this household'.
Which is completely unfair on poor old Clare, so I suggest his ghost comes back and haunts Foulds to within an inch of his life. Don't get me wrong, the guy is a talented writer who clearly knows how to string a sentence together. But a gripping story seems to have eluded him on this occasion. Maybe he should have thrown in a car chase. Or two.
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