Cannonball Read 6, Book 45: Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green & David Levithan

18918102So this was an intriguing one. The two biggest YA superstars collaborate on a book, each writing alternate chapters, about two high school boys both named Will Grayson. John Green takes the straight Will, best friend to the biggest, gayest teen (ironically nicknamed Tiny, of course) while Levithan gives us the gay will, who is too cool to use capital letters at any point ever, but otherwise leads a tortured existence, prone to black moods and on medication to stabilise his moods. A freak turn of events sees the two Graysons intersect and their lives begin to move in different and unplanned directions.

I loved this book so hard. Both Green and Levithan capture the voices of their characters phenomenally well. It’s frequently hilarious, it punches you in the gut almost as often. I loved that Will Grayson Who Uses Caps loved to indulge in giving people the kind of nicknames that I like to give to people, when he christens a love rival “DouchePants McWaterPolo”. There is a LOT of talk about how huge Tiny is. “Imagine being hugged by a sofa. that’s what it feels like”. In terms of plot, it is both predictable and a little ridiculous. Tiny Cooper is writing a musical about his life that the school is going to put on. Of course, he and gay will end up seeing each other.

But the characters are so strong and the writing so spot on, that the inanity of the plot fades away into the background. The transition of gay will from spiky and dark to cautious romantic is beautiful and painful to read. When Tiny asks whether he minds if they hold hands, the response “the truth is, i do mind. but i know that since he’s my boyfriend, the answer should be that i don’t mind at all. he’d probably carry me to class in his arms if i asked him nicely” actually made me say “awwww”. Out loud. On public transport. I suspect how much people love this book does relate to how bearable and believable they find Tiny Cooper, but I loved that whether he was vastly ridiculous or not, he was not a caricature or a stereotype. Neither author talks down to their audience. It’s not every day you read a book where a relationship is mapped out using Schrodinger’s Cat as a template.

But the ending, the ending. Sigh. I tore through this book in no time at all and loved every page, right up to the final chapter. The final chapter is a bit of a fumble. It doesn’t end the way I wanted it to, but it also doesn’t really end in a believable or terribly satisfying way. It’s annoying in the extreme that such a wonderful novel takes a sharp turn into Blahville. I still loved it, but it ends up going just left of centre rather than nailing the bullseye.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 44: & Sons by David Gilbert

21100454Every year, there’s another attempt at writing The Great American Novel. And the latest instalment in that neverending series is David Gilbert’s latest novel, & Sons. Very early on, Gilbert sets out his stall with “Fathers start as gods and end as myths and in between whatever human form they take can be calamitous for their sons”. So we know what we’re dealing with. This is the story of A.N. Dyer, a Salinger-esque novelist, as reclusive as he is revered, and his three sons. The eldest is Richard, who fled to California after surviving a massive drug addiction, and is trying to carve out a career as a screenwriter. In the middle is Jamie, a documentary filmmaker whose world is spinning of its axis with the death of his first girlfriend, whose demise he documented at her request. And then there’s 17 year old Andy, whose unexpected and apparently adulterous arrival into the Dyer family cleft it in twain. Our narrator is Phillip Topping, son of A.N Dyer’s lifelong friend, whose funeral is the catalyst for the events of the book. Attempting to deliver the eulogy, Dyer has a meltdown and calls his two wayward sons home, to settle his affairs.

It’s a very much character-driven book. Phillip grew up alongside the Dyer boys, but feels very much like the poor relation and reminisces a lot about his teenage years with the Dyers. There’s mention that Phillip has just imploded his own family and professional situation with an adulterous liaison but that doesn’t seem fully explored. I suspect that is because Phillip is a horribly selfish and really not that pleasant narrator. An event towards the end of the book tipped my annoyance at his whining into full on hate. He’s an arsehole and spending time in his company isn’t always fun. I also had issues with the structure of the first person narrative, with the narrator detailing whole swathes of the book for which he just is not present and can’t know about.

The writing is without a doubt extraordinary though. It goes a long way to making up for those faults. It is by turns beautiful, heartbreaking and hilarious. It’s never short of engrossing and his similes are quite genius  – “She was wearing of all things a maid’s uniform, which have her the distinct impression of being swallowed whole by a leaping killer whale”. Purely from that perspective, I found this a joy to read, but there was a prevailing feeling over the book as a whole. It really felt like Gilbert worships at the altar of Jonathan Franzen in general, The Corrections in particular. Every page screamed “I AM WRITING A SERIOUS LITERARY WORK”. I was reminded of when I saw Sally Ann Triplett as Reno Sweeney in Anything Goes. She clearly thought she was giving a star making turn, but those kind of performances are meant to appear effortless and I have never seen a performer working SO HARD to get there. & Sons feels like that. The effort drips off of every sentence.

There’s also a plot point revolving around the youngest Dyer which doesn’t quite gel with the rest of the novel and the way Gilbert chooses to wrap it up didn’t sit well with me either. All in all, I found this a hugely enjoyable book, and while it’s undeniably a great read, I didn’t think it was quite the Important Book Gilbert was aiming for.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 43: Six Years by Harlan Coben

17447634I have never read a Harlan Coben book before. I keep confusing him with Dennis Lehane. Whenever I see anything about Harlan Coben, I always think “oh, yeah, he wrote Mystic River, I really want to read that. Wait. NO HE DIDN’T”. But I loved the French movie they made from his book Tell No-One and the plot for this sounded super intriguing so I thought what the heck.

So the titular time period is how long lapses between Jake Sanders watching the love of his life Natalie Avery, marry another man and said man turning up dead. At the wedding, Natalie made Jake promise to leave her alone, which Jake did. But, with The Other Guy now out of the picture, Jake goes to the funeral to get a glimpse of the woman he’s been carrying a torch for all this time. Only the grieving widow is absolutely not Natalie. Jake begins to break his promise to Natalie, that he would leave her alone, and begins to retrace the path of their all too brief affair. Only the place they met doesn’t seem to exist and people who knew them both at the time don’t seem to remember him either.  So Jake keeps on digging until he realises all too late in the day that he REALLY SHOULD HAVE LISTENED when Natalie made him promise to back off.

I’ll say this for the book, it rattles along at a fair old pace and I happily got caught up in it and wanted to see exactly how it was going to play out. I love plots like this in crime novels (Linwood Barclay’s No Time For Goodbye is still the pinnacle for me) so I was all “oooh, I wonder what the heck is going on, I bet it’s awesome”. The problem with the book, rattling along and readable as it is, I didn’t buy a single word of it. Characters were either too convoluted to be believable (Jake is a lecturer at a university. A fellow lecturer there used to work for the FBI, when they weren’t being an undersecretary of state. I’m so sure, Harlan.), or their actions were too annoying or incredulous to really get behind. Jake meets Natalie, they have a crazy passionate love at first sight relationship, but she pulls a volte face and says “oh, this dude I dated once, he’s totally the one. I’m marrying him. Come to the wedding, but after that never look for me again”. So far, so far-fetched. But Jake honours that promise. For six years. He doesn’t at any point think “I don’t buy this insane wedding” or “I wonder how Natalie is doing” and have a brief little social media cyberstalk. Come on now. That’s not really a plot point that had me saying “wow yeah totally get it”.

Leaving aside the fact that Jake is told several many times to stop looking for Natalie or he’s going to get her and other people killed if he doesn’t, but he doesn’t (douchebag), what Jake finds out along the way stretches the credibility further, until the final pages lay it all out for you and rather than going “oh my holy wow that’s just I had no idea oh my god”, you’re far likelier to roll your eyes and say “give me strength”. You know how you’ll spot a loose thread on a shirt and go to pick it out, only to find it’s unravelled a whole sleeve and the shirt is fucked? This book is full of plot points like that. I took issue with so many little points about technology and the like only to find if I applied enough thought, I’d knocked over the entire house of cards. That said, it’s never not entertaining. It’s just not quite the impenetrable and smart mystery Coben thinks it is.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 42: We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves by Karen Joy Fowler

16176440The award for the best title of 2014 has to go to Karen Joy Fowler, don’t we think? It is the reason I even gave this a second glance, and then the deliciously cryptic description hooked me right in. In reviewing this wonderful book, I’m likely going to get spoiler happy, so if you don’t know the big reveal of the novel and don’t want to before you pick it up, stop reading now. Still here? Well ok then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Our narrator is Rosemary Cooke. When she was a child, she never shut up, now she’s in college, she rarely speaks. Her parents are not the people they used to be, and her brother is on the run from the FBI. And Rosemary’s sister, Fern? Well, she’s the reason this once happy family has folded in on itself, but not for the reasons you would think. Ok, here come the spoilers. Rosemary’s father was a professor at their local university and he wanted to study the effects of raising a chimp in a human environment. Fern is the chimp, very close in age to Rosemary, and raised in tandem with her. I guess the cover does make it relatively obvious as well, but whatever. The experiment, monitored by Daddy Cooke’s grad students lasts just five years before it all goes Very Wrong Indeed and Fern is taken away from the family environment. The Cooke siblings are told she’s gone to live on a farm.

Uncovering the truth of Fern’s fate is what puts Rosemary’s brother Lowell on the FBI’s radar. Rosemary is in college, trying to forget about Fern and move on with her life, but being reminded that she is also Chimp Girl in a variety of unexpected ways. She has a destructive friendship with the type of girl who seems to be a staple in all campus novels, wild, crazy and never telling a single truth about herself. But when Lowell reappears and starts to help Rosemary remember exactly what happened to end their joyful half decade with Fern, her world starts to slowly spin off its axis.

To keep the reader on their toes and to hide the reveal about Fern for as long as the narrative can really take it, Fowler starts in the middle of the story. It works its way back to the beginning before looping back to the end. Told in the first person, each section jumps around with Rosemary’s remembrances (see what Fowler did there?). The way she writes about Fern and their relationship is really tender and beautiful. It’s clear that Fern was loved by the Cooke family and the grad students, and Fowler makes her a fully realised character. It makes the circumstances that unravelled the happy family life all the more shocking when you finally get to them as well.

It’s not really a surprise that Fowler has found herself on the Booker Prize longlist in the first year that it’s open to US authors. It’s a brilliantly crafted and beautifully written work that provokes a reaction from the reader. Even I, who remain stoically unmoved by the Planet of the Apes films, adored Fern and  cared about her fate. The biggest surprise for me is that Fowler also wrote The Jane Austen Book Club which I was intrigued about reading until roughly 5 minutes into the film. It just makes the sheer brilliance of this book all the more unexpected.

Don’t forget to check this review out over on The Cannonball Read, along with all the other reviews from the Cannonball Readers.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 41: Eleanor & Park by Rainbow Rowell

17322949I know. I’m arriving late to the Rainbow Rowell party. I don’t know why but there was something about her books that didn’t make me fall over myself to read them. Maybe it was the pastel covers, the cute titles, I don’t know. Maybe it’s that her first name is Rainbow, for sobbing out loud. Whatever it was, I was not actively campaigning against her books, I was just not that interested. And the Cannonball Read people LOVE her too. Despite all this evidence that I should really get over myself and indulge my YA loving book geek in some Rowell goodness, it took my housemate reading this book to make me see the light. She finished it, handed it to me and said “you need to read this. You HAVE to read this.”

And so I did. And what an unadulterated delight it turned out to be. A delight which made me well up with joy and sadness on more than one occasion. Eleanor is the new girl at school, she wears mismatched clothes, she has hair like Ronald McDonald, she’s a big girl with a big presence who only wants to go unnoticed. Park is the half Korean kid who sits at the back of the bus lost in music and looking too cool for school. On her first day, Park saves Eleanor from herself when she can’t decide where to sit on the bus to school. From there, slowly, they build a friendship, founded on mix tapes and comic books, and then they fall for each other. And if their falling doesn’t make you melt just a little bit, doesn’t take you back to what that first love was like, then I don’t know what to tell you. You may well be dead.

As soon as he said it, she broke into a smile. And when Eleanor smiled, something broke inside of him.  

Something always did. 

How can you not read a line like that and not melt? It’s always said that you should write what you know and it’s pretty clear that Rowell knows what it’s like to be an awkward teen falling in love for the first time. Everything about the two of them and how they are with each other felt so gloriously, gorgeously, painfully real, that I was texting a quote from pretty much every other page to my housemate with an “I can’t even fucking deal with this” after it.

Poking about on the interwebs after I finished it, I discovered some hilarious ranting about the book. People went after it for its racism (which misses the point of the racist content so massively, I actually could not believe what I was reading), its historical inauthenticity (it’s set in 1986, not 1886, for heavens sakes) and the ending, my GOD do some people loathe that final sentence. While I may concur a little that the plot device used to set the ending in motion feels a little rushed and unclear, the last line of this wonderful, beautiful book is pretty much perfect. It’s stayed with me since I finished it, along with many achingly memorable exchanges between the titular couple. I don’t care how old you are, what race, creed, colour or sexual orientation you are, you should read Eleanor & Park. You’ll feel better for it.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 40: Pure by Andrew Miller

11839465When this book came out three years ago, it got a lot of attention, it won some prizes, it garnered excellent reviews and word of mouth. I put it straight on my to read list, as I love a bit of a historical novel and this one sounded kind of gruesome with it, which is always a winner. Yet somehow I only just got round to reading it now. I don’t know why. It was only after I started reading that I discovered it’s the same author who wrote Ingenious Pain, a book I couldn’t get past the first chapter of, no matter how many times I tried.

So here we are. Our hero is Jean-Baptiste Barratte, the year is 1785 and the setting is Paris. Barratte is tasked with clearing the cemetery of Les Innocents, which is overflowing and poisoning the air of the surrounding neighbourhood. What should have been an epic but not insurmountable task turns into a year of unexpected events, both tender and violent, until it begins to look like he may not actually make it out of there alive.

Miller paints a vivid picture, that’s for sure. His writing is a joy to read, it’s witty, it’s florid, it’s lyrical, it’s a treat. But somehow, I found I wasn’t engaging with any of it. I didn’t really buy into any of the events that happen to and around our noble hero, they all seemed to be lacking in motive. And the action surrounding the crazy events is, well, kind of repetitive. They dig up a section of the cemetery, they dispose of the contents. And repeat. Add the two together and it made for an odd and disconnected read. I simultaneously marvelled at the language and didn’t give two shits about the words, you know?

So when I finished the book, I just shrugged and thought “well that was alright”. If Miller had done a Spinal Tap and turned it all the way up to eleven, he might have won me over. But the grand finale doesn’t really do that, it smacks more of a “I need a way to end this”. So the sinking feeling I had when I discovered some of his back catalogue turned out to be not too far off the mark. This was better than I thought it would be after that discovery, but still not as good as I wanted it to be.

Cannonball Read, Book 39: We Were Liars by E. Lockhart

16143347I think I have written before about how when I was growing up, YA wasn’t really a big deal, and I honestly can’t recall reading books aimed specifically at my age group when I was fifteen. This is why I read lots of Stephen King and the like when I was growing up and probably accounts a lot for my warped world view. As much as I loathe Stephenie Meyer and every book she’s ever published, there’s no denying that Twilight finished what Harry Potter started and put YA through the roof into the stratosphere. You can’t turn around now without there being some new YA phenomenon being hyped up every other day. And since I didn’t have any when I was growing up, I see absolutely no shame in reading it now that I’m hurtling ever faster towards 40.

The latest book to arrive on a tidal wave of hype is this one, E. Lockhart’s We Were Liars. Narrated by 17 year old Cadence Sinclair Eastman, it tells the story of a fantastically rich family and their summers on a private island. She hangs out with two cousins her own age, Jonny and Mirren and an outsider, Gat, who joins them every year. She falls in love with Gat, of course. Then, when Cadence is 15, she has an accident and loses most of her memory of summer fifteen. Two years later, she returns to the private island and memories begin to come back as to exactly what happened.

E. Lockhart is of course Emily Jenkins, and here she schools several authors I’ve read recently in how you write spoilt, privileged and generally awful people and it not be hard work to read them. Cadence and indeed the entire Sinclair family are all pretty vile to each other, squabbling over inheritance following the death of their grandmother. There’s shades of fairy tales and of King Lear in that set up, with three daughters all trying to show their father they love him the most to secure their own future.  Lockhart also captures how teens really talk to each other more than, say, Cody Diablo ever has. Cadence, Mirren, Jonny and Gat call themselves The Liars and some of their conversations feel painfully real. This excellent characterisation coupled with an intriguing mystery makes this an engrossing read. I finished it in one sitting.

There’s the issue of the ending though. It’s unfortunate that they’ve made SO MUCH of the twisty turny ending Lockhart has come up with. My housemate read an ARC of it, which even had a helpline number on it so you could discuss the ending with someone. I mean, really. All the publicity says “if anyone asks you how it ends, LIE”. But when you go into a book or a film knowing there’s a twist, you’ll be looking for it. Chances are you’ll find it before it’s revealed as well. I believe it’s called The Shyamalan Paradox. We Were Liars is no different, I figured where it was going before it got there, but it didn’t really diminish the impact of it. It may have been a more effective marketing campaign to talk about the characters, Lockhart’s powerful writing, maybe even double bluffing by amping up the inheritance in fighting angle. Then, the ending would really come along and smack you up side the head.

So anyway, if you love YA books, you totally need to read it. You’ve possibly already done so. But if anyone asks you how it ends, don’t lie. Don’t tell them anything about it. Tell them to just read it themselves.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 38: Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield

17726082I really enjoyed Setterfield’s debut novel, The Thirteenth Tale. It was a book as much about the love of books as it was the dark tale it was telling, and telling it with an unreliable narrator to boot. It left a lasting impression and when I spotted her follow up, a ghost story no less, on the shelf in Foyles, I had to buy it. I bloody love ghost stories. I love being scared when I’m reading or watching something, it’s the best. I haven’t had a book send shivers down my spine since Sarah Waters’ The Little Stranger (there’s one scene in that book so tense and frightening, it nearly caused a panic attack. High praise indeed). So I was properly excited to read this one. And that’s where it all goes wrong.

It doesn’t help that the marketing for the novel has this to say about it: “Bellman & Black is a heart-thumpingly perfect ghost story, beautifully and irresistibly written, its ratcheting tension exquisitely calibrated line by line”. I spent the whole book waiting for there to be anything approaching tension, but I couldn’t find it among the long rambling descriptions of mundane day to day workings of mills and funeral emporiums. So, our hero is William Bellman. At the age of 11, he has the best catapult and is the envy of all his friends. He kills a rook with it one day, which apparently will be important later. He grows up and leads a charmed life, until people around him begin to die. At every funeral William attends, a stranger is present, dressed in black and smiling at him. After losing his wife and all but one of his children to illness, William is almost insane with grief and at his wife’s grave, he encounters the stranger again. This time, they talk and the stranger makes a proposition.

From that proposition, William builds a successful funeral emporium, the titular Bellman & Black. The first half of the novel is focussed so much on William’s work at the family mill, it’s mostly quite dull. The second half focuses on the building of this new venture and is even more dull, because people stop dying. Nothing ratchets up line by line, apart from maybe my impatience for something to actually happen, for Setterfield to pay off Bellman’s obsession with rooks, why people died around him, something, anything. But when it comes, the payoff is a crushing, boring, and very much not scary disappointment.

If you don’t believe the hype, and don’t know this is supposed to be heart thumping, perfect and tense or whatever, then there’s something quite absorbing about the earlier parts of the book. William is a charming rogue of a character, and the happiness he finds with his family being so comprehensively shattered makes for some bleak reading. But nothing can save the second half, where William is cold, closed off and occasionally barking mad, monomaniacally focussed on his business. Such a disappointment.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 37: To Rise Again At A Decent Hour by Joshua Ferris

19777889So here’s the thing. I had been gagging to read Ferris’s debut novel, Then We Came To The End, since it was published to near universal acclaim a few years ago. I finally got round to starting it at the end of March this year and hated it so much that I had to give up after 100 pages as I just couldn’t face reading another word. I hated all the characters and their tiresome situations. Having now read his latest, it affirms my suspicion about why I had such a huge reaction to his debut. It’s not because he’s not any good, but rather because he is SO good. He nailed a scenario that I currently deal with 40 hours a week and absolutely loathe in his first book, so I had no desire to spend my downtime reading more of the same, thank you very much. I figure since I’m not a dentist, not interested in baseball and have never had my identity stolen, I would be on safer ground with his latest, Man Booker Prize longlisted, work.

Our hero is Paul O’Rourke. He’s 40 years old, a dentist and baseball fanatic and he’s reached the point where he’s beginning to wonder if there isn’t more to life. An insomniac, he’s increasingly grumpy and feels ever more out of step with modern life. And then a website for his dental practice appears, one with odd religious messages where his dental credits should be. Then follows a Twitter account, a Facebook page, a presence on many message boards. None of them are the real Paul, but they all seem to urge him onwards to something bigger than his current situation.

His search for something bigger takes the reader through a lot of Paul’s history (some of which is properly laugh out loud funny as well as major cringe inducing stuff), his current day to day treating of all kinds of dental treats (all in unflinching prose, those who don’t like visiting the dentist should approach with caution), and a much bigger search for himself through Judaism and whether or not his family are really descended from the race of Ulms or not. It’s a lot to take in, and while it works, it does also feel like two different book ideas stitched together. It somehow manages to be very funny and sobering at the same time. Some of the sentences land like a gut punch. Ferris is prodigiously talented and very distinctive. If there were some literary version of the Pepsi Challenge, you’d pick him out of the line up every single time.

It’s a shaggy dog story, to be sure, and one that might be structurally a little rough around the edges, but one that’s engrossing and evocatively written, that it’s no surprise Ferris has found himself on the first Booker Prize longlist to allow American writers to be considered. Whether he is on the shortlist in a few weeks time remains to be seen, but I would not be surprised if he were. An unusual and totally absorbing book.

Cannonball Read 6, Book 36: J by Howard Jacobson

22370991So this year, I’m not doing the whole Booker Prize Longlist. After last year’s epic slog and some disappointments of a very large magnitude, I approached this year’s list with a more discerning eye. I immediately discounted three of the titles, while noting with varying degrees of smuggery that I owned another two of the list and had already read one of them. A fourth title, this one, was also sitting on one of the bookshelves in the flat, but it didn’t belong to me. It was one I was very dubious about. Jacobson won the Booker in 2010, one of the years I tried and failed in my Longlist challenge. His was one I didn’t read, and is STILL one I haven’t read. So I wasn’t sure, but I thought, well, it’s sitting right here, what harm can it do?

“Two people fall in love in a world where the past is a dangerous country, not to be talked about or visited. As they discover where they came from and where they are going, a bigger, more shattering truth is revealed to them.”

The reason for the past never to be discussed is some huge catastrophic event occurred, one so awful that it can’t be remembered and has become so cloaked in mystery down the years, that it’s now referred to only as “what happened, if it happened”. Everyone changed their name, and so did every town, in the aftermath, in a bid to wipe the slate clean. This explains why everyone in the book has such horribly unwieldy names like Kevern and Ailinn (our main protagonists), as well as Demelza, Kroplinn, Ythel and the like, as ugly to look at as they are to pronounce.

So Kevern and Ailinn meet and begin a relationship. He is softer than most other men she’s been with, as a lingering symptom of WHIIH is a streak of unpleasant violence in the populace. To try and stem it, only Benign Visual Arts are permitted and OfNow monitors the public mood. There are several subplots relating to all this, swirling around the central story of two damaged souls trying to find their way together. Kevern’s father crossed his lips with two fingers whenever he spoke the letter J, hence the title and the cover design, and now Kevern does too, though he no longer recalls why. Jacobson litters the book with odd little moments like this which makes for interesting if never truly gripping reading.

And that was my issue. The book is fine, but I didn’t think it was great. And when the shattering truth is finally revealed, I wasn’t really that fussed. He did pull off a nice coup that made me gasp earlier in the novel though, which is an impressive feat. If the final pages had lived up to that, it would have been a whole different story. As it is, the hype from the publishers that this “deserves to be spoken in the same breath as Nineteen Eighty-Four and Brave New World“, I couldn’t help but think that Huxley did it first and did it better.