What an incredible journey! Whilst reading this cyberpunk/Christo-sci-fi extravaganza, I felt as if I was being transported through space and time in What an incredible journey! Whilst reading this cyberpunk/Christo-sci-fi extravaganza, I felt as if I was being transported through space and time in a fanciful train pod, travelling at a speed of 1,880 kilometres per hour! Author Andrew Gillsmith, with an almost unearthly imagination, brings us an extraordinary novel of infinite scope wherein Rome and Vienna have become the two seats of power in a revived Holy Roman Empire some 200 years into our future. His sci-fi novel defies easy categorisation but at its beating heart, humankind has lost its sense of sublime wonder and, in a nod to Prometheus, we have squandered our right to use God's powers for the purpose of doing good and Satan is ready to step in.
This is a science-bleeding-into-religion kind of read, an altogether metaphysical, theological, intellectual, philosophical and fantastical allegory that seeks to inspire the reader to at least contemplate an alternative perspective. Gillsmith's world-building is astronomically good and his considerate handling of other world religions does him great credit. Though a staunch Roman Catholic, he sees their truth and understands that we all share a fundamental commonality.
The book wasn't without its faults, though ... it was science-heavy and a little too one-paced for my liking. Some of the characters weren't fully fleshed out and therefore felt a little samey. But these were my only grumbles. It's still a fab read.
Time-honoured dichotomies abound in this book: consciousness and disregard; belief and non-belief; light and darkness; freedom versus subjugation; good versus evil. Added to this heady mix are synths, transportive holochambers, voice-activated bodysuits, a cleverly-conceived virtual reality reimagining of Caravaggio's The Incredulity of Saint Thomas, and the Vatican's own exorcist!
And, as if that wasn't enough, this absorbing sci-fi parable closes with a psychedelic ending that would very likely blow the Pope's zucchetto clean off his head!
An incredible debut by a hugely talented writer and, despite me being a devout agnostic, I would love to stick around to see where Gillsmith's ever-developing ideas take him next!...more
Plots, Protags and one Pandemic, by Kevin Ansbro (My year in books)
2020 has been a difficult year for almost everyone on the planet - even for some of Plots, Protags and one Pandemic, by Kevin Ansbro (My year in books)
2020 has been a difficult year for almost everyone on the planet - even for some of the Covidiots, bless them - but the Goodreads family has still been able to safely congregate during lockdowns, our social distancing knowing no bounds. I'm hopeful for a bright tomorrow. Our battered ship has been taking on water for quite some time, and the crew are restless, but a tiny sliver of land can be seen on the distant horizon... : )
I want to give special thanks to my fabulous buddy readers: Kimber, Collin and Nat, and also to Peter, Cheri, Leila, Fran, Beverly, Lori, Paul, Asma, Ceecee, Blair, Lars, Marialyce, Julie, Jason, Glenda, Daniel, Anthea, Marc, Susan, Nigel, Alexandra, Donnelle, Amy, Melanie, Laysee, Sara, Jennifer, Kim, etcetera, etcetera, for their kind support. x
Here is my year in books. The average rating was 4.4, so I'm not quite the curmudgeon I sometimes appear to be! ; )
"Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day." —Perry Como
Although I've posted an update stating that I shan't be readi"Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, save it for a rainy day." —Perry Como
Although I've posted an update stating that I shan't be reading or reviewing throughout autumn and winter, I vaulted the electrified fence to read this ten-minute gem. My thanks go to Debbie, who prodded me in the ribs with her pogo stick, demanding suggesting I read it. I'm pleased to have done so. The tale grabbed me by the tail from the start and had me beguiled by the finish.
Nadia, an individual who knows her personal belongings as well as she knows her own face, finds a succession of unusual items about her person and in her wallet. Exasperated and completely perplexed, Nadia turns to her friends for guidance...
The dreamers and the cosmic believers among you will absolutely LOVE this!
Whimsical and wonderful! Fans of A Gentleman in Moscow will adore this stylish little story. Something of a modern-day fairy tale, pixie-dusted witWhimsical and wonderful! Fans of A Gentleman in Moscow will adore this stylish little story. Something of a modern-day fairy tale, pixie-dusted with Towles' inimitable finesse. *Free to read here*
I'm indebted to Cheri (Goodreads royalty) for nudging me in its direction. Cheri's review...more
But a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more. —Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid
I'm a huge fan of Jess Kidd's exquiBut a mermaid has no tears, and therefore she suffers so much more. —Hans Christian Andersen, The Little Mermaid
I'm a huge fan of Jess Kidd's exquisite, playful writing and KERPOW, what a start! Her vivid prologue was one of the finest things I've read in a long, long time. Gadzooks! That alone was worth the entrance fee.
The book is set in a Victorian London that Dickens might have portrayed: one which is theatrically grotesque and wonderfully atmospheric - whose slums are as lively as a blanket full of lice. Our heroine is special detective Bridie Devine, a dynamic pipe-smoking woman of around thirty years of age. She wears the ugliest bonnet in Christendom and can drink most men under the table. Ms Devine - womankind’s answer to Sherlock Holmes - has a psychic talent for reading corpses that have met with inexplicable deaths. The author describes her as being a 'woman made from boot polish and pipe smoke' (Kidd's female characters are often gloriously independent, which I love). Devine's latest case is the kidnapping of Baronet's daughter, Christabel Berwick, a pike-toothed child who smells of the sea and is kept shackled and hidden in a locked nursery. The magical realism herein is precisely as it should be – dark, imaginative, irreverent and wryly amusing. To explain this thriller/mystery any further would be to divulge its silty, slippery secrets.
It rather frustrates me that certain ham-handed authors find themselves on Booker shortlists when über-talented Jess Kidd can write their socks off. Mind you, that said, I'm not altogether sure why she felt the need to hyphenate words that shouldn’t be hyphenated: church-yard; crest-fallen; dumb-founded; gas-lights… Perhaps she was going for a Victorian style of writing?
Disappointingly, the story began to lose its cut and thrust in the middle stages. I was even (gulp) bored for several chapters. The treacherous ocean had become a gentle millpond and I wanted more. Ah, but wonderful Jess Kidd redeems herself with a poignant scene at the book's dénouement; a passage so pitiful, so heroic, that the scales on the back of my neck stood on end and my gills began to gasp. "Bravo, Jess!" I squeaked, clapping my fins together.
Best supporting character awards go to two protags; one living, one dead: Cora Butter, Bridie's seven-foot-tall housemaid, who is fiercely loyal and commendably noble; and to Ruby Doyle, a top-hatted prizefighter whose sliding tattoos have a mind of their own.
As ever, Jess Kidd's lyrical prose is a joy to behold and she employs an opulence of literary devices to good effect: personification; aphorisms; allusion and zoomorphism, to name but a few.
All told, I liked this dark, exuberant, whimsical extravaganza very much. Indomitable Bridie Devine is a mesmerising character who will linger in your mind long after the final page is turned. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this author's previous offerings more.
Four stars, bumped up to five, because Jess Kidd has ninja writing skillz....more
"What if we're all like that? Like ghosts in someone's mind ... gradually fading, fading, until finally, one day, we just disappear ... drift into "What if we're all like that? Like ghosts in someone's mind ... gradually fading, fading, until finally, one day, we just disappear ... drift into nothingness. Wouldn't that be sad?" —Walter Wykes
The unreliable narrator for this surreal tale is an unnamed American systems analyst who lives in Tokyo (for the purpose of this review, I shall refer to him as 'X'). Now, I love Japan, and all things Japanese - and Clausen's novel was also labelled as magical realism - so this had "Konnichiwa, Kevin!" written all over it. At first, the story was as confusing to me as Einstein's theory of relativity would be to a toad. I thought, what the saki is going on here? X is originally driven by a subconscious thought process that sees him tapping out latent recollections of his arrival in Nagasaki, four years earlier. Our main man continues to be cast adrift from reality, marooned in a stream of consciousness that sees him consorting with debauched expats, a former foster mother and a Japanese apostate, to name but a few. And while X blunders about in this metaphysical existence, I spent each sentence trying to second guess what was actually happening: is he in a coma? I wondered. Is he under anaesthetic on an operating table? Is the poor chap hallucinating? How come Easter bunnies lay eggs?
Engrossing though this stream of consciousness was, the author had chosen to forgo his right to a plot (the story does drift along without any discernible structure). Even so, I was wholly invested and had to keep reading so I might prove myself clever enough to unlock the story's secrets (highly unlikely, I hear you cry -and you'd be correct). Nevertheless, aside from it existing in a seemingly aimless metaphor-filled bubble, the story did entertain. His boisterous drinking buddies, especially Mikey Welsh, had me chuckling out loud with their indecorous antics. And X's odyssey put me in mind of Tony Soprano wandering aimlessly through his own mind whilst in a coma.
Overall, this highly unusual story was both intriguing and refreshingly original. But, because I'm unduly fond of a plot (call me old-fashioned), and because I prefer my prose to be rather more flamboyant, I held one star back in my quiver. I'm not sure I'd categorise this as magical realism, as per Márquez, Zafón, Allende, Rushdie or Jess Kidd, etcetera, but neither would I class it as fantasy. It's an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum, so it is - and all the better for it!...more
. Well, I've mentioned before how farcical it is that Goodreads invites authors to rate their own work. It's clearly open to abuse and I don't approve . Well, I've mentioned before how farcical it is that Goodreads invites authors to rate their own work. It's clearly open to abuse and I don't approve of it one bit! A chap, of my acquaintance, who knows a thing or two about books, said that mine was possibly the worst thing he'd ever read. I ignored him and awarded it five juicy stars. So, thank you, Goodreads! : )...more
"A story should glide like a yacht, not bump along like a supermarket trolley." —Me
Having seen a profusion of rapturous reviews for this African ta"A story should glide like a yacht, not bump along like a supermarket trolley." —Me
Having seen a profusion of rapturous reviews for this African tale, I had very high hopes. And what a gorgeous title too! I was beguiled and ready to be seduced. "Let me at it!" I cried.
Hurrr-rrr-chh! (A screech of brakes, or a needle skidding on vinyl).
Alas, I just didn't take to it. I know I'm a fusspot, but I really didn’t warm to it. And for that, I'm truly sorry. The omniscient narrator (a guardian spirit) waffled on in a simplistic writing style that had me rolling my eyes and wishing we could bring a resuscitation team of literary greats back from the dead. The first few chapters were all exposition and there was nothing here that resembled an actual story. Our ethereal narrator kept repeating, "I had seen it many times." To which I retorted, "Yes, you've said it many times too, you insufferable parrot!" And ... relax. Namaste. So, while the cosmic blather continued with little sign of anything resembling dialogue or human interaction on the horizon, I shimmied into a lifebuoy and prepared to jump ship. Happily, a story began to emerge. And a very promising one at that: a tale of Nonso Olisa, an ill-starred Nigerian poultry farmer who falls in love with a woman who, as a result of being jilted, was intent on throwing herself off a bridge. "Ah-ha! That's more like it!" I cheered, casting off my lifebuoy and getting myself nice and comfy with a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Auspiciously, the author began to move through his literary gears, fashioning a contemporary Greek tragedy that suggested it might finally live up to its star billing (and what eventually happens to our unworldly chicken farmer when he relocates to Cyprus is a complete volte-face from the book's uneventful opening chapters). The scene was set and I was ready to give it a second chance. But, d'oh! Again with the exposition! Chigozie Obiama snatches defeat from the jaws of victory by reintroducing yet more explanatory notes (groan) that are surely surplus to requirements. There was a potentially-moving human story here that needed to be told! (A thorough edit and word cull would have done this novel a power of good). The story continued to advance like a slug through treacle and, despite his terrible woes, I lost all sympathy for the hapless main character (he was largely the architect of his own downfall). I rooted for Ndali (the lady from the bridge) much more. The pacing throughout remained leaden and I really struggled to get to the finishing line.
In my humble opinion, Salman Rushdie (Midnight’s Children) and Gabriel García Márquez (One Hundred Years of Solitude) do first-person and third-person narrative storytelling so much better.
But, as you can see by its plethora of laudatory reviews, Chigozie Obiama's book delights a great many of his readers, so I'm almost certain you should take what I've said with a pinch of salt and dive right in! Have a lifebuoy ready, though, just in case......more
"Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." —Albert Einstein
Small-town teen, Cathy Wray, finds herself in the family way. (I"Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere." —Albert Einstein
Small-town teen, Cathy Wray, finds herself in the family way. (I'm a poet, yet didn't know it). She is also desperate to escape her parents, who want her pregnancy kept secret and the baby given up for adoption. But then a serendipitous moment occurs; a highlighted ad in a newspaper’s situations vacant column: a position at a toymakers’ store, Papa John's Emporium, in London. As if guided by a deity, Cathy hightails it to the capital with a swollen belly and a runaway's dream of motherhood. She discovers the joint to be every bit as magical as she'd hoped; a place where saluting tin soldiers rub shoulders with eager Russian dolls, and where a pyramid of ballerinas stand en pointe, hoping to be bought. The emporium is out of step with the outside world and the toys therein burst wonderfully to life in the imagination of customers, and readers, alike. To make the toys work, their creators, Emil and Kaspar, retain a child's perspective and I was lapping it up - a cynical adult once more flying the magic carpet of his childhood, or Robert Loggia dancing on a giant piano keyboard with Tom Hanks.
The book was subtly magical and so beautifully written.
In fact, up until the 40% mark, I was already declaring it to be my best read, thus far, in 2018.
Sadly though, like a toy bear that has lost much of its stuffing, the story began to sag in the middle. The character development required fresh batteries and the slow pace of the story would have benefitted from a new winding mechanism. This began as an epic tale of sibling rivalry; two brothers competing for their father’s (view spoiler)[(and Cathy’s) (hide spoiler)] affections in a Legends of the Fall/Twelfth Night kind-of-way but, by the end, it had morphed into a Willy Wonka/Chitty Chitty Bang Bang piece of nonsense! Such a shame, as it was initially so-o good, and promised much.
It’s only Dinsdale's exquisite prose that has stopped me from slinging this novel into three-star jail!...more
. "There are two Londons. There’s London above – and then there’s London below."
This book was recommended to me by genial Goodreads friend, Matthew Qua. "There are two Londons. There’s London above – and then there’s London below."
This book was recommended to me by genial Goodreads friend, Matthew Quann, whose effusive review sealed the deal. I was initially reticent… Having read Gaiman's The Ocean at the End of the Lane, I felt that his writing was a bit 'young' for my own personal taste and decided that, though delightful, his books weren’t for this beyond-middle-aged sourpuss. Despite my misgivings, I dived in and was immediately beguiled – the story returning me to a childhood of Alice in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz (as was Gaiman's intent). Our antihero, Richard Mayhew, is a total wuss who fails to meet the high standards set for him by his high-maintenance fiancée, Jessica. But Richard, though annoying, is generous of spirit and one day skips an important business dinner to aid a blood-and-mud-caked girl who collapses at his feet on a London pavement. He is soon drawn into a lamplit, subterranean world of sewer-dwellers, rat-munchers and pantomime villains. Oh, and there's a marquis and an angel thrown in for good measure! I enjoyed this more than I did The Ocean at the End of the Lane; it had a bit more grit and spite about it - even a swear word or two and an instance of bosom fondling (Neil Gaiman, you naughty schoolboy!). But there is a childlike simplicity to his writing, and I can't escape the feeling that it's all a bit too YA for me. Neil strikes me as one of those men who has bypassed puberty on the way to adulthood. His undoubted secret superpowers are his wonderfully fertile imagination and an unsurpassed ability to connect with his inner child.
The book is wonderfully Dickensian in parts and Gaiman elicited a lot of knowing nods and smiles from me with his in-jokes and observations of the London Underground. Neverwhere is as adult-lite as I expected it to be, but was also a fantastical, wonderfully escapist read. I enjoyed it more than I thought I would, but doubt I'll read any more of his.
Mark Radcliffe is a radio DJ first, author second. Brits might know him as one half of 'Mark and Lard' on BBC Radio One in the '90s. It's been pointed oMark Radcliffe is a radio DJ first, author second. Brits might know him as one half of 'Mark and Lard' on BBC Radio One in the '90s. It's been pointed out to me that this wasn't written by the well known British DJ, but by another talented chap with the same name! Ha! This is just typical of me!
Perhaps not surprisingly, the prose is no-nonsense and laddish, but this makes for an easy-reading, often humorous, page-turner. Gabriel Bell is grumpy enough in real life, but becomes even grumpier in death when he finds himself inducted into a self-help therapy group for angels. Think It's a Wonderful Life with modern world dilemmas, a hitman and more than a dash of wicked humour, and you'll be halfway to getting an idea of the concept of this book....more
You know those irritating people who talk to children and old people as if they were babies, in a puerile, singsong voice? Well, those idiots sprang toYou know those irritating people who talk to children and old people as if they were babies, in a puerile, singsong voice? Well, those idiots sprang to mind as I endured the narrative voice of this glacially slow yawnfest of a novel.
This is a book so plodding, so dreary and so pretentious that I gave up on it halfway through. With a less-than-pleased harrumph, I shoved it into a slot on my bookshelf alongside The Remains of the Day, which I'd bought at the same time, anticipating dual sublimity.
So for the past few years there they both sat, on the bookcase equivalent of a naughty step, sulking like teenagers and glaring at me each time I passed. "Oh, get over yourselves!" I berated, turning them around so that only their pages were on show. Ha! That taught them a lesson they'll never forget!
But right now, I'm giving The Remains of the Day its day in the sun. It's highly spoken of by numerous Goodreaders, so I'm hoping that Ishiguro can belatedly turn my frown upside down.
As for Never Let Me Go, the only thing that I have in common with its improbable story line is that (view spoiler)[I carry an organ donor card in my wallet, though mine are only due to be harvested after my death. (hide spoiler)] : )
I remember someone describing this as being somewhere between Kafka and Enid Blyton, which is most apt. Read this book by all means, but don't say that I didn't warn you.
UPDATE:The Remains of the Day was a triumph, in my view! : )...more
“The garden of the world has no limits, except in your mind.” -Rumi
The Human Ambit is a mercurial anthology of Folkloric, whimsical and delightful.
“The garden of the world has no limits, except in your mind.” -Rumi
The Human Ambit is a mercurial anthology of short stories by Canadian author, Anne Collini. I happily spent an enjoyable few hours, spilling biscuit crumbs on my shirt, in the company of this enchanting book. Collini is a splendid storyteller who promotes the quality of human life in a miscellany of imaginative, often hugely funny vignettes.
Love, life, death, it’s all there. The author shifts effortlessly from Shakespearean discourse, as in the tale of The Prince of Meander, to the unprogrammed thoughts of a lovelorn android in Red, Bloodless World.
Dialogue is meticulously observed and artfully recorded, and we see a scrap of zoomorphism when we envisage The Prince of Meander’s wife ‘standing with her hens’ sending him off with ‘a pecking glare.’
I would also like to think that Fuckingham Palace would be a nice place to pop into on a flying visit and that I might one day be greeted at those pearly gates by none other than Benjamin Disraeli.
Although Anne Collini’s read is a brief encounter, it is nevertheless a generous insight into the human psyche. And those anxious parents among you can find some succour, for herein lies the universal truth that children don’t always love their iPads more than they do their parents!
Collini recognises that our flawed, inequitable lives are still worthy of salutation and celebration, so “hurrah” for us humans! I can think of far worse ways to spend a couple of hours, fuelled (since you ask) by three cups of tea and an abstemious supply of choccie biscuits! : ) ...more
Neil Gaiman's axiom-twisting novel reads like a modern-day fairytale. The Ocean At The End Of The Lane was recommended to me by so maThis book is ALIVE
Neil Gaiman's axiom-twisting novel reads like a modern-day fairytale. The Ocean At The End Of The Lane was recommended to me by so many Goodreaders that it became impossible to ignore.
New to Gaiman, I was quickly surprised at how easily he retains childhood memories and then scatters them into the furrows of his work. The narrative flowed smoothly and reading became effortless, which is always a good sign: the author has a lean writing style and hyperbole was kept to a minimum. The genius was in its simplicity.
The story is told from a bookish (and unworldly) boy's perspective, leading me to imagine that this is Gaiman himself (the boy's name is never announced, so that's my daft assumption). His nemesis, Ursula Monkton, has a surname that seemed so out of sync with her Christian name that I immediately assumed it to be a crafty anagram of the author's own choosing (it wasn't), though a quick shuffle of this name within an anagram finder did come up with 'Non-mortal'.
I thoroughly enjoyed this book, despite it being adult-lite. I felt transported back to my childhood again, a middle-aged man enjoying Brothers Grimm once more.
Gaiman's writing style is, for the most part, understated, but it does become amplified and fanciful when required. Despite being left wondering if this was a children's book that adults could read, or an adult book that children could read, I had such a blast reading it.
It was altogether quirky, quaint and magical, but (er, sorry to say) I'd rather have read it when I was a child. Hence the two-star deduction. Sorry Gaiman fans! : (
I'm wondering if previous readers of this book can help me? At the beginning of chapter three, the narrator has won twenty-five pounds on the Premium Bonds. His mother puts this into his Post Office account. He then announces that he is 'thirteen pounds and eleven shillings richer than he was before'. Am I missing something? I'm either being incredibly stupid, or there's a glaring error in this passage? (More likely the former). If anyone does know the answer, could they please enlighten me? Thank you very much....more
I would like to preface my review of this sprawling, multi-layered, fantastical novel by reiterating my deep admiration for Sir Salman Rushdie and hisI would like to preface my review of this sprawling, multi-layered, fantastical novel by reiterating my deep admiration for Sir Salman Rushdie and his writing. The man is a literary deity touched by genius; he bites his thumb at social and religious taboos and laughs in the face of literary propriety. Perhaps idealistically I approach each of his novels with the high expectation that he might one day recoup the enchantment of Midnight’s Children (his crowning glory). Sadly, this never happens. Two Years Eight Months and Twenty-Eight Nights is an ambitious novel, perhaps too ambitious. The story is allegorical and mystical: portals open in bedrooms through which exist fabled places where the laws of the universe cease to operate and where there are fascinating characters aplenty (I liked Yasmeen, the intrasexual, who had lightning bolts tattooed where her eyebrows once were). I'm happy to report that the great man still possesses an unrestrained imagination; the story is extravagant and whimsical and, in a departure from his mainstay of magical realism, he even strays into sci-fi territory. However, it does ramble on a bit - and I'm the kind of reader whose mind begins to drift if a book doesn't hold his attention. This shortcoming in my powers of concentration was best exposed at school in any one of those frequent instances where I'd be roused from a lovely daydream by a teacher snapping a question at me: "Ansbro!" They'd bellow, while I floundered like a fish caught in a net, prompting 'helpful' classmates to whisper deliberately wrong answers in my direction… "Christopher Columbus, sir!" I once answered a Crimean War question as my history teacher turned puce with rage and the classroom erupted in laughter.
So if you similarly have the attention span of a goldfish, then this book won't likely be for you....more
I'm a huge fan of Yann Martel's allegorical story. I read Life of Pi shortly after it had won the Booker, heavily intrigued by the story's improbable pI'm a huge fan of Yann Martel's allegorical story. I read Life of Pi shortly after it had won the Booker, heavily intrigued by the story's improbable premise (boy in lifeboat with Bengal tiger). I was keen to see how the author could pull this off. But pull it off he did, taking me back to a wondrous childhood of adventure tales and fables. And you are welcome to whack me over the head with a leather-bound copy of War and Peace, but I am such a sucker for exotic book covers! Please read the book, don't see the film: Ditto, Captain Corelli....more
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