Kategori: Aardwolf – one hit wonders

I sin hånd – Heidi Halvorsen

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Jeg fikk et «anmeldereksemplar» fra forfatteren av I sin hånd. Det er kanskje litt farlig, da vil man jo gjerne like boka. Men jeg tror ikke jeg er forutinntatt når jeg sier at boka var svært lesverdig.

I sin hånd handler om Renate, som slett ikke får noen bra start på livet. Den handler også om fotballproffen Johnny Leine, som lever drømmetilværelsen in Manchester med samboeren Monica. En dag innhentes Johnny av fortiden og han oppdager litt om litt at han står på lista til en ung dame som ikke skyr noen midler for å få hevn.

Historien har et bra driv og mange nok overraskelser underveis til at det ikke ble for lett å gjette handlingsløpet. Jeg begynte i går kveld og leste ferdig i formiddag (er syk), så den hadde definitivt den «klarer ikke legge fra meg» faktoren som sjangeren trenger.

Og så var det gøy med både Hamar- og Manchester-tilknytning, jeg kunne nesten ønsket meg mer stedsbundne detaljer, lokalkjent som jeg er.

To ting skurret litt for meg, uten at de på noen måte ødela leseropplevelsen der og da. Det ene var at bruken av hedmarking/hamarsing bare nesten var konsekvent (et eksempel jeg kommer på var at en person refereres som å si «je» og «noe» i samme setning, det naturlige ville vært «no»). Det andre var at jeg ikke helt trodde på alderen som ble oppgitt for Renate i de første delene. 9 og 15 hadde vært mer troverdig ift måten hun tenker på enn 6 og 12.

Men, altså, en veldig god historie. Jeg føler vel at det boka hadde trengt for å bli perfekt var en mer kritisk korrekturleser/redaktør som kunne rettet litt på de stedene der man som forfatter blir «blind» (om det kan være noen trøst var det akkurat den samme følelsen jeg satt igjen med etter å ha lest Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix: at redaktøren ikke hadde gjort jobben sin).

A different sort of catch-up post

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I’m going to a bookcrossing meetup this afternoon, and have gathered a pile of books to bring, most of them bookcrossing copies that have been lying around for over a year without being read, and I feel it’s time to let them go. But then the odd one shows up that I have read, but that I have neither journaled nor blogged. Remiss of me. So here:

Terra Incognita by Sara Wheeler was sent to me as an rabck. I had it on my wishlist following a discussion in the forums about travelogues written by women. I actually read it when I said I would, that is following the reread of Aubrey/Maturin last winter, but I didn’t want to wild release it, and so it ended up on a pile of «need some effort on these» books and has been neglected ever since. The book is pretty good, and I did enjoy it, but it didn’t quite hit its mark with me. I think one reason is I simply don’t understand the obsessive fascination with Antarctica (or the poles) which Sara Wheeler certainly seems to share with a lot of people, and she doesn’t really help me understand it either. I’m not suggesting she should have explained better, as I’m pretty sure it’s not something one can explain, like a phobia, obsession is hardly rational, but I do wish she’d made me feel it. Without that the book is a bit too long, too dry, dare I say too cold? Still, worth reading. I’ll try to find someone who wants it this afternoon.

Alice by Lela Dowlings is a graphic rendition of Alice in Wonderland and is simply wonderful. I’m putting it on my «be on the lookout for» list, as I want this in my permanent collection, but this copy is travelling on.

Thirteen Orphans by Jane Lindskold is a competent fantasy, with clever use of Chinese cultural symbols and with the nicely executed «people with affinity with animals» theme that I’ve come to expect from Lindskold. First in a series, and I’ll be looking for the rest, but I don’t think I’ll reread, so I will register and bring it today.

På vegne av venner – Kristopher Schau

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skauPå vegne av venner fikk god omtale på Bokelskere.no, så jeg slengte den på ønskelisten, og så tilbød Tone meg å lese hennes eksemplar, og da var det jo bare å kaste seg over tilbudet.

Vinteren 2009 går Schau på kommunale begravelser i Oslo, begravelser som det av en eller annen grunn ikke er venner eller familie til å ta seg av og som derfor faller på kommunen. Av og til kommer det allikevel mange mennesker, da snur han og går. Av og til er han den eneste, utenom presten og begravelsesagenten. Ja en begravelse mangler sogar prest (med fornuftig grunn, det skal sies).

Jeg har hatt svært lite sans for Kristopher Schaus tidligere prosjekter, men akkurat dette tiltalte meg. Det er vel også av en helt annen karakter enn det han ellers er kjent for.

Han sier «Jeg ville vite hva dette var; og jeg ville være der.» Og man får ett lite innblikk i hva det vil si at noen dør så ensomme at det ikke engang er noen til å komme i begravelsen. Dette er en bok det er vel verdt å investere noen timer (og det skal ikke så mange til, den er ikke akkurat tykk). Men på sett og vis føler jeg at det mangler noe. Kanskje var ikke Schau tjent med at jeg hadde en artikkel fra Magasinet friskt i minne. I går var det nemlig en artikkel i Magasinet om en mann som døde alene, som ble begravet av kommunen, uten sørgende. Men der journalisten graver – og graver – og faktisk finner noe. Nå mener jeg vel ikke at Schau skulle tatt på seg å være privatdetektiv for hver eneste avdøde han «møter», men den artikkelen gjorde allikevel at «bare» å møte i begravelsene virket litt, tja, som å si A uten å si B, kanskje? Men, som sagt, vel verdt tiden i alle fall.

Noe av det beste med boka er forresten omslaget. Jeg er helt forelsket i det og kunne godt ha rammet inn boka og hengt den på veggen hvis vi hadde hatt veggplass til sånt (det har vi ikke, det er bokhyller på veggene våre). Det hadde vel forresten funket fint, siden boka er såpass tynn.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society – Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Barrows

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shafferI could have sworn I had blogged this already, but I must have dreamt it.

This book is a bit of a gem. I’m sure I’m not the first to say so. I picked it up in London this summer, with a title like that I was hardly likely to pass it up.

Epistolary novels are delightful when they work and excessively tiresome when they don’t. Luckily, this is an example of an epistolary novel that works.

I laughed and I cried, both quite literally, it doesn’t get much better. How it’s all going to end becomes obvious quite early on, but that’s part of the charm. This is a feelgood book of the highest order. Better than chicken soup.

Mary Ann Shaffer sadly died in 2008, so no hope for more gems from her, unfortunately.

Summarising again

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Really, where does the time go? Recent (well, since may…) reads in no particular order (and probably missing a few):

The series that will no longer be named. All in a row. Lovely. I am still pretty happy with the ending, but noticed a few minor inconsistencies along the way this time.

Lessons from the Land of Pork Scratchings by Greg Gutfeld. Abysmal. Didn’t finish it. I’ll be writing more about it at some point, because, really! But, you know, take this as a warning to stay WELL away.

Packaging Girlhood. Quite illuminating. Meant to write more on this, too. Ah well.

Consumer Kids. Followed naturally. Very informative on how kids are not only inundated with ads, but used to advertise to friends and provide market research, quite frequently unknowingly. Should probably be read by every parent.

Tea Time for the Traditionally Built by Alexander McCall Smith. Perfection, as usual.

This Charming Man by Marian Keyes. Keyes back on great form and with a serious theme this time, which she excels at treating.

The Brontes Went to Woolworth by Rachel Ferguson. Reread because I had to take it down to copy out one of my favourite quotes ever:

A woman at one of mother’s parties once said to me, «Do you like reading?» which smote us all to silence, for how could one tell her that books are like having a bath or sleeping, or eating bread – absolute necessities which one never thinks of in terms of appreciation.

Paths of Glory by Jeffrey Archer. As usual Archer spins a pretty – and gripping – tale. However, knowing how it all ends spoiled it a bit for me. Not that I know all that much about Mount Everest climbs and such, but I do know a little, and the prologue reveals what I didn’t. I suppose part of it is knowing it doesn’t end in «they lived happily ever after», which I’m a sucker for and which Archer frequently delivers with aplomb. Still, exceedingly readable.

And that made me realise I’ve forgotten to note reading A Prisoner of Birth, also by Archer, which was REALLY good, just what the doctor ordered, and Archer – to me – at his best. I happen to love courtroom dramas, too, so this had pretty much everything. No idea when I read it, though, so I popped it in here… Probably shortly after the paperback was issued, but I’m not sure.

The Thirteenth Tale – Diane Setterfield

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The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield was passed on to me from my mother, who thought I’d like it. And I did, sort of. After all it’s hard not to like a story where books are so much the be all and end all.

It’s a hard book to put down, and the tale was gripping enough, but once I had read the last page I was left feeling somewhat unsatisfied. Though the plot is clever and the booklore abundant I missed some sort of deeper connection with the story. None of the characters really stayed with me past the last page, and they shoukd have.

Anyway, here’s one of the passages on reading to which I cried «Oh, sister!» (well, not really, but I certainly felt recognition):

I have always been a reader; I have read at every stage of my life, and there has never been a time when reading was not my greatest joy. And yet I cannot pretend that the reading I have done in my adult years matches in its impact on my soul the reading I did as a child. I still believe in stories. I still forget myself when I am in the middle of a good book. Yet it is not the same. Books are, for me, it must be said, the most important thing; what I cannot forget is that there was a time when they were at once more banal and more essential than that. When I was a child, books were everything. And so there is in me, always, a nostalgic yearning for the lost pleasure of books. It is not a yearning that one ever expects to be fulfilled.

Lessons from the Land of Pork Scratchings – Greg Gutfeld

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I bought Lessons from the Land of Pork Scratchings by Greg Gutfeld in London in July, partly because, well «A Miserable Yank Finds Happiness in the UK» appealed to me as an anglophile, partly because I like books about Britain, and partly because it says

«A Bill Bryson for the noughties» – Daily Mirror

on the front. I guess I should have known not to trust a quote from the Daily Mirror. Shame on me.

Well, I can tell you, a Bill Bryson he ain’t.

AND, and I can’t believe the first time I ever feel the need to say this in a blog post it’s for a review of a «travel book» on Britain: Trigger warning. Really.

I have an admission to make, I didn’t finish the book. I almost stopped reading at around page 20 and kept going partly because I was horribly fascinated and partly because I thought «someone really ought to point a few things out as regards this book». I made it to page 138 out of 239 before finally giving in.

The blurb on the back starts out cheerily «Battered sausages. Warm beer. Earl Grey tea in chipped mug. Morris dancers. Pub dogs. Car boot sales.» Which sounded good to me. I wish they’d added «Misogynist jokes» to the list, and I might have known to stay clear.

I would need to reread the first 20 or so pages to find the first place where my inner editor went «Strike this!», but the first instance that compelled me to mark the page for future reference was this:

Why do girls with backpacks always seem so tempting? I think it’s because if a week goes by and nobody has heard from them, it’s OK. (p. 22)

You what?

WHAT?

And so it went on. And on. Be wiser than me, don’t try to read this book.

Non-fiction

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Twenty Chickens for a Saddle – Robyn Scott
Since I finished Beadle the Bard during the flight to Oslo for a course and I hadn’t brought another book (I wasn’t expecting any reading time, actually), I swooped down on the non-fiction shelves at Tanum at OSL, and managed to pick this up and pay for it and still run to catch an earlier flight that my colleague had just realised we were in time for. (Yay for run-on sentences!) I don’t normally pay much attention to the blurbs on the cover of books, but in this case they had me even before I’d read the book’s title. The top of the cover reads: «A wonderful memoir of an exotic childhood. – Alexander McCall Smith». Sold! And he’s right, too. Robyn Scott grew up in Botswana with an, uhm, excentric collection of relatives and the book is full of wonderful detail and hilarious anecdotes, as well as some more serious topics, amongst them perfectly heartbreaking illumination of the emergence of HIV/AIDS in Botswana. One for your mnt tbr, dear reader.

Martha Jane & Me: A girlhood in Wales – Mavis Nicholson
I’ve never seen Mavis Nicholson on tv, as far as I know, and certainly had no idea who she was when I picked up this book second-hand on one of our pilgrimages to Britain. But then, this book does not really demand any prior knowledge of the writer, and though if you were a fan you’d find it an interesting read, I found it interesting enough in its own right. I’m not really a great one for biographies and memoirs as such, I’m not all that interested in how a great man or woman became great. What I am interested in is stories. That they happen to be non-fiction is fine with me, were they all fiction that would be fine, too.

All autumn

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I have been slacking. In my reading, yes, but obviously even more so in my blogging. Anyway, here is a – I believe – complete list of what’s been «going down»:

Sahara – Michael Palin
Pretty good. Informative, evocative, serious and occasionally laugh-out-loud-funny. Reminded me that I need to get hold of the follow-up to Travels with a Tangerine.

The Unbearable Lightness of Scones – Alexander McCall Smith
Quite delightful, as always.

Freedom’s Landing – Anne McCaffrey
As mentioned here, I got rather annoyed with McCaffrey for using «specimen» for «species» (twice!) and for including a couple of prejudiced, half-witted so-and-sos in order to introduce some conflict. I realise the second gripe is unfair, a conflictless book would, after all, be pretty boring, and so I put that down to my ongoing disagreement with Fiction in general. I rather enjoyed most of the book, and am looking forward to reading the sequel when Fiction and I are reconciled in the hopefully not too distant future.

Nød – Are Kalvø
In truth I only read about 50 pages, then started skimming and then I read the last few pages. I don’t know if it’s Kalvø or me, but it all seemed pretty pointless and tiresome.

Which brings the total tally this year to 45, methinks, and unless I am to fall short of the rather wimpy goal of one-book-a-week (oh, horror) I really need to get in some serious reading time over the holidays. We’ll see.

The Queen of Subtleties – Suzannah Dunn

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The Queen of Subtleties by Suzannah Dunn was found in a big basket of paperbacks in English in a charity shop in June. It happened to be on the top of a precarious pile on our office chair when I was in need of a new book to start reading, and so it got read.

I find I’ve been almost topical, what with the new Boleyn sisters film coming out in theatres over here just at this time. I’m not all that fascinated with the Boleyns as such, but I found this book intriguing mostly because of the other main protagonist, Lucy Cornwallis, the king’s confectioneer. Her story fascinated me, however, in that respect the novel is rather more disappointing than not, since there is less substance than I could have wished. I am asking too much, I suppose, as Dunn herself says nothing is known of Lucy Cornwallis except she is the only woman in an otherwise male-dominated household, and so any further details there might have been about how she ended up in such a position (which is mostly what intrigues me) would be pure speculation on Dunn’s part anyway, and I might as well speculate on my own. Still, quite a charming little book and it certainly left me wanting to read more about this period (just not another Anne Boleyn biography, not just yet, anyway). One of Dunn’s sources, Simon Thurley’s Henry Viii’s Kitchens at Hampton Court, goes straight onto my Mt TBR.