About a Boy

Mirthful

In which we have growing pains.

Finally got around to rereading About a Boy this weekend. I’ve been planning to ever since the film came out, I didn’t want to see the film before I’d reread the book. So now I can see it, though it’s no longer on at the cinema, obviously, which is a pity, but I guess it’s probably not the sort of film that needs the big screen, so I guess renting the dvd will be ok.

Anyway. It’s a lovely book. No surprises, there, really – well, I already knew I liked it, obviously, having read it before – since I have yet to come across any book of Nick Hornby’s that I don’t like. I suppose I could give you a rundown of the plot, but I don’t think I can be bothered. And I don’t really have anything intelligent to say about it other than that it is lovely and you really should read it if you haven’t. Not doing a very good job of this book review thingamagig, am I? Pathetic, really.

Junk Food Monkeys

Mirthful

In which there is plenty of monkey business.

Having had a bit of a strange assortment of books in my tbr pile lately, I started Robert Sapolskys Junk Food Monkeys after finishing with Moore. Not a continuous narrative like A Primate’s Memoir, Junk Food Monkeys is a collection of essays all dealing with the bordeline between biology and personality. Bravely, Sapolsky even considers what possible connections there are between our bodies chemical reactions and our belief in God (or other religious beliefs). Personally, I found some of the earlier essays more interesting, especially those dealing with the biology of psychological anormalities – are there really purely chemical reasons why some people are schitzophrenics? And are a lot of people walking around with a milder version of the same chemical configuration, resulting in just mildly odd or eccentic behaviour rather than actual illness? He also relates some interesting stories of how the availability of corpses for scientific research though the centuries has resulted in some very wrong conclusions and some serious errors in the treatment of patients. And can testosterone really be blamed for all the fact that all men are agressive idiots?

Sapolsky writes intelligently and readably (is that a word? probably not), and manages to balance the «populistic» aspect (this is a book anyone could read) with enough «meat» to make it interesting even if you know a lot on the subject already (or so I’ve been told by someone who does), and certainly makes it challenging enough for us mere mortals not to make me feel like I’m being talked down to, which is nice.

Stupid White Men

Mirthful

In which Robin fails to laugh.

moore_swm.jpg I found Stupid White Men in a Stockholm bookshop at a reasonable price (the shops here seem to have marked it up, for some reason), and it was pretty quickly devoured. It’s hard to know what to say about books like these, I think. It’s very good, of course, and Moore definitely has a point or two (or a hundred). I am puzzled, though, at how it can be described as «funny». The quote on the back from the San Francisco Chronicle is pretty typical of the sort of thing you hear about Moore: «Hysterically funny. The angrier Moore gets, the funnier he gets. Sensational.» Well, I mean, no, not really. I think I might have laughed once during the whole book. That’s not what I’d describe as hysterically funny. The Observer seem to have got the point, though: «Caustic, breakneck, tell-it-like-it-is… He’s a genuine populist; a twenty-first-century pamphleteer.»

I am not being very helpful about this, am I? Well, here’s some advice for you: Read this book. It’ll make you think even if it doesn’t make you laugh.

The Secret World of the Irish Male – Joseph O’Connor

Mirthful

I’m sorry to say that O’Connor went downhill pretty quickly and never quite recovered. There is one hysterically funny episode towards the very end of the book, when he visits Disney World with a group of fellow Irishmen. The guide says «There’s some really good rides here at the Magic Kingdom» and you can probably imagine how it goes from there. Other than that – two pages or so – the rest of the book made me snort occasionally, but didn’t live up to the promise of the first few pages, and so was rather disappointing. I didn’t really learn anything new about Ireland, either, which, in 248 pages is pretty good going. Learning something new about Ireland was obviously not my motivation for reading the book in the first place, but would have been some compensation for the lack of laughs. Oh well.

Northern Lights

Mirthful

I’ve just reread Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights for a bookring at bookcrossing. I remembered the first book as being the most enjoyable the last time I read the «his dark materials» trilogy, and I guess I would probably still feel the same way. I’m not sure that I’ll reread the other two – at the very least I will try to read Paradise Lost first, as I remember too much of Pullman’s plot to make a reread fruitful without having some new aspect to investigate. Those of you who know my reading habits will know that this is not necessarily a compliment (I reread practically every book I enjoy at least once).

Man and Boy – Tony Parsons

Mirthful

In which it is necessary to remind the reader of the importance of tissues.

parsons.jpg

I’ve just swallowed Tony Parsons’ Man and Boy whole. Not literally, obviously, or I’d be in the hospital right now, but in as few hours as is compatible with thorough reading. I read the first few pages (20? 30?) a week or maybe more back and got distracted, but this afternoon I picked it up again, and I couldn’t put it down. This was absolutely not what I was meant to do this afternoon. I was meant to do some work and maybe fix that bunad (17th of May looming larger on the horizon every day), but alas, alack.

So. Man and Boy is a compelling read. I suppose that’s established. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, the ending, for example, has left me a bit deflated. This is not to say it’s bad, just that it could have been better. Still, I am near enough convinced that I will be reading every other Parsons book I can lay my hands on, so I suppose the publishers will be happy.

31 Songs

Mirthful

In which we have a singalong.

hornby.jpg

I bought his book on World Book Day, 23 April. Not so much because it was World Book Day (though that’s always a good excuse) as because I happened to see it mentioned somewhere on the net that day and I had not previously been aware that Hornby had a new book out – and obviously I had to have it immediately.

31 Songs is not, as you might be able to guess, a novel. It’s a collection of little, hm, well, not really essays, essayettes? Well, whatever. It contains 27 chapters that all in all deal with 31 songs (in fact, rather a few more songs are mentioned), songs that Hornby for one reason or another likes and about which he feels he has something worthwhile to say. I’m a little sorry that it is not a novel, novels being my staple diet and Hornby being such a master chef, but it’s hard to wish this book were a novel instead while reading it, it’s such an extremely pleasant read. Despite having heard very few of the songs and a few of the ones I have heard I don’t particularly like (Nelly Furtado’s I’m Like a Bird, for example), I found myself nodding in agreement and recognition a lot of the time. Part of Hornby’s «purpose» is a defence of pop songs as a valid, grown-up, genre, in face of the dismissal the pop-fan will inevitably receive from jazz-buffs and afficinados of classical music (whether genuine or not).

Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don’t listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and force other people to listen to them, and get cross when these other people don’t like them as much as I do (…)

As someone who prefers Alanis Morissette to Carmen for emotional affirmation (not that I don’t like Carmen, it’s just not a CD that ends up in the player very often, whereas it’s rare for a week to go by without one or other of AM’s songs bursting from the speakers at full volume), this sort of sentiment is bound to endear the author to me. But to be honest, I’m pretty sure I’d still have enjoyed this book even if I’d disagreed with every opinion Hornby has, I am too much of a fan of his writing, his way of expressing himself, to actually be much bothered about the subject.

Now that you’ve got that off you chest, could we please have another novel from you, Mr. Hornby?

The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency

Mirthful

In which we amble pleasantly.

no1ladiesAlexander McCall Smith’s The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency is said by people who ought to know to paint a fairly accurate picture of life in Botswana. I have no idea as to the veracity of this, but it seems likely to be true. There is a wonderful sense of unhurriedness in this book, about Precious Ramotswe, who, following her father’s death and her inheritance of his amassed «fortune» – cattle, which she sells – becomes the first Lady detective in the country. It is not a detective novel in the sense of western European literary traditions. There is mystery, definitely, and crime and cruelty, at least potential cruelty, but there is no temptation to turn to the last page to check «whodunnit». In fact, there is an amazing contradiction in the «feel» of the book, for while it feels unhurried and relaxed, like a good cup of tea in the shade under a tree, there is also a drive to the story which makes the pages fly by.

Highly recommended, by both me and Pia (who lent me the book), which ought to be more than enough for you. Go read it!

Hitchhiker – Simpson

Mirthful

In which hitchhikers are advised to hide in the bushes until the car has passed.

simpson.jpg

I enjoyed Simpson’s biography of Douglas Adams, entitled Hitchhiker, however, unless you’re a die-hard fan who needs to read everything by and about DNA my advice to you would be to pass it by. Though well-researched and reasonably (though definitely not brilliantly) written, the book focuses rather more on the «negative» aspects of Adams’ career than on the positive. No-one who waited 10 years for the promised next novel (known for most of that decade as Salmon of Doubt, not to be confused with the collection of odd bits and pieces published under that name) can be unaware of Adams’ inability to meet deadlines. Simpson, rightly, you could argue, spends quite a bit of energy on this subject – so much so that it becomes rather tiresome, and he completely fails to see the funny side of this trait (or if he sees the funny side, he fails to convey it). He also spends rather a lot of time retelling some of the good stories Adams told, and then saying «However, that’s not stricktly true.» This also gets quite repetitive, and though the thorough examination of the embelishments and results of faulty memory is no doubt excellent scholarship, I’m not sure I really care (at least not quite so many pages’ worth).

However, I mostly enjoyed it. I did not, however, enjoy the last chapter. Simpson seems intent on convincing his readers that Adams’ heart attack happened because he was fundamentally unhappy – all because the H2G2 film again seemed to have sunk into the Hollywood quagmire. Not only does this seem somewhat unreasonable to me – here’s a man with a wife and daughter and a happy family life, with millions of fans worldwide, with major successes behind him and the safe knowledge that if someone locks him in a hotel room for an adequate number of weeks he will quite definitely produce another blockbuster (he could write, he just had to be forced to sit down and do it) and I could go on and on – and even if Simpson is right, I would just much rather not know, thank you very much. I am still upset about Adams’ untimely death, I do not need to be further upset by the thought that he was miserable when he died.

All in all, you’d be much better off reading Neil Gaiman’s biography.

ROFL

Mirthful

I am finishing Simpson’s biography of Douglas Adams at the moment (more of that when I have finished), but it’s a pretty cumbersome volume, and so I brought The Secret World of the Irish Male to read on the bus this morning. By page 5 or so I had already startled my fellow passengers by chortling uncontrollably and I was well and truly hooked. With sentiments such as these:

You never know what’s going to happen in real life either, but some things you can be relatively confident about. The truth will always hurt, half your socks will always disappear in the washing machine and John Bruton in full flight will always be strangely reminiscent of Kermit the Frog in The Muppet Show.

(…)

After a while the police arrived [to remove students from an office they were occupying]. They were quite angry. They said thay would «do whatever was necessary» to get us out. They repeated the phrase a few times. We scoffed, heroically. We’d be here, we said, until all of our demands had been met. They asked us what these demands were. There seemed to be a bit of confusion at this point. Personally, in addition to having Ireland immediately declared a 32 county socialist republic, I wanted to have a regular girlfriend and «Brideshead Revisited» repeated on a Monday night.

How could I be otherwise?

I’ve just glanced at the amazon reviews, by the way, and it’s a long time since I’ve seen a book that people either love or hate, not one «ok, but not very exciting» comment to be seen. It came highly recommended to me, Linda put it into my hands saying «Here. Borrow this. I almost died laughing.» so I will persist in looking forward to the rest of it…