"Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be tu"Something will have gone out of us as a people if we ever let the remaining wilderness be destroyed; if we permit the last virgin forests to be turned into comic books and plastic cigarette cases…" —Wallace Stegner
As with A Gentleman in Moscow and The Heart's Invisible Furies, the inescapable popularity of this book on Goodreads was the white flash of a rabbit's tail that first caught my eye. Then as I dipped into the lavish reviews, it became the godlike voice that boomed at me through thunder clouds: "Do thyself a favour, mortal, and REEEAD THIS BOOOOK!" it resounded. So, that’s exactly what I did. (I would just like to add at this stage that a plethora of five-star reviews isn't always a reliable indicator of a book's calibre).
The story spans several decades and is told by genial culture vulture, Larry Morgan, a writer who marries during the Great Depression; a man prepared to suffer for his art so long as he has his wonderful wife, Sally, by his side. He remarks that it was beautiful to be young and hard up if you had the right wife. There is a 'let's get it all out in the open' honesty to Stegner's writing. His direction though is steered by optimism. This is an urbane version of Steinbeck: An erudite, glass-half-full Steinbeck. He is highbrow yet humble, scholarly yet folksy. And as if his elegant no-nonsense prose wasn’t enough, he proceeds to tick almost all my literary boxes by gilding it with some wonderful imagery (cattle grazing in the distance are described as being "tiny as aphids on a leaf") Brilliant! Back of the net, Stegner!
In a scene reminiscent of an episode of Frasier, Larry and his wife are beguiled by like-minded aesthetes, the Langs, who invite them to their fancy schmantzy dinner party. The foursome become lifetime friends and the thrust of the story is as much about them as it is the Morgans. Their very human dynamics will ring many readers' bells because this semi-autobiographical tale gives us the sense of being allowed to pry into the highs and lows of people’s personal lives over a period of several decades. Despite his literary success, Larry is often embarrassed at being able to enjoy a comparatively comfortable lifestyle without ever needing to roll up his sleeves and commit to a 'proper' job (his father was a farmer). He also recognises that there is more to life than the tinsel of literary praise (so true!).
This was my first read by this astonishingly gifted author, and it shan’t be my last. Stegner was clearly at one with nature and a charming aside about Achilles the Tortoise immediately reminded me of dear old Gerald Durrell. Oh, and the women in this book are given equal billing to the men, which is always a good thing in my view.
Because this human story was capably written and wonderfully realised, it didn't need any flash bang wallop or bells and whistles. It's ostensibly a book where a seasoned author has taken his time and allowed his love of words to drive the narrative....more
"Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this." —Homer, The Odyssey
Having recently read The Odyssey, I was prompte"Be strong, saith my heart; I am a soldier; I have seen worse sights than this." —Homer, The Odyssey
Having recently read The Odyssey, I was prompted by Goodreads friend, @JulieGrippo, to go on this journey - namely, Homer's epic voyage transposed to the terrain of 19th-century North America.
Inman (not as heroic as Odysseus), an army deserter wounded in the American Civil War, faces a treacherous, interminable journey home to his love, Ada (ergo Odysseus’s Penelope).
You can see from my five-star rating that I was captivated by this book, but it could just have easily been demoted to three stars as it was very nearly hoisted by a petard of its own poetic prose. So I'll just get my two gripes out of the way, then we can all sit down and have a nice cup of tea… Gripe #1 One of my pet peeves is seeing dialogue that isn't neatly nestled between some perfectly respectable speech marks. Why, Charles Frazier? Why? They were evidently good enough for Dickens, Hugo and Dostoyevsky yet, for some artsy reason, you didn't feel the need. Of course, the enlightened readers among us can get by without them but, applying the same logic, why bother with commas and full stops? In fact, let's go the whole hog and eliminate vowels as well! Huh! Bloody vowels, making words much longer than they need to be! Gripe #2 More than most, I drool over a banquet of sumptuous prose. Frazier writes beautifully and songbirds landed on my shoulders while I read, rather like a dreamy scene from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. All, it seemed, was perfectly spiffing in my world. But holy pretentiousness, Batman! Surely, he didn’t have to pack every blimmin' paragraph with eminence until each one burst at the seams! The high calibre prose, though meritorious, did quicksand the pace of my read and decelerated the narrative thrust of the story.
Ahhh, now isn't it just grand to get things off one's chest? So, how about that nice cup of tea ... do you take milk and sugar?
The story, despite my two gripes, is a towering epic worthy of the utmost praise. Evocative and monumental, it carries weighty themes of love, resilience, honour and devotion with great aplomb. Granted, it doesn't flow like a cold mountain stream, but you won't often see writing as good as this in our modern age....more
"Ivashov and his men were sleeping in their sleds when, at a prearranged sign, the Midnooskies crushed each of the men's skulls with axes."
At firs"Ivashov and his men were sleeping in their sleds when, at a prearranged sign, the Midnooskies crushed each of the men's skulls with axes."
At first glance this is a story that I shouldn't like: it's essentially an account of an expedition into the frozen wilds of Alaska, expressed in the form of diaries and historical documents. Sounds boring, right? Wronggg!!! This is, in fact, an epic tale of love, nature, historical adventure and North American mythology that had me absorbed from start to finish.
It's 1885: Dutiful and capable Lieutenant-Colonel Allen Forrester leads a reconnaissance mission into Alaska, up the Wolverine River, to gauge whether the natives of the territory would be hostile or not. At the same time, his pregnant wife, Sophie Forrester, is confined to Vancouver Barracks. Optimistic, ladylike and resolute (think Charlotte Brontë), she keeps a journal of her daily life, as does her hubby. Sophie's snug life of self-discovery and afternoon teas forms the perfect contrast to her husband's grim and perilous odyssey.
With the words of his blood & guts father, General James Forrester, ringing in his ears (that his preference for topographical engineering is for sissies) Allen has nevertheless previously shown his mettle in the heat of battle.
Ivey's prose is precise and evocative, rather than poetic and descriptive. It is this verisimilitude that gives the story some grit and amplifies the magic that is braided into the narrative. The novel is extremely well written, which is a benediction these days. Particularly groovy was a description of bats as being "mice who swim with the stars." Love that!
Those accompanying him on the trip include boisterous hell-raiser, Sergeant Tillman, and Tillman's polar opposite, brooding Lieutenant Pruitt, who prefers a sextant to sex. Also in the party is an old Eyak Indian, known as "The Man Who Flies on Black Wings." This chap sleeps at the top of trees in the dead of night and is said to possess unearthly powers.
And this is where the story gets really interesting... As a fan of magical realism, I love Ivey's sorcerous incantation of anthropomorphism and zoomorphism. Native folklore and perceived reality become blurred; it is believed that humans have been seen shape-shifting into animals and that trees can double up as wombs! As a result, Forrester's white man scepticism is sorely tested on the assignment. The wilderness of wintry Alaska, with its frozen rivers and deep-set snow, is best suited to mineral prospectors and fur trappers and if anyone can survive that, Spring awaits with its squadrons of ceaseless mosquitoes.
Comic relief comes in the form of Sergeant Tillman who has a bash at writing the daily log while his scholarly superior is indisposed. Unforchinitly his speling and grammer isnt as gud as wot forristers is. : )
Side by side throughout the book, yet a hinterland apart, Allen's indomitable spirit is mirrored by his wife's determination to challenge chauvinistic attitudes back at the barracks. The dichotomy of their parallel existence is a constant theme throughout, as is the symbolism of the colour black: black wolf; black raven; black hat; black bear, etcetera.
This has all the ingredients of a first-rate novel and serves as a sad reminder that the Native American's soulful connection with nature is now only the stuff of legend.
Homeric and allegorical, To the Bright Edge of the World is a cracking read that cannot be ignored. Huge thanks to Cheri for her judicious recommendation....more
"When all was said and done, the creatures of the Galápagos Islands were a pretty listless bunch compared with rhinos and hippos and lions and elep"When all was said and done, the creatures of the Galápagos Islands were a pretty listless bunch compared with rhinos and hippos and lions and elephants and so on."
Leon Trotsky Trout is as dead as a dodo but is nevertheless the incorporeal narrator of a story that is told a million years into our future. Trout recounts a sequence of evolutionary events that begin in 1986, as a bunch of bipedal misfits gather in Ecuador for 'The Nature Cruise of the Century.' Looking back at humankind, from a 'million-years-in-the-future' perspective, we are a freakish bunch; we possess oversized brains that we don't make the best use of, and we even give names to dogs. Also, because our brains were the size of fat mangoes and not yet atrophied by evolution, a discussion between a husband and wife under stress could end up like a fight between two blindfolded people on roller skates.
Captain Adolf von Kleist, who doesn't know shit from Shinola, is somehow left in charge of this ill-fated, over-hyped maiden voyage to the Galápagos Islands. (I can assure you that the story is better read than explained).
I'm a latecomer to Vonnegut and fell in love with his writing quicker than you could say "woolly mammoth." He elucidates with the conviction of a mad prophet; his prose is cheerily unfussy and he is at all times wickedly provocative. And, in keeping with the 'circle of life' theme, there are fish metaphors aplenty. For no reason other than authorial whimsy, he anoints any character who is about to die with an asterisk (so we know in advance that they are going to pop their clogs), and he mischievously over-explains things that are blindingly obvious to anyone bar our tiny-brained human descendants, one million years into the future.
Vonnegut has a droll sense of humour that I found immediately enjoyable and fans of Monty Python are sure to like his style. But of course, there is a great deal of sagacity to be found in his eccentricity. It should come as no surprise to anyone that we humans prove to be the architects of our own downfall. Despite our hefty brains, we are somehow ignorant of the perils of war, financial crashes, global viruses, world overpopulation, climate change and meteorites hitting our planet. Ain't that the truth?
The only carp I have with Vonnegut is that he has a scattergun approach to plot lines. The story staggers backwards and forwards like a drunken sailor in a hall of mirrors and I felt that the philosophical quotes interrupted, rather than enhanced, the narrative.
In truth, I really didn't know what to expect from Vonnegut's Galápagos (it was recommended to me by @Cecily), but I was pleasantly surprised and absolutely loved every daft, dizzy, witty moment of this prescient read!...more
As I presently have far too much on my plate (i.e. writing commitments) to type anything resembling a barnstorming review, I urge you to read @Cecily'As I presently have far too much on my plate (i.e. writing commitments) to type anything resembling a barnstorming review, I urge you to read @Cecily's instead, as it enthused me to read this wonderful selection of short stories, each jewelled with beautiful prose. read Cecily's fab review...more
"Gollys, Mrs Durrells,"he said, his face red with wrath. "Why don'ts yous lets Masters Leslies shoot the son of a bitch?"
In life, Gerald Durr"Gollys, Mrs Durrells,"he said, his face red with wrath. "Why don'ts yous lets Masters Leslies shoot the son of a bitch?"
In life, Gerald Durrell would light up a room and his books elicit that same warm feeling. His affection for the natural world lives on in the minds of those, who for decades, have enjoyed his magical stories. This is the second part of his Corfiot trilogy, continuing from where My Family and Other Animals left off.
The bohemian Durrells have eschewed middle-class English suburbia for an unconventional life in idyllic Corfu. As in the first book, a procession of oddballs, fruit cakes and misfits turn up at their villa. Best supporting character award goes to leathery-faced Spiro, whose pidgin English sounds exactly like Stavros, the kebab seller from a 1980s UK comedy sketch show. "Honest to Gods, Mrs Durells, makes me scarce what that boy finds."
Fans of Durrell already know of his transcendent skill for observational detail. For example, there's Mrs Haddock, the spiritualist, who is incapable of breathing while speaking, andwhosewordslatchtogether like a daisy chain. And here he describes the beginning of his memorable meal at the Venetian-style villa of eccentric Countess Mavrodiki: The first course that Demetrios-Mustapha set before us was a fine, clear soup, sequinned with tiny golden bubbles of fat, with fingernail-sized croutons floating like crisp little rafts on an amber sea. How overlooked is Durrell as a writer? Seriously, how many writers today can compete with that? This bacchanalian feast continued until his pants were fit to burst, and was washed down with red wine which was 'as dark as the heart of a dragon'.
Other characters include Captain Creech, the salty sea dog whose incautious, uncivil bonhomie (even in the politest company) revolves around tales of Montevidean strumpets and rampant gonorrhoea.
This trilogy was a standard school read for British kids of my generation and there is absolutely no reason why his books cannot be read by adults. His writing is evidently better than most of the dross that is out there now.
If you haven't yet familiarised yourself with Gerald Durrell, and are wasting your time reading books that have men on the cover who, for some reason, have misplaced their shirts, then please find the time to do so. Not only a truly gifted writer, he was also a wonderful, wonderful human being!...more
A delightful, lyrical and altogether MAGICAL read. *ADVANCE WARNING* Review includes mention of tortoise sex!
It's usually a huge mistake to return to A delightful, lyrical and altogether MAGICAL read. *ADVANCE WARNING* Review includes mention of tortoise sex!
It's usually a huge mistake to return to a childhood favourite, imagining it would be just as good the second time around. So when I found this book in the attic, with its dog-eared cover held together with Sellotape and pages jaundiced with age, I had mixed feelings about reading it again. (A side note to any fellow Brits who once strode majestically in platform shoes: the price on the book was a nostalgic three shillings and sixpence).
My Family and Other Animals is the semi-autobiographical account of prepubescent Gerald's expat life on the Greek island of Corfu with his upper crust, eccentric, English family. Happily, this entertaining book far-exceeded my expectations. I rediscovered the same Mediterranean island from my boyhood wish list; a sun-drenched idyll of olive groves, cypress trees and hidden coves.
Durrell was better known as a leading naturalist and conservationist, but it would be a huge mistake to disregard his skill as an author. Without a shadow of a doubt, he was a formidable storyteller and his command of the English language would shame most of our modern-day scribblers. Not only this; his human imagery is up there with the best. Durrell generates genuinely laugh-out-loud moments with his impish descriptive humour: his sister Margot's acne-ridden face, for example, is described as being "swollen up like a plate of scarlet porridge". Animals on the island are cheerfully anthropomorphised, including Geronimo the gecko, Quasimodo the pigeon, plus Widdle and Puke, the gambolling puppies. Durrell's overuse of similes and adjectives might cause some readers to grind their teeth to powder, but I personally adore this overkill of descriptive imagery.
The author's personification of animals extends to goats, whose "udders swing like bagpipes" and also in respect of some tortoise-shagging (the tortoises with each other, not any deviant behaviour on Durrell's part).
Set in the 1930s, before the hedonism of mass tourism had descended upon the Greek islands, Gerald Durrell puts the 'Cor!' into Corfu. This is not just a novel for bookish school kids. I enjoyed it as a boy and I relished it even more as an adult. Methinks it was three shillings and sixpence well spent!
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