The Magus

What with all the romantic novel reviewing, and the cookbook reviewing for work (not that either of them are particularly stretching to be honest), I've only just finished John Fowles' The Magus. Apparently it took him twenty years to write though, so I don't feel that bad about taking three weeks to work through it. Although I found the ending frustratingly unsatisfying (which probably means I've missed the deep, philosophical heart of the book), I found the narrative utterly absorbing; the kind of thing you really look forward to diving back into on the train home. Fowles creates a wonderfully rich, yet unsettling world and sustains the uncertainly about the boundaries of reality right up until the very end. I remember enjoying The French Lieutenant's Woman and The Collector, but this was amazing. In a pretentious sort of way, which clearly suits me right down to the ground.

What has publishing come to?

A (possibly spurious) opinion piece in a certain newspaper today (the usual one; branching out isn't going so well) claims that the great Abi Titmuss is having problems finding a publisher for her autobiography. I hope, for my sake, that this is mere conjecture. Think about it: would you rather read the fascinating life story of a twelve year old footballer with a head like a baked potato, and all of the brains of one, or the scrubs to scrubber story of an ordinary middle class slapper who happened upon the glamorous world of soft porn through her very own Blue Peter? She used to be A NURSE for God's sake! How does someone go from being an angel of mercy to the late night presenter on the Pussy Channel, or some such? How much money does she make? I am literally AGOG to read it. Jordan Part Deux has nothing on this, so please, please please Faber and Faber, give her a deal.

Finally...The Booker

About a week after everyone else has moved on, my attention has been caught by the Booker nominations. Principally, I must admit, because I needed to buy a birthday present for someone, and ended up zooming in on a display of shorlisted work which seemed to guarantee both quality and a certain, very contemporary cachet. Having subbed a review of it during my time at a more august literary publication, I fancied the St Aubyn, but it wasn't there. Then I saw Sarah Waters' Night Watch. I hesitated. I knew she was well regarded. I also had a sneaking suspicion she was a little Richard and Judy Book Club, a prejudice only supported by my only previous experience of her work at university, when one of my housemates developed a little crush on the Tipping the Velvet DVD. However, surely a Booker nomination meant that not only was she a good storyteller, but a good writer (important distinction)...so I went for it, and gave the present with a plea for a report back in return. Is Sarah Waters good? Like, REALLY good?

Libraries

There's been a lot of discussion in the news this week about libraries, following novelist Susan Hill's (she of Mrs de Winter, and no doubt many better things) denunciation of recent efforts to turn them into 'social centres' rather than public collections of books. It struck me, as it does occasionally, that I should join a library.

I must have spent a good third of my childhood in our local one, a great cavernous modern building, starting at the top, in the junior section (why are those always stuck somewhere utterly inaccessible to pushchairs and small legs?), and then moving down to find my weekly entertainment in corners as diverse as Nature and Memoirs (although I can't remember which of those I discovered Parson Woodford's Diary in). An odd child, I liked nothing better than browsing the towering shelves, picking out plastic covered, hardbacks on the strength of their spine design and ending up with a new treat every week, from illustrated accounts of Michael Palin's travels to The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin. I was allowed to go alone, and spent most Saturdays there revelling in a) the sheer number of books available to me and b) the independence wandering around the place gave me. Bookshops don't tend to welcome penniless children who just want to sit down and read.

Although our library did have CDs and videos, and latterly computers, the only thing that attracted me apart from the books was the periodical section, which allowed me to settle down and enjoy the forbidden delights of Mizz alongside elderly gentlemen perusing various antiques publications. The library may well have offered more, but it certainly hasn't stuck in my memory - I was there to read. Recently I went into the north Islington library on Essex Road to distribute some Pen Pushers. My heart gave the same excited leap at the sight of all the endless reading possibilites it offered. I should definitely join up.

More James Frey News

He's popped up again. Twice in one week, which means that he features in two consecutive entries on this non-blog. Anyone would think I was a fan or something (he has tattoos on his wrists. It is difficult for me to describe how sick that makes me feel. So I'm emphatically NOT a fan). Anyway, he's done his first interview since Oprah unceremoniously dumped him, and it's with the Guardian (one day a link from this blog will lead somewhere else, I promise):
http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,,1873009,00.html
In it he says he's better than Dave Eggers. Maybe I should give him a go after all. He could always keep his wrists down by his side, or wear long sleeves or something.

A Million Little Pounds

An interesting footnote to the piece on James Frey’s 'A Million Little Pieces' which appeared in the last issue. For any of you who haven’t read the article (shame on you), Frey is the author of a hugely successful ‘memoir’ detailing his wild and debauched past, and subsequent redemption, which was later revealed to be, in part at least, a work of fiction. Outrage ensued; people had felt a deep emotional ‘connection’ with the heart warming tale of human weakness but ultimate tenacity, and they felt short-changed by the revelation that it was anything less than sworn history. This latest development in the whole sordid affair only emphasises Helen’s conclusions on the importance of truth, or at least perceived truth, to readers. Raging readers who decided their only option was to sue the publisher, Random House USA, such was the force of their disappointment, have won a 1.25 million pound settlement for the pain inflicted by the deception (although not all of this will go on damages). There is no word from the British publisher, John Murray, on whether we might be entitled to a similarly juicy slice of the litigatory pie…
http://books.guardian.co.uk/news/articles/0,,1867437,00.html