reading

The Overlook by Michael Connelly

56-year-old Detective Harry Bosch is on his first case since moving to the LAPD Robbery Homicide Division. A medical physicist has been murdered, and the killer may have taken dangerous substances from him. The terrorism alarm bells start ringing and before Harry has chance to do much work, he’s saddled with the FBI and all the extra bureaucracy and secrecy (and frustration) that brings.

This was the first Michael Connelly I’d read, picked from a library shelf because I thought the name seemed familiar from a casual recommendation I’d had. I toyed with giving up on it partway through; it looked like a fairly stereotypical thriller with obligatory mentions of the Middle East, the twin towers plane-crashes, suspicion of Muslims, and an unrealistic-sounding threat that was only vaguely (if at all) understood by the police involved. It redeemed itself by the end by turning out to be more subtle, more intelligent, and more of a detective story than that, but I’m still not sure I’d read another.

I’ve read and enjoyed (as light entertainment) a few Elvis Cole novels by Robert Crais. The Overlook was set in the same sort of location, and other than Harry being a policeman whereas Elvis is a private detective, there was some similarity. A lot of driving around Los Angeles being a bit of a maverick, with the occasional mention of a traumatic experience in Vietnam, and more people than seemed strictly necessary getting shot. Elvis Cole spends his life circumventing the LAPD, Harry Bosch circumvents the Feds. Given this similarity I’m surprised I didn’t enjoy The Overlook more than I did, but I wonder if this (the 13th Bosch novel) was a bad place to start. Harry has a new boss, a new partner, and though he did encounter people he’d run across when he worked for a different division, I didn’t feel like I got much of an insight into his character. The events of the whole novel took place in less than 24 hours, perhaps not enough time to get to know him.

Interestingly, in the edition I read there’s a section at the end where Michael Connelly ‘interviews’ Harry Bosch. That was nicely done, and did give more of Harry’s background and personal life away, plus an insight into what really drives him. It’s a writing exercise I’ve come across a few times – interview your main character – but this shows that not only can it help the author nail the details of a character, presented to the reader it can help to make that character seem more real.

Popular authors, some vague musings

Looking at the top 10 list of fiction borrowed most often from Leeds Libraries in 2014, a few thoughts scudded across my mind (nothing too deep, I’m sleepy and full of cold right now). One was that they’re mostly authors who’ve been around for a long time (John Grisham, JK Rowling, Ian Rankin), another was that there’s a hefty dose of crime and thrillers on there, and the third was that there are a couple of authors with a Yorkshire background (Kate Atkinson, Peter Robinson). Which got me wondering how this sort of list varies across the UK – do crime novels with a local link prove popular everywhere? Are there places where you can see the influence of the Richard and Judy Book Club, for instance, or where it’s all Booker Prize longlisters and recommendations from the Guardian review section? How does it match up with book-buying habits (are we getting the Hmm, not sure but let’s see what all the hype’s about out of the library, and buying the ones we think we’ll treasure)?

As I don’t have the answers to any of that (though I’d be interested if anyone else does – have I missed a similar top 10 list from Dorset library service this week?) I’ll merely note that I did read 3 of those authors last year (Peter Robinson, Kate Atkinson, and Michael Connelly) though not the books mentioned, and all borrowed from the Library of Mum and Dad rather than Leeds.

My most-read authors of 2014 are (and this will tell you more than you need to know about me, I’m sure):

New Grub Street by George Gissing

One of the nineteenth century novels I read in 2014 and am now trying to get away from, New Grub Street was a book I’d heard of but knew very little about, except some vague connection to the Radio 4 comedy Ed Reardon’s Week. I have a feeling it was a Guardian article that finally nudged me into downloading the ebook and diving in.

As an entertaining character study, Jasper the ambitious carefree hack (he will essentially write anything for anyone as long as they pay him well and/or provide useful connections) is amusing in a thoughtless, I’m alright Jack sort of a way. Edwin Reardon, his contrasting best friend, is a wonderful caricature of the moody, introspective, ‘artistic’ writer, waiting for his muse and harping back to a critically-acclaimed novel or two that he wrote in his youth. Beyond that, however, lies just another Victorian romance, and I felt it descended rather towards melodrama as it neared the end.

There is, naturally, the loyal girl who gets thrown over – a doormat of the first order who exasperated me quite early on. There is also Edwin’s heartless, selfish, entirely unsympathetic wife (can you tell I wasn’t keen on her either?), though she at least was interestingly modern in her musings on the idea of a woman leaving her husband and starting a new life. There is noble poverty, and desperate illness, and the odd death and wedding.

If you are a writer, or live among writers, New Grub Street will amuse you with its observations about tit-for-tat reviewing, the triumph of luck and networking over talent, and various other features of the life that every generation of writers seems to think it’s the first to experience. If you’re looking for a good Victorian romance, however, you’d do better to pick yourself a random Anthony Trollope instead.

Welcome to the future

How can it possibly be 2015? We’re so far into the realms of sci-fi settings that life seems perpetually surreal in its mundanity. And yet I’m still reading nineteenth-century novels.

Totting up my list of books read in 2014, I realised more than a quarter of them were old enough to be available as public-domain ebooks (mostly 19th century but a couple of early PG Wodehouse). Only 4 books I read last year were first published last year, and one of those was non-fiction. No surprises then that my unofficial resolution for this year is to read more newly-published fiction. Of course, I’m already failing in that regard by reading a graphic novel from 2010 at the moment, and having 1 novel and 1 story collection from 2014 left over on the To Read shelf, not to mention the 2004 novel I just bought as an ebook. But once I’ve read all them, I’ll get right down to the 2015 newbies.

The disorganisation before Christmas

Does the fact that I’ve missed two Wednesday posts without noticing tell you how well-organised I am at the moment? My body clock is still set to October, and waking up to Christmas morning next week is going to come as something of a shock. Last Wednesday I got to within 3 pages of the end of a book on the way home and picked up a fresh one for the morning commute, thinking I’d read those last few pages later. I still haven’t, and memories of the preceding story are beginning to fade. That’ll be one more item to add to the list of things to do during my two weeks off work; it’s already physically impossible to fit them all in.

Shiny red Christmas hat and bowls of nuts

As I wander off to make another cup of tea, grab a mince pie and look for the list that tells me where all my lists are, I’ll take the opportunity to wish my readers (both the regular and the just-stopped-by) a Merry Christmas, or other winter festival of choice, in case I don’t get round to the next two Wednesday posts either. I hope you get all the books you wanted, or a book token, or a new friend with a well-stocked library (not as a Christmas present, I more sort of meant making friends at a party or during a long wait at a cold bus stop).

Nova Swing by M John Harrison

cover of Nova Swing by M John HarrisonAward-winning SF noir novel from 2006, the resolution (or lack thereof) perhaps unworthy of the set-up, but worth reading if it’s one of your sub-genres of choice.

Vic Serotonin is a tour guide, leading wealthy tourists to the unstable edges of Saudade, where reality isn’t as real as it could be and no-one knows what you might find. In between clients he hangs out at Liv Hula’s bar with Fat Antoyne, who only wants a chance to fit in. Together they watch the cats stream past twice a day, and the ships taking off and landing in the city, largely minding their own business. Sure, Vic smuggles the odd artefact out of the event site for collectors and the mildly eccentric Detective Aschemann keeps half an eye on him, but it’s not such a big deal. Until it is, and Vic really finds out who his friends aren’t.

With any kind of noir it’s the details that make it, and when you’re weaving some sci-fi world-building in, doubly so. The details in Nova Swing really make it work. There’s a musical theme which I liked, as well (playing it, listening to it, watching performers in bars).

Nova Swing is described as the sequel to Harrison’s earlier novel Light, which I haven’t read but I understand it to be set in the same place with completely different main characters. I didn’t feel like there was a gaping hole in my understanding as a consequence, it just felt like I’d been dropped into a complete world where life went on before I started observing the place, and will continue (after a fashion) after I’ve gone. That should be the case with any well-written fiction, anyway.

I didn’t feel completely satisfied by the time I closed the back cover, one too many loose ends perhaps. Nevertheless I’d enjoyed my time in Saudade and I was left with a dreamy feeling of enlightenment being just beyond the grasp of my sluggish brain. If you don’t mind having some questions remain unanswered as long as you’ve absorbed the atmosphere of the place during the investigation, then this might be just the SF noir for you.

A love affair with libraries

Libraries are in the news a lot lately, rarely for the right reasons, though the Liverpool branches reprieve this week was a moment for celebration. Belatedly (though not too late, I hope) the Great British Public are remembering why they love libraries so much, and telling anyone who’ll listen. BBC 6Music (my station of choice, at least in rooms where Planet Rock reception is bad) are in the middle of a fortnight of library celebration, not all to do with borrowing albums. The Guardian are promoting the love letters to libraries campaign from Book Week Scotland. Regular visitors will recall that I’m quite fond of libraries, often have to be dragged away from them (this morning, for instance) or overload myself with books. Thus, while I’m not about to write a love letter as such (far too uptightly English for that) I will share some of my library experiences, in the hope that some of you out there might share back.

In the dim past that was the 1980s I vaguely remember a basement children’s library. I remember wooden cubes full of large-format books you could flick through, and my dad’s legs towering above me in corduroy. I remember Big Brother in the record department at Bradford City Library in his parka, and the LPs he’d borrow and carefully take home in the library-issue carrier bag (which finally broke in about 1996). There were the walks to the local library with my grandad (never without a stack of library books in the house) and the friendly librarian at Cockermouth (a library I spent many a Saturday morning in, from early childhood to leaving home). I first read Anne of Green Gables from Cockermouth library, and Raffles and Maigret. Later on I borrowed Aerosmith and Alice Cooper tapes, Terry Pratchett’s early Discworld novels, and chocolate-themed baking books I never seemed to bake anything from.

Through the 1990s I stopped joining libraries but still made plenty of use of them. My dad borrowed Little Angels and Metallica CDs on my behalf in his lunch-hour (yes, Metallica – this is the beauty of libraries, you can try things without blowing all your pocket money), OneMonkey borrowed my choices from the fabulous Newcastle Central Library (not as fabulous last time I went, most of the books seemed to be missing). When my parents moved to a North Yorkshire village while I was at university, Big Brother and I would take my dad’s library tickets (still the brown card pouches – technology arrived there rather slowly) up the main street to the tiny library in the holidays and load up for our reading and listening pleasure.

Come the new decade I was in Scotland, loving the old-fashioned grandeur of Edinburgh Central Library and marvelling at the Carnegie library in his home town of Dunfermline, with stock a much bigger town would be proud of. OneMonkey and I somehow borrowed an AC/DC boxed set for the cost of borrowing a single CD, and went mad at a library book sale where we filled a couple of cardboard boxes for The Nephew (still in single figures at the time). By the turn of the following decade I wasn’t far from where I’d started out and I’m still using the local library constantly. I even borrowed the books I reviewed for the Ilkley Literature Festival this year from there.

I haven’t mentioned all the university libraries I’ve been in, the school library friend T and I spent our lunchtimes in (much more civilised than having to hang around outdoors in the drizzle), Bradford Local Studies Library or the decorative tiles in Leeds. I could go on for hours (pages) more but I’ll spare you. Instead I’ll make a cup of tea and wallow in warm memories of libraries I have loved; I can only recommend that you do the same, and if you can’t think of any you need to go find yourself a good library, fast.