July Reading
This Is Not The End of the Book, by Umberto Eco, Jean-Claude Carriere, Jean-Philippe de Tonnac and Polly McLean
I've wanted to read this since I saw it had been published, and the mighty coalescent made this possible when he gave it to me for my birthday, bless him. It's impossible really to review a book like this - it's simple a 'curated conversation' between three blokes, about a wide range of topics which loosely relate to the book-as-object - and the only useful response to give is Nick Harkaway's, reprinted in the volume's blurb: "The next best thing to sitting in Umberto Eco's living room after dinner; a dream collection of lucid and fascinating discussions." There are as many doubtful question marks in the margins of my copy as there are astounded exclamation points, and none of the participants emerge as either purest sage and most wilful curmudgeon; but as food for thought goes, this is om nom nom.
Pathfinders: The Golden Age of Arabic Science, by Jim Al-Khalili
Another present, this time from abrinsky and lamentables, here is a book far broader than its title might suggest - Al-Khalili defines 'science' as including philosophy and 'Arabic' as including Persians - and it benefits from this ecumenical view. It is undoubtedly better on what its subjects wrote and thought than it is on conveying the historical contexts in which they operated - though it does its best to paint these vividly - but one comes to a book by al-Khalili looking for the former insight rather than the latter. A gentle polemic on the topic of the necessity and vitality of science, aimed both at Western audiences disdainful of the Islamic contribution, and modern Muslims distrustful of scientific enquiry and endeavour, it is above all eye-opening and accessible for those who have never read anything else about Arabic-speakers and their culture, and wise and witty for those who may have done so without quite following the significance and brilliance of its scientific discoveries. A tonic.
River of Smoke, by Amitav Ghosh
The sequel to Sea of Poppies, this is both a more and less diffuse novel than its predecessor. Ghosh might be the only author I know for whom 'diffuse' should be used as a word of praise: the discursive manner in which he wears his research clearly yet lightly reminds one of Patrick O'Brien, except allied with a quite extraordinary sympathy for the widest range of cultures, societies and languages. Indeed, language remains one of the joys of this book as it was before: although much of the action takes place in Canton, and focuses on three or four principal characters rather than the gaggle of actors in Sea of Poppies, there is such scope within this trading post for exploring the vast array of tongues all hammering away in conversation as the Opium War grinds closer that one almost doesn't notice the narrower confines in which all this action happens. In fact, the more powerful narrative thrust this provides more than compensates for any slight disappointment that the story doesn't range quite so widely as before. In many ways, an impossible feat: a rip-roaring read of 500+ pages. A pleasure.
Bad News, by Edward St Aubyn
The Patrick Melrose marathon continues. This isn't so good a book as Never Mind, I don't think, but perhaps it couldn't have the same poetic, elegiac qualities of that novel: it rejoins Melrose in his early 20s, collecting his father's ashes from New York whilst in the grip of a fierce addiction to every drug it is possible for his not inconsiderable fortune to purchase. Some characters from the previous book drift in and out, but the focus is far more closely on a single character, as Melrose careers from one attempt to purloin heroin to another. A black comedy, and a bleak tragedy, it nevertheless never quite conjours the same sense of what it must be to be delirious and addicted managed by, for instance, Lowry's masterprice, Under The Volcano. St Aubyn's deceptively simple prose, however, is never less than gently, sharply wrought.
HHhH, by Laurent Binet
Not the Second Coming it has sometimes been reviewed as, but this is still a tightly written, sly little book. I've written about it here.
I've wanted to read this since I saw it had been published, and the mighty coalescent made this possible when he gave it to me for my birthday, bless him. It's impossible really to review a book like this - it's simple a 'curated conversation' between three blokes, about a wide range of topics which loosely relate to the book-as-object - and the only useful response to give is Nick Harkaway's, reprinted in the volume's blurb: "The next best thing to sitting in Umberto Eco's living room after dinner; a dream collection of lucid and fascinating discussions." There are as many doubtful question marks in the margins of my copy as there are astounded exclamation points, and none of the participants emerge as either purest sage and most wilful curmudgeon; but as food for thought goes, this is om nom nom.
Pathfinders: The Golden Age of Arabic Science, by Jim Al-Khalili
Another present, this time from abrinsky and lamentables, here is a book far broader than its title might suggest - Al-Khalili defines 'science' as including philosophy and 'Arabic' as including Persians - and it benefits from this ecumenical view. It is undoubtedly better on what its subjects wrote and thought than it is on conveying the historical contexts in which they operated - though it does its best to paint these vividly - but one comes to a book by al-Khalili looking for the former insight rather than the latter. A gentle polemic on the topic of the necessity and vitality of science, aimed both at Western audiences disdainful of the Islamic contribution, and modern Muslims distrustful of scientific enquiry and endeavour, it is above all eye-opening and accessible for those who have never read anything else about Arabic-speakers and their culture, and wise and witty for those who may have done so without quite following the significance and brilliance of its scientific discoveries. A tonic.
River of Smoke, by Amitav Ghosh
The sequel to Sea of Poppies, this is both a more and less diffuse novel than its predecessor. Ghosh might be the only author I know for whom 'diffuse' should be used as a word of praise: the discursive manner in which he wears his research clearly yet lightly reminds one of Patrick O'Brien, except allied with a quite extraordinary sympathy for the widest range of cultures, societies and languages. Indeed, language remains one of the joys of this book as it was before: although much of the action takes place in Canton, and focuses on three or four principal characters rather than the gaggle of actors in Sea of Poppies, there is such scope within this trading post for exploring the vast array of tongues all hammering away in conversation as the Opium War grinds closer that one almost doesn't notice the narrower confines in which all this action happens. In fact, the more powerful narrative thrust this provides more than compensates for any slight disappointment that the story doesn't range quite so widely as before. In many ways, an impossible feat: a rip-roaring read of 500+ pages. A pleasure.
Bad News, by Edward St Aubyn
The Patrick Melrose marathon continues. This isn't so good a book as Never Mind, I don't think, but perhaps it couldn't have the same poetic, elegiac qualities of that novel: it rejoins Melrose in his early 20s, collecting his father's ashes from New York whilst in the grip of a fierce addiction to every drug it is possible for his not inconsiderable fortune to purchase. Some characters from the previous book drift in and out, but the focus is far more closely on a single character, as Melrose careers from one attempt to purloin heroin to another. A black comedy, and a bleak tragedy, it nevertheless never quite conjours the same sense of what it must be to be delirious and addicted managed by, for instance, Lowry's masterprice, Under The Volcano. St Aubyn's deceptively simple prose, however, is never less than gently, sharply wrought.
HHhH, by Laurent Binet
Not the Second Coming it has sometimes been reviewed as, but this is still a tightly written, sly little book. I've written about it here.