The Review: I’ve read a handful of Holmes-continuation novels over the years (even reviewed one here) but I can safely say that none of them have ever measured up to the original – or even, happily, to this story.  This is the best Holmes novel since Sir Conan Doyle was writing them.  It’s not ACD but it is truer in letter and spirit than almost any adaptation or continuation since.  I say this with a deep love for the Moffat-led BBC Sherlock, Guy Ritchie’s just-plain-fun films, and even the classic I-grew-up-watching-them Basil Rathbone films.  All of those capture certain aspects of the characters or the scene… but this is the first time since reading the complete works (which I’ve done many times over, I daresay) that I can honestly feel truly satisfied.

Everything is there.  Watson’s unique narration, Holmes’ quirks (the Strad, the cocaine, the awesome intellect), Mrs. Hudson, 221B, The Irregulars, Lestrade, Mycroft – even Moriarty makes a surprise appearance.  The elements are all there, but that’s simple enough to do.  I’ve done it in this paragraph.  The real question is: does the tone work?  It most certainly does and this is Horowitz’s biggest success.  Sure, there are some issues with some of the comments an older Watson makes – his reflections are a little maudlin and a little too “looking back on the canon” worshipful at times.  We all know Lestrade and how Holmes appreciates him – what we don’t need is commentary on his future.  We don’t need to know that Mycroft is still alive and teaching.  This ‘continuation’ feels much more like an epilogue because of those moments and that, if anything, is disappointing: what the world needs now is more Sherlock Holmes novels, let me tell you.  I’m all for more Holmes and more Bond – although Bond is re-updated to the 21st Century and while that’s okay for Bond, Holmes is Holmes and thus can never leave the late 1800s.  As the famous quote says, it’s always 1895 for John and Sherlock.

But on the whole, Watson’s voice is as clear as ever.  Holmes, too, is the same as he has ever been.  In fact, having seen so many versions of Holmes stories of late, I found myself imagining the characters as a cross-section of their filmed counterparts.  Rathbone is, of course, Holmes (although perhaps without the deerstalker).  Jude Law is our Watson, Una Stubbs our Mrs. Hudson.  Stephen Fry’s portrayal of Mycroft, if played with Mark Gatiss’ sharpness, is perfection – and Jared Harris (were he a bit taller) is a perfect Moriarty.  As for Lestrade… well, take your pick.   The characters are all there and we can see the way the modern interpreters have paid their forms of homage to the originals – in fact, those homages are all the more clear thanks to Horowitz’s pitch-perfect pastiche.  It’s as though this was, in fact, a lost ACD story from years after he retired the detective for good.

I will say that the plot is a tad shocking, especially for a Holmes novel.  Child prostitution is the hip thing (sorry, bad way to phrase it) in mystery novels these days and so I was initially a little concerned when that point raised its head in this story.  But it is not as though it is a new phenomenon.  Indeed, this novel sheds more light on the remarkable man’s incredibly complicated inner life in the same way “A Scandal in Bohemia” does.  Where that story sheds some light on his feelings towards women, this one examines his feelings towards children.  Holmes is wracked by the death of one of his Irregulars and he takes numerous occasions to reflect on the ethics of sending these children, no matter how street-wise, into danger.  His fury at the end of the novel is a sight to behold as well – because it fits so perfectly with the man we all know exists inside of the Sherlock presented to the rest of the world.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5.  It does carry on a bit – the bits with Watson getting all nostalgic could’ve gone, for certain – but it is still one hell of a novel.  We won’t see the likes of ACD again – but I’m stunned by the success of Horowitz’s pastiche.  It isn’t like Devil May Care, where Faulks was ‘writing as Ian Fleming’.  There are no pretensions about who is writing and that it is an Anthony Horowitz novel.  But there’s also a reason this is the first authorized new Holmes novel from the Conan Doyle estate – it’s the first one to fully recapture the spirit of Baker Street in 1895, with the fog swirling about and the sound of a violin wafting down to the street.  If you pull your coat around you a bit tighter against the London chill, you’ll see a Doctor limp up to the door and moments later, through the open window, a familiar voice cries “The game is afoot, Watson” – and it’s like the magic never went away.

The Short Version: In the years leading up to the French Revolution, an old man named Manette is reunited with his estranged daughter many moons after having been imprisoned and forgotten about.  He, with his daughter, returns to England under the auspices of a man named Lorry.  As the daughter grows into a beautiful young woman, she meets and marries an dashing French emigre named Darnay.  As it turns out, Darnay is more than an emigre: he’s an aristocrat.  When he returns to Paris at the height of the Terror, their peaceful world is disrupted and only through the workings of their dearest friends does the story have a happy ending.

The Review: So begins Dickens2012!  It’s so strange to me that this is the first time I can honestly say I’ve completed an entire unabridged Dickens novel.  Dickens and Hemingway were strangely absent from my academic career.  Also Faulkner and Joyce, for those keeping track.  But no matter – this is Dickens’ year and by god I’m going to do him right.

So then: A Tale of Two Cities.  A book that has the distinctive quality of having an oft-quoted opening sentence AND an oft-quoted closing one.  We all know how the story begins – and as Carton heads to the knife, his immortal last thoughts begin with “It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done…” I mean, what beautiful and evocative prose.  The lines are so cliched now that it is difficult to separate them from our present reality… but imagine reading that right when it was written!  What I’m saying is: I drink the Dickens kool-aid.

At the same time, the man can be insufferable.  While this book didn’t suffer from the bloat that characterizes certain other works (my only other attempt at a full Dickens was Our Mutual Friend my senior year of college.  It will surprise no one to hear that I read maybe 100 pages total…), it also doesn’t quite fly like it should.  When Charles returns to Paris, the stakes ramp up considerably and the book starts to take off and insist that you turn the pages… but then it hits weird bumps, as though Dickens couldn’t help but write a bit more than he needed to.  Example Number One: the letter that is presented at Darnay’s second Parisian trial.  Written by Manette while imprisoned, it reveals the ugly history that Manette and Darnay had agreed never to discuss or disclose and it provides some crucial backstory – but it also goes on far too long.  I mean, seriously.  It goes on ad nauseum.  To the point that it complete undercuts the momentum that has been building into those final scenes.  The sequence where Darnay, just returned home, is arrested again is surprisingly tense – so why does Dickens feel the need to lower the stakes by boring us with this story?  It’s a fascinating conundrum.

Of course, we read Dickens for a specific reason: his characters.  I don’t know anyone who can’t recall specific characters in a Dickens work – even if they just know A Christmas Carol and the Muppet version at that.  There’s a reason these characters survive in our collective consciousness and that is, quite simply, that they’re so real they seem like people we have met.  Even the relatively broadly stroked characters of this book (come on – Lucie is about as two-dimensional as they get) are fascinating and some of them do transcend their mundane counterparts: Madame Defarge is, quite simply, terrifying.  The image of her sitting, with her knitting, eyes pouring over the crowd… that’s indelible.  That’s a character I won’t soon forget.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about this novel, for me, was to read an Englishman’s take on the French Revolution some 50 years after the fact.  You don’t necessarily think about it when you pick up the book – but this was one of the earliest works of what we know now and love as historical fiction.  It blends together because Dickens was writing in the 1850s, the Revolution is closer in time than the present… but it’s like Matthew Weiner writing Mad Men today.  Dickens is looking back at a time and making subtle winks to a readership who is still connected enough to the time that they get the jokes – but also far enough removed that they can look back and say “my god, how barbaric!”  The lines about the American Revolution were hilarious – and probably still moderately uncomfortable for Dickens’ English readership – and to hear about Soho in the days when it was still mostly fields… well that’s a magic in and of itself.

Rating: 4 out of 5.  Although it took me a little while to warm into it – and I was reading it during an intensely stressful week – I found myself gripped by the book in a way I wasn’t anticipating.  When you get into the swing of Dickens, there’s something relaxing about it.  It’s almost as though you get to detach and let your mind drift a bit because you’re so at ease.  I think it has something to do with his writing and that sense of capturing people who are so human that they must, in fact, be real.  And man, those last hundred pages are downright gripping.  I challenge you to get to the end and not feel a sense of excitement and relief and sadness as that man goes to the “far far better thing” and the blade sings down.

Anyway, for those of you who are literary prognosticators, you’ll know that yesterday was a big day: The Morning News dropped the 2012 Tournament of Books bracket.  I’m proud to say that I accurately predicted half of the bracket this year, which is personally very exciting – but even more exciting, I’m pretty sure I want to read at least 12 of this year’s titles.  Already got 4 out of the way, so no sweat… right?

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.  I shall read no fewer than 12 of this year’s Tournament of Books books by the end of 2012.  Most likely to not be read: The Cat’s Table, Salvage the Bones, The Devil All the Time, The Stranger’s Child, The Last Brother.  Yes I know that’s five – I’m betting against myself a little bit.  But so long as I read more than 8, I will have done better than last year.  (Interestingly, I’ve yet to read anything off the ’07 list.  Fun fact.)

Also, for those of you following me on Goodreads, you’ll see that I’ve started on my other year-long project: Dickens 2012.  It’s Charles Dickens’ two-hundredth birthday this year and I got a sexy-as-hell set of “The Great Works” (Penguin Classics, covered by the amazing Coralie Bickford-Smith) for Christmas – so it’s on.  First up: A Tale of Two Cities.  Last up: A Christmas Carol in Dec 2012.  Other books to be included: Bleak House, Great Expectations, Hard Times, and Oliver Twist.  CHALLENGE ALSO ACCEPTED.

So anyway, a little bit of literary goal-setting to truly kick off the year.  How about you – any literary goals you’re setting yourself?

The Review: This book feels like an introduction to me.  It feels like a prologue – like a prequel made ten years after the original movie that didn’t really need to be made because you were already familiar enough with the character that you didn’t need that background “how they got started” story.  It was better in your head.  Except this is the first novel featuring this character, Margot.  So this is our first introduction to her and while she is interesting and engaging enough that I could certainly see her sticking around, I’m not sure that the book itself has much to truly recommend itself.

A review I read mentioned Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley novels in comparison to this one – now, I haven’t read any of them but I saw the film of The Talented Mr. Ripley and so I see the resemblance.  This is what I mean when I say that Mr. Gottlieb could undoubtedly take this book and turn it into a series, featuring our anti-hero conning her way around the world.  But the problem is, there’s just something lacking.

The book is well-written – I mean, it flies by and you can’t write that if you aren’t a talented writer.  To truly write a book that nearly flies out of your hands, not for want of “what happens next” (that’s another, higher skill) but simply for the propulsive beat underneath the words (like a really good song that gets you dancing before you even realize it)… that’s a skill and Mr. Gottlieb has it.  The book demands to be read quickly – to take your time with it would do a disservice.  That’s why I read it in approximately 24 hours.  Sometimes that sort of thing happens.

But there’s a flaw in this book, one that would make me hesitate before returning to Margot’s story or even another novel written by Mr. Gottlieb: the characters themselves.  Margot is, so far as I can tell, super-sexy and confident and a bit of a sociopath man-eater.  She had a terrible childhood with a drunk of a father – but that’s not enough to justify her apparent need to ruin men.  I felt like I missed a piece of the story at some point and that’s… well, that’s a bummer.  Because I wanted that justification.  I wanted to understand who Margot was – because it felt like (if this is the origin story ‘prequel’ that we might not’ve gotten in another universe where her story goes on) I wasn’t going to get another chance.  From here on, Margot would be this known quantity.  So why didn’t the author take the opportunity to flesh her out a bit more?

The coolest thing about the novel is the amount of knowledge Gottlieb brings to the table regarding faces and body language.  It’s a supremely interesting field and such a widely ignored one.  We betray so much with our body language and our expressions – even the most talented actors have to try to be something other than they are (and that’s exactly why they’re so talented).  Our author clearly did his research and so it’s quite fun to hear the characters talk about their abilities and for the reader to see those abilities in action.  Considering the fact  that the plot is a bit of a non-starter (it’s obviously from pretty early on who ends up pushing her and how the stories all connect), that’s the most unique and interesting talking point about the novel – and one that can be taken so much further, should the author be so inclined.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5.  Maybe I’m making it up – maybe this is a one-off novel.  But if that’s the case, I’m actually less inclined to like it.  The book gets an extra half star from me because it has promise.  There’s something interesting and intriguing and I’d like to see it taken further.  There aren’t enough sexy con-women in the world. But if Margot comes back and we get to see her put her skills to use in a more exciting and interesting (i.e. less expository) way… well, that could be a lot of fun.
Anyway, I have to thank Harper Collins for shooting me an advance copy of this book.  It was a fun, if sort of ho-hum, read and I do hope to see what happens next!

The Short Version: What a triumph.  It is a first novel and so, yes, let me dispatch with the quibbles first: there are some pacing/structure issues (the 1902 plot is interesting but jarring, chronologically) and the denouement is a little sacharine (a cliché is a cliché, no matter how well presented).  Beyond that, I cannot find a flaw.  In fact, I’m having trouble returning myself to reality from the experience of reading this novel.  I shall attempt to first compare it to other experiences and perhaps discuss those in order to then get to discussing the novel itself.

First: punchdrunk.  For those of you unacquainted, get acquainted.  They are a British theatre company specializing in immersive theater… but not the sort of immersive theater you are probably aware of.  If you’ve been to New York recently/follow theater, you’ve undoubtedly heard of Sleep No More (Bostonians are possibly aware of it from the A.R.T. run in 2009) – and interestingly enough, Ms. Morgenstern was inspired by this very show in that Boston run.  I’m not surprised: the experience of the circus feels like a punchdrunk show.  In fact, I want them desperately to turn their brilliant minds towards creating Le Cirque du Rêves in reality.  The circus is this massive sprawling thing, composed of circles and looping paths with tents that are mind-bogglingly beautiful and magical.  In one, an ice palace.  In another, a cloud labyrinth.  In another, an illusionist who is truly magical.  And so on and so on.  Tents you can’t imagine, tents you’ll never see, tents you’ll keep returning to.  The experience of a punchdrunk show is similar – you’ll find rooms that you keep going back to, you’ll never see other rooms no matter how many times you go.  A sense of disorientation settles over you but you don’t mind – it is as though you are walking through a dream.  It is the most wonderful dream and you want to just let your feet take you where they will – it doesn’t matter if you don’t see everything.  To just experience the complete immersion in a waking dream is enough.  That is the feeling of a punchdrunk show and that is the scene my imagination created while reading this book.

Another connection is to Erick Setiawan’s marvelous and sadly under-known Of Bees and Mist.  Another story of a world quite like ours but more magical.  Even the writing has similarities, making the two books seems like they could conceivably exist in the same universe.  The Night Circus is more grounded in our world – specific references to locations, for one thing – but it is the tone… and something about that tone that makes it so special.  There’s an interesting digression (perhaps not the right word but close enough) at the end of the novel where two characters discuss the magic of words.  It’s a rather meta moment in many ways – we are reading a book after all – but strangely it doesn’t feel jarring in the way such meta-fictional moments often do.  It didn’t feel like Morgenstern was tooting her own horn or drawing attention to her own novel.  Instead, it felt… logical.  It was a reminder of what had come before and almost a call to action to go out and seek more of the same.  It discusses the power behind stories, behind words – the way that they can shape the future unlike anything else.  And it’s true: we use words on a daily basis to influence others in ways that nothing else can even approximate.  Stories can change the path of your life – they can save you, they can turn you around, they can remind you, they can kill you, they can do any and everything.  Because they are the closest thing we actually have to magic in this world.

Not technology but stories.  That’s where the magic lies.

And that’s what this book is really all about.  The Story itself is as important as the story.  You get wrapped up in it and by the end, all you want to do is go out and do something magical.  Fall in love, create something extraordinary, even just simply write words on a page or tell someone a tale.  And it’s marvelous.

The details surrounding the backstory are sketchy for most of the novel and only get vaguely revealed as it wraps up – and that was admittedly a little frustrating at times.  I wanted to understand why these two gentlemen had been pitting their ‘students’ against each other for so long and what it all meant.  I told you the denouement was a little disappointing?  Well, the revelation behind all of this was so simple and so… petty that it didn’t seem to make sense, really.  But just like it Of Bees and Mist, we have to accept that even the smartest and most talented and most rational people do irrational things when faced with emotion.  We’re not all Sherlock – hell, even Sherlock isn’t Sherlock.  The Hatfields and the McCoys keep fighting because, well, that’s what they do.  It defies logic and for that exact reason it cannot be explained to an outsider.  It simply is what must be.  And that’s the conflict in this novel.  Of course, the old men running the show are blind to the needs and emotions of the young living creatures they’re playing with.  When death comes into play – and love – it irrevocably changes the field in a way that they can’t understand.  Try to imagine it as though the pieces on the chessboard were all animate, alive.  That they all had stories of their own – and that when you took your opponent’s pawn, friends on both sides of the board would get upset.

The characters, though, are secondary to some extent: it all comes back to the circus.  My god, the circus.  I want to walk about in all black and white with a red scarf in the hopes that someone will say to me “are you…” and I will simply smile and we’ll discuss the adventures we’ve both had at the circus.  Because, again like a punchdrunk performance, you are irrevocably changed when you leave.  Some people hate it and that is that, nothing to be done.  But you’ll always know a punchdrunk fan, perhaps by the mask they have hanging on their wall or the way a certain song will make their ears prick up.  Hell, the prelude from Vertigo is included on Doubleday’s absolutely fucking brilliant Spotify playlist (if you have Spotify, check it out here) and it made me flash back to wandering about the McKittrick even as I read about wandering through the circus.  Layers upon layers….

Rating: 5+ out of 5.  You may ask why I don’t give it a 6.  It’s hard to explain – I don’t entirely know, to be honest.  But what I do know is this: as I finished the novel (to the sounds of Florence Welch belting out a story of cosmic love and the creeping strains of an ambient Moby track), I didn’t want to let it go.  I didn’t want to close the book because I didn’t want to leave that world.  There’s a difference between this type of story and the stories that become 6s, I suppose.  These books are perhaps more important than those, even if the impact is hypothetically less.  See, the impact of these novels cannot be measured in the same way.  A novel like Goon Squad hit me because it was time and place and meaning all wrapped up into a single cherishable moment that I can forever call upon.  Whereas this book exists outside of time, outside of moment, outside of place.  The only thing that exists concretely is the meaning.  The magic.  The sheer knock-you-down, take-your-breath-away, was-it-a-dream-and-can-I-go-back wonder of it.  And this book… this book has it in spades.  It is a remarkable debut – even moreso because it would be remarkable for anyone’s book at any time.  It is magic.  Seek it out with all speed – you won’t regret it.

The Review: Before I begin, I must address a few interesting coincidences about the circumstances behind my finally reading/finishing this novel.  Firstly, the last book I read (Last Man in Tower - read it) was also about a block of flats.  It was a different story, of course – but we still got to know the residents of each apartment and how they interacted with each other and their lives were all woven together as a supporting tapestry around the main story.  This book does not have a main story, I’d argue (the closest it gets is Bartlebooth’s or perhaps Valene’s concept), but the general structure is similar: we get to know the residents of each apartment.

Secondly, I just saw an Under The Radar 2012 show by a collective called Gob Squad entitled “Super Night Shot” (also: see it).  Four members of the group rush onto the street an hour before the show and shoot a film which is then mixed live in front of the audience.  For various reasons, I happened to be inside the theater already for the final moment of the film (for me, it was the first moment of the show, I suppose – talk about meta…), where Bastian said something like (I wish I remembered the exact quote!): “without the banal, nothing would be incredible.”  So it’s interesting that I’ve spent my morning looking at so much banality that was, up to this point, annoying the hell out of me.

Full disclosure: had this book not been for BookClub, I may well’ve stopped reading it.  It bothered me to almost the same extent as Tristram Shandy - I simply did not care to keep reading it.  I felt, with each page, that I was mostly wasting my time.  I could’ve been reading something that was, put simply, more interesting.  I’m not one who necessarily needs a gripping plot – quite often, well-written stories without much plot are just as engaging as ones loaded with twists and turns (see: Richard Nelson’s Apple Family plays).  The problem is, there was no plot here.  In fact, I’ve been debating with myself about whether this can properly be considered a novel.  It is certainly fiction but I’m almost more willing to call it a fictional biography.  A fictional journalistic exercise.  It is not, to my mind, a novel – because there is no driving action.  This gets me into hot water though because some of the more experimental novels I’ve read in my time are just that: novels.  This, despite not having an obvious plot or anything like that.  Still, I’m pretty sure that I can now say I’m not a fan of experimental fiction, seeing as my previous attempts (read all about them here, here, here, and here) have all met with – at the very best – detached admiration and mostly quiet bewilderment… or even outright loathing.

But there’s a redeeming feature to this novel and that is, interestingly enough, the writing.  Perec is obviously an excellent writer and this is a masterful translation.  Some of the individual stories are fantastic.  Were they to be taken without this strange self-imposed framework, they would make an excellent short-story novel.  And yet… this framework.  From the preamble and from what I’ve read about the book, it’s clear that Perec wanted to create a sort of literary jigsaw puzzle in which the pieces slowly but surely came together and despite wrong turns or incorrect assumptions, you’d eventually see the whole picture revealed.  And in the last chapter, as he describes everything that you’ve seen in a succinct dozen or so paragraphs, you do see the whole picture: it is this marvelous apartment block and all of the lives going on in that specific moment.  But the problem is, I never felt like I was actually engaged in solving a puzzle.  I never felt like the pieces meant anything.  This is mostly because I didn’t care about a single character.  Despite all of the background given, none of them were all that engaging to me on anything more than a superfluous level.

This may have to do with the obsessive listing of every fucking thing that appears in any room in any of these apartments.  My god, I will never look at any list the same way ever again.  I would conservatively estimate that a full quarter of this book’s page count is given over to lists.  Of objects. Or descriptions of said objects.  There is nothing more alienating to a reader than flipping the page to simply see item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, item, etc.  That was the moment where the book turned from a somewhat annoying experience to a truly aggravating one.  I found myself skimming the lists… and then starting to skim stories that I didn’t find interesting.  It became rather like reading a magazine instead of a book: I might start a story (an article) and, finding that it didn’t interest me, skim the rest and move onto the next one.  I do not feel as though I missed anything, though!  I should feel as though I’ve done a bad thing and not given the book my full attention.  But I don’t – because it did not deserve my full attention, it deserved the minimal amount of my attention.  ”Does that adequately answer your condescending question?” is not quite the level of vitriol I built up for the book – I did, in fact, enjoy many moments… but mostly I felt like my time was wasted.

Rating: 2 out of 5.  This is the tough part.  The writing is so wonderful that when it worked for me, it really worked.  The story of the burgling aristos, the story of Bartlebooth, the story of the man who hunted down his baby’s nursemaid and accidental murderer… those stories (and others) were terrific.  I loved them.  But then, this marvelous tool of literary creation is turned to acts of unspeakable banality, which only annoyed me.  And while I know that I can only acknowledge the incredible because of the banal… I don’t read to experience the banal.  I read to escape it.  I read to escape ‘reality’ or, in the case of non-fiction, to better educate myself about it by exposure to something Important.  I do not read to experience the average mundanities.  I lead a relatively exciting life and I still have my fill of the mundane.  I would much rather my books provide my imagination some stimulation – this book saw my imagination sprint off in the other direction.

So as the year rapidly winds down and I find myself engrossed in the newest BookClub book/year-end festivities, I’ll be doing some aesthetic tweaks to the blog.  New theme (thoughts?) and adding a recommendations section (which, I know, I promised two months ago) – stuff like that.

Most importantly, I wanted to wish all of you a very happy end of year and the very best for the year to come!

Yours in literature,
Drew

The Review: I read The White Tiger a few years ago with apprehension – it had won the Booker Prize by that time but it also seemed to be riding the wave of Slumdog Millionaire obsession with India.  I wasn’t sure if it was timing & hype that got the book recognized or if it was actually a worthwhile read.  I can’t honestly remember much of the book at this remove – but I found it interesting enough that I devoured Adiga’s collection of short stories, Between the Assassinations, shortly thereafter.  What I most distinctly remember is a feeling of learning when I was reading those books.  I do not know a damn thing about India.  Most of what I know is political in nature, involving the conflicts with Pakistan and the leadership struggles they’ve had (see: the titular assassinations of Adiga’s collection).  But culturally, I’m as ignorant as anyone else who saw Slumdog Millionaire and found themselves intrigued.

So I look at Mr. Adiga’s work with the eye of someone culturally, anthropologically, interested.  It is, in many ways, much like one might look at Dickens’ work: capturing a time and place removed from our own in such a way that you come to learn from it – not just about the society but about the basics of human nature, too.  I believe that Mr. Adiga is on his way to becoming a modern-day Dickens for India – and that this can only be a good thing, especially when the books are as excellent as his current offerings have been.

I admit, I feel a bit lost at times when reading his work (I just flipped back through The White Tiger and noticed moments of similarly confusing cultural references) – but that’s because I simply have zero cultural basis to go on.  I’m at the mercy of my mind’s eye – which is unquestionably Western – and of Adiga’s writing.  So when he says that something is pucca, I either have to look it up… or go off of context.  Being a stubborn reader, I tend not to break the flow – and so I had to go off of context.  And that, I find, is a double-edged sword.  I created my own idea of pucca throughout the reading and while it was pretty spot-on regarding the actual translation of the word, it’s still colored by the experience of reading this particular book and these stories.  I’m learning from one source.   This is better than learning from none, but still dangerous, you know?

Anyway, the story itself is what’s most important here: even if you aren’t interested at all in India, the nuanced creation of such a diverse cast of characters, all of whom are neither good nor bad but simply human… it’s impressive to say the least.  I read a review saying that Dickens created heroes and villains while Adiga creates far more ambiguous characters – and that’s a valid argument.  None of these characters are particularly Good or Bad but some shading in-between.  Even Masterji is not wholly good: you can’t understand, after a certain point, why he doesn’t give in and take the money.  Sure, there’s something noble in his fight – but nobleness in the face of ridiculous odds is not noble but simply stupid.  Similarly, you understand why his neighbors all begin to change their opinions and why they do what they do.   The conclusion is not justified – but it was also the inevitable end, from moment one.  There was no other way to end this story and that right there tells you something very specific about humanity: across borders, boundaries, cultures, languages, across everything, human beings will inherently act the same.  It is predictable.  It is terrible.  It is greedy.  It is self-interested.  And in the end, none of us are immune to that – even the saints.  There’s an interesting juxtaposition of Gandhi’s birthday and the death of a dog in the street – where men leap out of their homes and cars to chase after the man who ran down a stray – and the shocking violence perpetrated less than 100 hours later.  We look up to men like Gandhi but only when it is convenient. Only on his birthday.  Only when it doesn’t hurt our self-interest.

And that’s what Shah is all about: self-interest.  He and Masterji are mirror-images, in a way: both dying of something that neither of them want to address, both fighting for what they believe in, one arguably Good and the other arguably Bad but with that mirrored aspect that makes both of them like brothers instead of true opposites.  I can safely say that I liked Masterji more than I liked Shah… but I can also say that I probably would’ve been one of the people pressuring Masterji to take the buy-out.  I’m not sure that I would’ve gone through with the ending – but like Ibby, I might’ve tried to stop the event and then ended up being one of the main perpetrators.  Who is to say?  Humanity’s capacity for self-deception and for evil in the name of Self-Interest is limitless.

The plot itself is, yes, predictable – and it does take a little while to get going, as Adiga introduces us to each of the various characters we’ll come to see across the tale – but that doesn’t change its power or potency.  We’re onboard with the story because it makes sense to us, although we (being the West) might not see so much of it in the same way.  And yet every time we see a major corporation buy up some historic building and smash it down to make way for a new high rise or Walmart, we’re simply seeing the Western side of this story.  When Masterji wonders what the sense of building two new high-rise buildings in a place where there is already a massive water shortage, you have to stop and wonder too.  It’s about progress and what exactly progress should mean.  You might have a shiny new building – but if the roads are shit and the pipes don’t carry water to and sewage from your building, who will want to be there?  But we want what’s shiny and that’s what Masterji is fighting against: the encroachment of the modern “now now now” on the last bits of tradition he can cling to.

Rating: 5+ out of 5.  I think that Aravind Adiga is one of the most important authors writing today.  He’s a crucial voice providing that all-too-rare “cultural diversity” in mainstream publishing and, not only that, he does it with style.  It is a shame and a disgrace that the New York Times has yet to review this book, especially considering the pedigree.  The Dickens of India is here to stay, whether we (being the West) are reading him or not.  None of us have the time to learn everything about the rest of the world – we all know it and that’s a sad fact but it’s a true one.  But when an author like this appears on the scene and shows us that the entire world, no matter how different, is made up of the same thing – fallible human beings – we really ought to take note and listen.  You might not even notice you’re learning; it’s that good of a book.

The Short Version:

The Review: I’ve been wary of this play for some time – but also very intrigued by it.  After all, if there was ever a play of Shakespeare’s that cried out for a sequel, it was Macbeth. Arguably Love’s Labour’s Lost too but that’s another story.  Anyway, the immediate plot of The Scottish is wrapped up rather neatly… but there are larger-reaching plots that Shakespeare leaves hanging, which is something he doesn’t really do in most of his plays that don’t have follow-ups.

Still, writing a Shakespeare play is tough work and often leads to infuriating results.  And did I mention that The Scottish is probably my favorite of The Bard’s work?  So yeah, I had the lowest of hopes going into this.

I’m pleased to say that it isn’t a total disaster.  In fact, it isn’t even half-disaster.  I’d argue that it’s more than half good, in fact.  There are echoes of Shakespeare’s other works – some annoying, like lines or scenes stolen from other plays (sometimes wholesale), but most fitting with the way that all of his works seem to lightly connect to each other.  And the plot is a humdinger, although it gets a little too convoluted without any redeeming features towards the end.  Still, the idea of the Macbeth-child continues to fascinate (see: Dunsinane, that RSC show from a few years ago.  Need to read that…) and watching Malcolm’s fall is an interesting one.  I personally subscribe to the secret-evil Malcolm, which doesn’t fit with this play, so I couldn’t entirely get onboard with this woefully ignorant one – but that’s a personal issue.

The real problem with the play lies not in the winking homages to the original play or to the other major works of the canon but to the resolution to the plot.  Malcolm marries the Macbeth-child, a daughter.  This is all good and fine – but within a day he goes from believing her totally pious to believing her a traitorous wench?  Donalbain slain in the first act for no real reason?  Macduff stabbed by Malcolm because he was jealous that he might’ve been schtupping the aforementioned wife?  Come on.  That’s not Shakespeare, that’s just lazy plotting.  Give me a bit more intrigue.  Earn the tension in the same way that Shakespeare himself does it – although therein lies the problem: no one is Shakespeare except Shakespeare.   Suck it, anti-Stratfordians.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5.  An interesting and modestly successful exercise.  It isn’t Shakespeare but it’s a passable full play in blank verse, echoing and growing from the original text.  There are whole scenes that could be excised – and should this play receive a full production, I would hope that directors would treat it like a Shakespeare play and allow themselves to cut, slice, transpose, etc.  Because some of the scenes with the crowds and what-not are wildly unnecessary.  But the idea of the play itself is a strong one – and anyone who is a fan of The Scottish ought to at least check this out.  It isn’t the way I’d write the story, but I don’t mind it being written this way.

The Short Version:

The Review: I’ve been a fan of Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s hitRECord since it started a few years ago.  I was concerned at first and didn’t get on-board with any of my own material because I was a) too busy at the time and b) a little leery of it actually working.  Despite my raised eyebrow, however, it has turned into an ever-expanding repository of amazing artwork (stories, songs, pictures, paintings, etc) by ordinary-people-artists.  Sure, there are famous people on there (hi, RegularJOE) but there are a whole lot of people who just like to make art or tell stories or are otherwise creatively inclined.  This book, along with a few records and other compendiums, represents the first true foray into putting that work out there for mass consumption (that is, in a published and money-making way as opposed to just leaving it on the hitRECord site) – and I’m so happy to see it done so well.

The book itself is tiny – pocket-sized is generous in describing its proportions.  But it has a beautiful red clothbound cover with a gorgeous illustration and an appropriately classy type-face.  Indeed, the type-face is one of my favorite things about the book.  I enjoy things like that, so take my comments with a grain of salt – but it’s a vaguely Edward Gorey-esque font (those who are familiar with his work will no doubt know what I’m talking about) and that suits my sensibilities quite well.

The stories themselves are delightful.  They’re all tiny but in that very engaging way – sort of like that whole “six-word story” trend but a little more interesting.  Sure, Hemingway could do a six-word story… but I’ve never fully subscribed to his “less is more” aesthetic.  One of my favorites was actually one of the images included in the press pack, so I include it here:

It’s a great mix of illustration and story, creating atmosphere that will allow you to sort of float in it for a while instead of just feeling like you’re onto the next one.  Some of the stories hit me as perfect song lyrics (in fact, I’ll be reaching out to those authors to mention exactly that and we’ll see what comes out of my next band writing session), some of them as perfect story starters, some of them as perfect picture inspirations… and all of them as perfect stories.

Rating: 5+ out of 5.  This sort of collection can go so wrong and yet this goes so right.  It’s a perfect little collection, full of wonder and lovely.  I look forward to next year’s collection and I’ll be keeping this on my desk as a reminder to write and create every day.  Maybe I’ll even start submitting to the site again.  To be amongst this crowd would be an incredible honor.  Keep it up, you writers and drawers and creators!

PS here’s a youtube video from JGL talking about the book: http://www.hitrecord.org/store/tinystories