My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This is an odd book which is kind of a stream of consciousness rant about the ways in which an artist struggles with what the author calls “Resistance.” That in itself is not odd, there are many books on ‘the writer’s journey’ but this one reads as though it has been written by someone who is on, then off his lithium (or cocaine, whatever the cause may be.) The whole thing is a rant, sometimes it’s an enthusiastic, insightful rant and sometimes it’s just a manic bitch rant (people who are sick, or who put attending the birth of their child above their art are simply giving in to resistance) and sometimes it’s just straight out spiritual/religious mish-mash-whackadoo (and I put ‘mystic agnosticism’ on the census as my religion, so I can handle a high level of spiritual mish-mash.)

The best way to approach this book is probably to think of it as an editorial – it’s just a guy with a bunch of opinions about why a true artist takes his art seriously. If you’re pining for someone to tell you that it’s okay to ignore the world, your loved ones etc… while you work, then this is the book for you (personally, though I don’t know what on earth you’re going to write about if you avoid the world as completely as he seems to suggest.) The other warning about the book is not to expect anything on how to actually achieve this resistance to Resistance. Yes, he mentions over and again, sitting down to it every day but that’s hardly new advice though the angels and God and muses just arriving is not something I’ve heard expressed in quite that way before.

As I said. Odd.

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My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This book is a beautifully detailed portrait of a young love and marriage, corrupted by both the selfishness of a man and his mistress but also by every person, including his wife, who felt that somehow his genius, his work meant that different rules applied. As “bohemian” as those in Paris were attempting to be, Hemingway and Hadley made very traditional, formal vows and, thus, he should have been held to them. In fact, in not holding him to adult standards, they ignored a man in great need of help and they share in responsibility for his suffering and his suicide.

The Paris Wife is, of course, also the story of the beginning of a second marriage and the picture that McLain draws of Pauline, from Hadley’s point of view is brilliant. Pauline is one of those limpet-women, who insinuate themselves into the company of the men to whom they wish to attach themselves, so that by the time they have their suckers in, it is she who appears to be the victim if anybody suggests she does not belong. Perhaps women like that might read a novel like this and, assuming they even see themselves in Pauline, experience a little of what they do to the women upon whose men they set their sights.

Lastly, I’d like to comment upon the declarations by many in the book, even Hadley, that “his work” was worth all the suffering he experienced and caused. Such sentiments are understandable, but I hope that they are not serious and rather an attempt to alleviate the guilt and helplessness of not being able to know what was wrong and to help him. Being bi-polar myself, when I hear “it was all worth it because he was a writer of a generation” I hear only cruel romanticism and a total lack of understanding.

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My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Despite the cover, this book is not for sex-tourists, it will be useful for anyone who wants a quick run-down on how not to offend Thai’s or get into trouble, but also provides a positive, enthusiastic attitude toward living, and relaxing, in Thailand. I read it while in Bangkok and found myself remembering and applying bits and pieces immediately, sometimes checking first with my Thai companions and finding that it was the right way to go. For the price, I’d definitely recommend it but perhaps hide the cover…

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My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I read this book immediately after being disappointed by It was the Best of Sentences, It was the Worst of Sentences, so I may have been primed to have an overly enthusiastic reaction to a book which offered such a different take on the subject. To me, Fish’s book was more like a philosophical work on how to approach sentences than a “how-to” book and (apologies if Fish is riffing on a philosophy espoused by others, this being my first exposure to it) I think Fish is really on to something.

As in any book on ‘the sentence,’ Fish parses sentences but he eschews the traditional literary terms, the parts of speech etc., and, instead, approaches the sentence as “a structure of logical relationships.” What does this mean? Well, as I understood it, it means that, rather than analysing the sentence for the parts of speech and labelling those parts and checking them against a table of what is and isn’t allowed (the traditional method,) Fish divides the sentence into logical segments and analyses each part, how each part relates to, and changes, the other parts and what meaning, as a whole, the words in the sentence actually communicate. The ‘logical’ segments I spoke of require only that you are fluent in the language the sentence is written in, you don’t need to have studied literature, nor know how to label all the parts of speech, to learn how to analyse a sentence for quality.

In short, where traditional methods focus on labelling and rules, Fish’s method concentrates on the relationships between words and their effect upon each other and the reader (the content communicated.) Fish’s method consistently reminded me of learning a new language; We can learn the rules and exceptions by rote, but we are far more likely to become fluent using an immersion approach – this is what Fish does with sentences.

Fish analyses many different types of sentences for us, by way of showing us how to do it ourselves, and we may not all agree with the sentences he chooses, but this is beside the point, they are simply samples used to show a method. Still, if we want him to tackle a favourite sentence, Fish asks that we email him (thus, bad ratings of the book based upon which sentences he chose are not only missing the point but betraying that they didn’t read to Fish’s request for alternatives.) Fish gives the reader no sense of “there, now you know everything you will ever need to know about sentences” at the end of this book, rather, he sends us on our way having provided us the tools required to spend our lives learning and improving our writing, or reading.

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My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Labyrinth, the story and the will-she-work-it-out-before-someone-else-dies tension kept me turning the pages. I was forced to put this book down after about 150pages to read other books, for book clubs, and was eager to return to it – when I did I wasn’t disappointed.

It did worry me that Labyrinth is “another” secret-of-the-grail story, but there’s no ‘chosen one’ who is greater than everyone through sheer birth (so far, it is a trilogy) and the incorporation of the beliefs of the Cathars is special – I won’t say unique, because I haven’t read a lot of grail books. The structure is spot on and leads you through France of two different eras, then leaves you hanging at just the right moments. The writing is certainly a cut above much popular fiction I’ve read, though it could have used an edit pass for cliches, with which the description is peppered. Nevertheless, I didn’t care about the cliches because I just wanted to know what happened next. Thoroughly recommended!

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My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I’m giving this book 1 star because I simply could not push my way through it. A loved one asked me to read it, so I wanted to give it a decent chance but 33% was all the exposition I could handle. This is my first attempt at a Hobb novel, so I don’t know if she always writes in first person but I’m baffled as to why she chose that narrative perspective for this story set in a land with a grand, epic history. There is so much historical information that the author feels is necessary for us to know before we get into the story proper, that the result is a sense of one step forward, seven steps back. Each “I recall” begets another, whether it be the recollection of the POV character himself, or in blocks of dialogue as another character instructs the POV character. This, basically structural, issue is a great pity because there was a hint that the magic in this novel would be something more interesting than the magic of the “not-quite-humans-beyond-the-kingdom/s” usually is, but that possibility wasn’t enough to keep me reading.

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An interesting idea which the author, unfortunately, simply does not pull off. The internal logic is flawed, as is the logic of his (straw man) detective character. The author’s presentation of philosophy and logic, as well as Plato’s theory of the forms (which he insists on calling ‘the existence of Ideas”) are simplistic, and will annoy anyone who has studied it in any depth, at least as much as the liberties his translator claims are his right to take with the text, will annoy real translators. But none of that is what made it so haaaard for me to force myself through this book (it’s for a book club, so I had to.)

I found it impossible to become in any way absorbed in the story because Somoza constantly distracts the reader with the two parts of the project, which appear to be most interesting/important to him and, which the critics are loving: the translator commenting on the piece (don’t worry, I’m going to avoid spoilers, despite my rating) and the fictional literary device ‘eidesis.’ I’m sure plenty of people will say that this distraction was a deliberate part of the metafiction or, at least, that literary books aren’t supposed to flow, they are supposed to make the reader work. I accept neither of those objections; It is clear in the latter parts of the book that we are supposed to be absorbed, or at least care about these characters (in the main text and footnotes) and I’m afraid I was never given the chance to connect with them, because of these two devices.

First, the eidesis, which at one point is described as ‘subtle’ but is the opposite. The repeated imagery (it’s no spoiler to define “eidesis”) stands out incongruously from page 1 so that a) it just reads like bad writing and then b) once we know what it is, it still jumps out as bad writing but now we’re thinking, “alright already we get the image” and THEN we have to put up with the translator popping in to exclaim about the eidesis he has so cleverly discovered. Which brings me nicely to my second point.

Second, the translator. Any time I had managed to get past the writing (the eidesis wasn’t the only problem,) and just when I was starting to become absorbed in the main story, the translator would appear with his thoughts on the matter. That would be fine if I wanted to know what the translator thought but, unfortunately, he is not only unnamed but un-introduced and simply forces himself upon us. I quickly began thinking of him as “the interrupter” and it stuck. What’s worse, until fairly late in the piece, his comments are rarely anything that isn’t painfully obvious to the reader, already; in fact, on page 263 the translator comes up with a ‘revelation’ that I had wondered about on page 33 – now, an author has every right to reveal their story as they want but being 230 pages behind the reader suggests a need to credit their readers with a touch more intellect.

The sad thing about this book (without giving spoilers) is that there actually is no need for ‘eidesis’ to be invented to achieve what the author (fictional and real world) is attempting to achieve with it and so the language need not have been burdened by it. I know that might sound absurd to those who have read it, but it’s actually not needed – I’m sure plenty of others will have seen what I’m referring to, as obliquely as I can, I don’t think it takes a degree in Philosophy (though it will help!)

The saddest thing about the book, for me, is the portrayal of Plato’s theory of forms as some life-quashing philosophy, because it’s exactly the opposite – but that can be forgiven, after all, it is hard to see it from inside the cave.

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A friend recommended these books (by way of bringing all but book 1 and putting them on my table) and I tried to read them but I found I just couldn’t get into the writing. I felt I should give it a go, though and, seeing James Marsters’ name on the audio version, I was curious to see if he could narrate – and he can. For the story itself I’d have given it 2 stars – it was okay, not exactly original but it does what a noir urban fantasy should do – but listening to it on audio made a huge difference. First person narratives become basically all dialogue and so are very much like a radio play and that suited the noir genre well.

Marsters brought all the characters to life (there is a distinct Jeremy Irons tone to Bob’s voice) and, except for a bad case of ‘tag lag’ (in which the tone of the dialogue is continued into the dialogue tag – a particular sin in first person) the performance hits all the right notes. The production, though, is pretty sloppy. I’m afraid there are many, many bad cuts (mismatched sound, badly timed) and for much of the first half, the microphone was placed so that every breath masters took through his nose was a hurricane. It does clean up toward the, though, and it’s only a slight annoyance.

Overall, I enjoyed it more than I expected to and have discovered that, though I don’t much like reading noir (or any first person narrative, these days) I quite enjoy listening to it.

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My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I enjoyed Akinari’s Tales of Moonlight and Rain – eventually. Unfortunately, the translator’s introduction is long and gives the impression that one simply will not possibly be able to understand or enjoy the tales unless one is a scholar of Japanese history and literature – if that’s not bad enough, the intro also contains spoilers! This is a great shame because, while of course one will get more out of them if one has read the same texts as the author and has in mind the same history as readers of the day, they are perfectly accessible stories which can be enjoyed for their own sake.

If I may be so bold, I’d like to suggest a different order in which to read this book.

1)skip the book introduction and the introduction to each tale and go straight to the tales themselves (marked by a dark moon and a large, illustrated first letter) and read them for pure enjoyment, first. The footnotes that the translator supplies relate to notes at the end of each tale (not the notes at the bottom of the pages which are essentially language notes) and they provide plenty of information, if not a little too much, for pure enjoyment.

2)AFTER you have read each tale, read the translator’s introduction to each one, they will give you historical notes etc… which will shed a little more light on what you’ve just read but will also make more sense to you after you’ve read the tale, and you’ll also avoid spoilers.

3)After THAT, if you want to know more about the author and the place of the Tales in Japanese literature, read the introduction and the bibliography and throw yourself into an academic frenzy!

If you do enjoy the tales, then look for the works of Lafcadio Hearn

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Utterly engrossing, and filled with information we should all know to combat all of the disinformation about Genghis Khan and the Mongolian Empire which still passes for common knowledge. I honestly believe that this book should be a standard text for all high school students, everywhere (at least, in my world where history is required to the end of high school, since it probably requires a 10th or 11th grade reading level.)

My edition was the audiobook and I must say that Davis was truly wonderful (and that’s a professional opinion!) His pacing was perfect and never once, during the 14 odd hours, did he sound as though he was anything but fascinated, which is essential for the listeners’ comprehension. There was the occasional strange edit or technical hiccough but only one or two that a layman would have noticed. All in all a wonderful production so kudos to author, narrator and producer/director!

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My rating: 3 of 5 stars

First let me say that I enjoyed this book well enough and was, again and again, willing to forgive technical issues that leapt off the page because, yes, Zafon has a lovely turn of phrase and, yes, the opening of the book is utterly enchanting and, yes, the mystery of who Carax is pulled me in and kept me reading. But I honestly wonder if the effusive critics only read the first half because, for me, it finally fell apart about two thirds of the way through – and, frankly, I could see it coming because it was a structural mess from the start.

The book is written in the first person, which is often fine for mysteries but, unfortunately, the protagonist is not a policeman, nor a private eye, nor even old enough to do much investigation beyond finding people who will tell him things – at length, in narrative, and often including information they, themselves could not possibly have had access to, particularly in such detail. About a third of the way through, Zafon gives up the lengthy dialogue and just launches into our protagonist telling us what he’d been told but, again, at length, in narrative, and often including information they, themselves could not possibly have had access to, particularly in such detail. Eventually, he gives up even the pretence of trying to stick to his chosen narrative perspective and we get a 90 page manuscript from another character, which is also in first person, except when it’s not, and which contains in it so much of what we already knew that I wondered if this had been the authors original treatment for the story and, lost for a way to work in the small amount of crucial new information, he’d decided to shove the whole thing in.

I know this is not only a mystery story, and I did enjoy the stories framing it – particularly that of Fermin, and the political aspects – but the mystery was the heart of it and the way it was presented just smacked of an author without the tools to structure it properly – perhaps he hasn’t read enough non-literary, mystery books. In fact, a lack of exposure to popular media may also explain why, when the ‘big revelation’ comes (don’t worry, no spoilers) it is such a disappointment – I had thrice picked it but dismissed it as being the plot of a daytime soap opera, not an acclaimed literary novel.

Overall, it’s a nice read, especially at the beginning, but a good structural editor might have helped to make it the great book everyone seems to say it is – but don’t mind me, I’m just one of those people that thinks there’s more to good writing than a lovely turn of phrase and an enchanting idea.

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This is the first of, no doubt, many books that I will read on bipolar disorder, so I can’t compare it to others but I enjoyed this one very much. WTTJ is by no means a memoir, it is an expository piece, but it is written in a chatty style, easily and quickly read, and nevertheless makes it clear that the author is ‘one of us’ (oops am I identifying too much lol) rather than some doctor presenting information from on high (which, if you think about it, might actually make him ‘one of us’ – if he believes it of himself…) My point is that I appreciated the insights into the author’s own altered state experiences and the irreverence with which she approached the whole issue; I’m sure some who are not bipolar might think she perhaps should have cut the odd odd sentence or paragraph out for fear it may stimulate someone the wrong way but each of those sentences was both an inside joke and an example of the approach she champions in this book – to hold the diagnosis lightly.
I am least ten years older than the target audience, and I don’t live in the States so some of the information did not apply but plenty of it did and so I will do as Hilary invites us to as she closes the book: “Take what you like from this book and leave the rest… Live large. Think big. Go for walks.”

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My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Full of interesting information, this audio book makes for a good introduction to Japanese religions and spirituality. I was looking forward to hearing Kingsley narrate but, for some reason, he adopts a tone right out of a British war-time newsreel which, while amusing, highlights when the script occasionally oversimplifies topics (carefully explaining them in “Western” terms,) and the piece slips into the patronizing. Nevertheless, the information is clearly presented, aided by voices other than just “newsreel Ben” for quotes from other scholars etc…

A small warning for those who are not used to listening to Japanese speaking with a heavy “Katakana English” accent – a few of the Japanese readers might be a little difficult to understand.

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I’ve meant to address this question for some time because it is a logical question to ask when someone tells you that they are an audio book producer (“director” in US parlance).  For those who are interested, I’ve popped a new page up on my website: Dani’s Audio Books , where you will find the answer as well as I can give it (okay, so maybe there is a shorter answer, but I don’t think “Lots” really cuts it) and gives you links to a few of my favourite, internationally available titles, including my all time favourite, Saving Francesca, by Melina Marchetta and read by Rebecca Macaulay.

"I have a thing for second hand bookshops which specialize mostly in non-fiction or old textbooks (there’s something brash and low self-esteem about second hand fiction, their titles somehow always seem to have turned into huge, slutty pink-foil letters!) The good ones have the musty-sweet scent of old paper and have no cafe, and no music, just floor to ceiling books with conveniently placed ladders.

My two favourite stores in Melbourne (Australia) were Dr. Syntax in Commercial Rd, South Yarra and what is now boringly called the Queenscliff branch of “Barwon Booksellers” in the old bluestone Wesleyan church in the main street of Queenscliff. I say “were’ because one lunchtime – god, a decade ago? – I headed down to Dr. Syntax to finally purchase the complete John Donne in pretty blue leather and the 1930s textbook on Australian Aboriginals and two other texts from the 50s, that I’d had my eye on for some time (I love old anthropology textbooks as a sometimes eye-opening, often hysterical history of the ignorance and arrogance of the ruling elite) to find it had gone out of business.  I was devastated, and felt fairly guilty for not having just bought the books in the previous weeks (my $120 surely would have kept them going!)

Some weeks later, on holiday in Queenscliff (a beach town around the bay from Melbourne) I wandered into the ex-church-bookshop and was browsing when I spotted a familiar little book with pretty blue leather binding. I snatched it up and, sure enough, it was my Donne – with the Dr. Syntax price still in pencil in the front flap!
I raced to the counter and breathlessly asked if they’d purchased the Syntax stock – they had! I found all four books that day and left with the odd feeling that I’d discovered that some lost friends had found themselves a good home."

The following picture was taken in on Sea Shipment Day, 2008, 6 weeks after we arrived in Japan – many of the books pictured were purchased at Doc’s