I'm afraid I have never been able to summon up much interest in Middle Eastern politics. Remiss of me, I know, but that's the way it is. And, lest you think that this is going to be a book review, let me hasten to say that I have not read Obadiah Shoher's Samson Blinded; so this post is going to be a discussion of the book's publication history and reception rather than its contents as read and considered by me.
The author, by the way, is pseudonymous. He is said to be a veteran Israeli politician who dealt with security issues for most of his career. The subtitle of his book is A Machiavellian Perspective on the Middle East Conflict, and it is said that the book 'dissects honestly the problems accumulated since the Jews returned to Palestine. Espousing political rationalism, it deplores both Jewish and Muslim myths, and argues for efficiency and separating politics from moralism.'
I heard about this book via an email from someone acting as the book's publicist. He tells me that Google and Yahoo have already banned the web site for this book from their ad programs because of 'unacceptable content'. Well, if you want to consider whether this decision is sensible or not, you can go to what I presume is the web site in question and take a look for yourself. You can also download the whole book.
There are a couple of things that interest me here. The first is that the Samson Blinded is published by Booksurge. Now Booksurge is a division of Amazon, and it offers various services to authors and publishers, the chief of which are publishing and distribution facilities. In that they are not unlike a dozen others, providing a route to market for anyone with a completed ms and a few dollars to spare, but they would be, one hopes, more efficient than some. In any event, they do not seem (so far) to have been bothered about publishing a book which is proving to be controversial and which is getting a somewhat mixed reception.
The book is available through the UK branch of Amazon, but you will learn a great deal more if you go to the relevant page on Amazon.com. There you will find a statement from the author, and nearly 20 reviews which range all the way from condemnation to warm support; you will find the occasional mouth-frother among them, but most of the reviews I would classify as considered and thoughtful.
So, it seems that it is perfectly possible to publish a controversial book through Booksurge, set up a web site, and generate a fair amount of discussion of same, without spending more than -- what, a thousand dollars? Let no one say that this is not the age of opportunity. Which is important, given that the big publishers are becoming increasingly wary (or so it seems to me) of publishing anything which might land them in hot water.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Tao Lin reviews Noah Cicero
Tao Lin, the Reader of Depressing Books, has reviewed Noah Cicero's The Human War. Well, we have come across Tao Lin before, and, whatever else, ya gotta admit that he does different. As they say in Norfolk.
Inventing doesn't mean borrowing
Yesterday I suggested that fiction writers should invent everything, and should certainly not indulge in thinly disguised autobiography. For several reasons. First, in this litigious era, it is highly dangerous. Second, it's unnecessary, because making stuff up really isn't very difficult. Third, it's lazy. Fourth, it's demeaning.
And so on. And, at the risk of labouring the point, I suppose it's worth adding that you shouldn't borrow stuff from other people.
True, we have all seen films, for example, in which certain scenes are obviously influenced by, if not exact copies of, scenes in other classic or commercially successful films. And you may be forgiven for riposting that the plot of every romance or whodunit is essentially the same as the plot of every other romance or whodunit. Nevertheless, don't borrow is a good rule.
I am prompted to make this point by the emergence of yet another little 'scandal' in the publishing world. The Book Standard has the story. Seems that a Kirkus reviewer was looking at a new children's book by publisher/author Harriet Ziefert and noticed (terrific memory here) that it had more than a passing resemblance to a book published by Judi Barrett in 1983. When this was drawn to Ziefert's attention, she decided to withdraw her book.
In response to the Book Standard's enquiries, Ziefert said that she had 'no recollection of ever seeing Ms. Barrett’s book—though it would be foolish of me not to consider the possibility that I might have seen it decades ago and that its structure and some of its language imprinted themselves somewhere on my subconscious.'
I do not pretend to know anything whatever about this case, which may range all the way from honest mistake to deliberate theft. However, I do have some sympathy with those who are accused of plagiarism.
In my youth -- yes, I confess it now -- I did on at least one occasion borrow the ending of one of my efforts from someone else. And although I don't think it would have been punishable at law, I still remember the occasion with some embarrassment. T'ain't a nice thing to do. And I am also tolerably certain (although I have no personal experience of it) that one's memory can play tricks. It is perfectly possible, I think, for someone to produce an 'original' line or story, only to realise, when it's pointed out, that the line/story is not original at all.
I was about to write here about a case that I remembered from forty-odd years ago, involving the poet Hugh MacDiarmid. The story, as I remembered it, was that MacDiarmid was accused, in the columns of the Times Literary Supplement, of producing 'poetry' which was actually lifted from other documents. My memory was that he defended himself against the charge rather convincingly.
However -- and this may be a case where my memory has misled me! -- now that I come to look him up on the interweb, I see that, in the course of time, MacDiarmid seems not only to have admitted plagiarism but gloried in it. 'The greater the plagiarism the greater the work of art,' he is quoted as saying. Hmm. Well, that rather spoils my point, but it's interesting.
Also interesting is the Wikipedia article on plagiarism, though it deals with the problem in an academic context.
Hollywood, of course, has been facing the charge of stealing people's stories for the best part of a hundred years, and there is, I believe, considerable case law on this issue in the state of California. But if you wish to prove that a Hollywood producer stole the plot which was embodied in your screenplay, then you're going to have a hard time. The writers of Ladies Night tried to do it, in relation to The Full Monty. They had, in my view, a pretty good case, but they lost.
And so on. And, at the risk of labouring the point, I suppose it's worth adding that you shouldn't borrow stuff from other people.
True, we have all seen films, for example, in which certain scenes are obviously influenced by, if not exact copies of, scenes in other classic or commercially successful films. And you may be forgiven for riposting that the plot of every romance or whodunit is essentially the same as the plot of every other romance or whodunit. Nevertheless, don't borrow is a good rule.
I am prompted to make this point by the emergence of yet another little 'scandal' in the publishing world. The Book Standard has the story. Seems that a Kirkus reviewer was looking at a new children's book by publisher/author Harriet Ziefert and noticed (terrific memory here) that it had more than a passing resemblance to a book published by Judi Barrett in 1983. When this was drawn to Ziefert's attention, she decided to withdraw her book.
In response to the Book Standard's enquiries, Ziefert said that she had 'no recollection of ever seeing Ms. Barrett’s book—though it would be foolish of me not to consider the possibility that I might have seen it decades ago and that its structure and some of its language imprinted themselves somewhere on my subconscious.'
I do not pretend to know anything whatever about this case, which may range all the way from honest mistake to deliberate theft. However, I do have some sympathy with those who are accused of plagiarism.
In my youth -- yes, I confess it now -- I did on at least one occasion borrow the ending of one of my efforts from someone else. And although I don't think it would have been punishable at law, I still remember the occasion with some embarrassment. T'ain't a nice thing to do. And I am also tolerably certain (although I have no personal experience of it) that one's memory can play tricks. It is perfectly possible, I think, for someone to produce an 'original' line or story, only to realise, when it's pointed out, that the line/story is not original at all.
I was about to write here about a case that I remembered from forty-odd years ago, involving the poet Hugh MacDiarmid. The story, as I remembered it, was that MacDiarmid was accused, in the columns of the Times Literary Supplement, of producing 'poetry' which was actually lifted from other documents. My memory was that he defended himself against the charge rather convincingly.
However -- and this may be a case where my memory has misled me! -- now that I come to look him up on the interweb, I see that, in the course of time, MacDiarmid seems not only to have admitted plagiarism but gloried in it. 'The greater the plagiarism the greater the work of art,' he is quoted as saying. Hmm. Well, that rather spoils my point, but it's interesting.
Also interesting is the Wikipedia article on plagiarism, though it deals with the problem in an academic context.
Hollywood, of course, has been facing the charge of stealing people's stories for the best part of a hundred years, and there is, I believe, considerable case law on this issue in the state of California. But if you wish to prove that a Hollywood producer stole the plot which was embodied in your screenplay, then you're going to have a hard time. The writers of Ladies Night tried to do it, in relation to The Full Monty. They had, in my view, a pretty good case, but they lost.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Leslie Charteris
In a recent comment, the lovely Bernita compares my convoluted prose to that of Leslie Charteris. How very kind. Because Charteris, you see, was a pro of the old school. A first-class entertainer who is still fondly remembered today.
For proof, visit The Saintly Bible, a web site which celebrates Charteris's most famous fictional character, The Saint. Hero of innumerable books, two major TV series, B movies, and so forth, The Saint was a sort of forerunner of James Bond, a buccaneering type who liked fast cars and ladies but remained, always, a gentleman.
Charteris was born in 1907, the son of a wealthy Chinese surgeon and an English mother. He became, in due course, an American citizen. And he had -- I speak from much-faded boyhood memory -- a nice way with words. Also he had a sense of humour. How well the books would stand up to being read today I don't know.
While we're at it, Edgar Wallace was another old-time thriller writer who was also a master of prose.
For proof, visit The Saintly Bible, a web site which celebrates Charteris's most famous fictional character, The Saint. Hero of innumerable books, two major TV series, B movies, and so forth, The Saint was a sort of forerunner of James Bond, a buccaneering type who liked fast cars and ladies but remained, always, a gentleman.
Charteris was born in 1907, the son of a wealthy Chinese surgeon and an English mother. He became, in due course, an American citizen. And he had -- I speak from much-faded boyhood memory -- a nice way with words. Also he had a sense of humour. How well the books would stand up to being read today I don't know.
While we're at it, Edgar Wallace was another old-time thriller writer who was also a master of prose.
Unreliable memoirs
I have mentioned before, briefly, that there is a huge row/discussion going on in the US about the alleged memoirs of James Frey. This has been covered ad nauseam by bloggers and the mainstream media, not to mention the mighty Oprah. Also as mentioned before, I have not attempted to keep abreast of this matter, either in the blog or off it, but the continuing echoes do serve to remind me of a number of consequential and inconsequential things. Here are a few of them, more or less in random order.
First, Clive James at least had the common sense to label his own slice of autobiography as Unreliable Memoirs.
Second, the official web site of James Lees Milne describes his book Another Self (1970) as 'superficially a volume of memoirs, in reality an autobiographical novel depicting his life in terms of his reactions to a series of hilarious incidents, some of them imaginary. (Its inspiration was a similar work by his friend Harold Nicolson - Some People [1927].) Another Self became (and remains) hugely popular and established JLM's literary reputation; it has rarely been out of print.'
Third, Frank McCourt, the author of Angela's Ashes, is said to have infuriated the people of Limerick by exaggerating the poverty of his childhood, the sadistic nature of priests, et cetera. And as for Dave Pelzer, well...
In short, it would be hard to find a well-known autobiography or set of memoirs which had not embroidered the facts more than somewhat. And since neither publishers nor reviewers are complete fools, it follows that they all know this perfectly well, even if readers don't. That being the case, publishers really ought to take the trouble to question an author -- particularly a previously unknown person -- before printing her 'memoirs', in order to find out whether what they have is a true memoir or an autobiographical novel. (Celebrities, e.g. recently retired politicians, are clearly a different kettle of fish, because what they say can so easily be checked against the public record.)
First-time writers -- e.g. a young man -- who produce a novel about e.g. a young man making his way in the world, also need to be questioned very closely about the extent to which their book is based on fact. From a libel point of view, it is particularly dangerous, for example, to write a novel about university life, if you have just left university, because even if you invent totally fictitious incidents, the likelihood is that someone is going to 'recognise' themselves and -- if you have made them a rapist -- take a dim view and resort to m'learned friends.
In short, I wholeheartedly recommend that fiction should be fiction. It should be a MADE-UP STORY. Invented from start to finish. True, there are some readers who will complain bitterly if you describe a character as taking the 9.15 train from Woking to Bristol, because, as they will undoubtedly tell you, the 9.15 service from Woking to Bristol was cancelled in 1943, and your book is set in 1947. But such lunatics can be ignored. Invent stuff. Motorbikes in real life do not have a reverse gear (I am assured); but in your book they can do, because it was fitted (you can say if asked) by an enthusiast in a shed at the bottom of his garden.
Make it up. Everything. Characters, places, events, attitudes, names of political parties, the lot. However hard you try, some people will 'identify' themselves, particularly if they know you. But if you have genuinely taken the trouble to make up everything, and can demonstrate that you have, with notes and so forth, then at least you are likely to steer clear of legal trouble. And, perhaps just as important, your conscience will be clear.
First, Clive James at least had the common sense to label his own slice of autobiography as Unreliable Memoirs.
Second, the official web site of James Lees Milne describes his book Another Self (1970) as 'superficially a volume of memoirs, in reality an autobiographical novel depicting his life in terms of his reactions to a series of hilarious incidents, some of them imaginary. (Its inspiration was a similar work by his friend Harold Nicolson - Some People [1927].) Another Self became (and remains) hugely popular and established JLM's literary reputation; it has rarely been out of print.'
Third, Frank McCourt, the author of Angela's Ashes, is said to have infuriated the people of Limerick by exaggerating the poverty of his childhood, the sadistic nature of priests, et cetera. And as for Dave Pelzer, well...
In short, it would be hard to find a well-known autobiography or set of memoirs which had not embroidered the facts more than somewhat. And since neither publishers nor reviewers are complete fools, it follows that they all know this perfectly well, even if readers don't. That being the case, publishers really ought to take the trouble to question an author -- particularly a previously unknown person -- before printing her 'memoirs', in order to find out whether what they have is a true memoir or an autobiographical novel. (Celebrities, e.g. recently retired politicians, are clearly a different kettle of fish, because what they say can so easily be checked against the public record.)
First-time writers -- e.g. a young man -- who produce a novel about e.g. a young man making his way in the world, also need to be questioned very closely about the extent to which their book is based on fact. From a libel point of view, it is particularly dangerous, for example, to write a novel about university life, if you have just left university, because even if you invent totally fictitious incidents, the likelihood is that someone is going to 'recognise' themselves and -- if you have made them a rapist -- take a dim view and resort to m'learned friends.
In short, I wholeheartedly recommend that fiction should be fiction. It should be a MADE-UP STORY. Invented from start to finish. True, there are some readers who will complain bitterly if you describe a character as taking the 9.15 train from Woking to Bristol, because, as they will undoubtedly tell you, the 9.15 service from Woking to Bristol was cancelled in 1943, and your book is set in 1947. But such lunatics can be ignored. Invent stuff. Motorbikes in real life do not have a reverse gear (I am assured); but in your book they can do, because it was fitted (you can say if asked) by an enthusiast in a shed at the bottom of his garden.
Make it up. Everything. Characters, places, events, attitudes, names of political parties, the lot. However hard you try, some people will 'identify' themselves, particularly if they know you. But if you have genuinely taken the trouble to make up everything, and can demonstrate that you have, with notes and so forth, then at least you are likely to steer clear of legal trouble. And, perhaps just as important, your conscience will be clear.
Places to look at
If bloggers divide, as is sometimes said, into linkers and thinkers, then I am, I like to kid myself, more of a thinker. However, Steve Clackson over at Sand Storm and I have been exchanging emails recently, and he recommended a number of web sites/blogs as worth looking at. I agree, so here they are, as links without much else attached.
First, there's MetaxcuCafe, which is run, I understand , by Bud Parr. This contains enough stuff to keep you busy for quite some time, all on its own.
Then there's Blogcritics.org, which covers popular culture in general. And its offshoot, Desicritics.org, which does the same job for South Asia.
Frank Wilson is the book-review editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer, and he finds time to blog about the business in general at Books, Inq. He, by the way, seems to be both a linker and a thinker.
And there's Temple Stark, an Arizona reporter who collects playing cards. Sorta. And he has reviewed Steve Clackson's as yet unpublished and unagented novel, Sand Storm.
Question: If Val Landi is having trouble selling his new novel, through a top agent, because publishers think it's too terrorist-realist, is Steve Clackson going to have any better luck? Watch these spaces.
First, there's MetaxcuCafe, which is run, I understand , by Bud Parr. This contains enough stuff to keep you busy for quite some time, all on its own.
Then there's Blogcritics.org, which covers popular culture in general. And its offshoot, Desicritics.org, which does the same job for South Asia.
Frank Wilson is the book-review editor of the Philadelphia Inquirer, and he finds time to blog about the business in general at Books, Inq. He, by the way, seems to be both a linker and a thinker.
And there's Temple Stark, an Arizona reporter who collects playing cards. Sorta. And he has reviewed Steve Clackson's as yet unpublished and unagented novel, Sand Storm.
Question: If Val Landi is having trouble selling his new novel, through a top agent, because publishers think it's too terrorist-realist, is Steve Clackson going to have any better luck? Watch these spaces.
Monday, January 30, 2006
99 Burning magazine
I got an email the other day, inviting me to take a look at what appears to be a free online magazine called 99 Burning. So I went to see what was what.
As I sat there, feeling somewhat bemused, a sign came up saying 'Click something to read it, dipshit...' Well all right, I thought. All right. Just give me time....
The result, I have to say, when I finally chose something, was not all that encouraging. The first title I clicked on didn't seem to lead anywhere. The second was part three of something and I hadn't read the first two parts -- and frankly, didn't feel any incentive to go looking for them. And the third click produced a sign saying that the piece was coming soon.
Hmmm. Anyway, it all seems to be cutting-edge stuff, if such is your thing, with lots of links to what looks like more of the same. Aimed more at the young, perhaps, than at me.
As I sat there, feeling somewhat bemused, a sign came up saying 'Click something to read it, dipshit...' Well all right, I thought. All right. Just give me time....
The result, I have to say, when I finally chose something, was not all that encouraging. The first title I clicked on didn't seem to lead anywhere. The second was part three of something and I hadn't read the first two parts -- and frankly, didn't feel any incentive to go looking for them. And the third click produced a sign saying that the piece was coming soon.
Hmmm. Anyway, it all seems to be cutting-edge stuff, if such is your thing, with lots of links to what looks like more of the same. Aimed more at the young, perhaps, than at me.
Bill Sinclair on UK creative writing courses
I haven't done an exhaustive search, but I don't remember seeing a first-hand account of what it's like to participate in a creative-writing course at a UK university. So I was particularly interested to come across one by Bill Sinclair.
Bill's short memoir is a little difficult to find, but go to A.M. Burns's blog The Conceit, find the post for 23 January entitled What Are You Looking At? (I can't locate a permalink for it), and click on the comments. (Note -- it may be just me, but this web site sometimes won't play ball. Keep trying.)
Bill's account relates to 1984, and therefore may have limited relevance for today, but it makes for an interesting contrast with what one hears of American courses of the same kind.
Bill's short memoir is a little difficult to find, but go to A.M. Burns's blog The Conceit, find the post for 23 January entitled What Are You Looking At? (I can't locate a permalink for it), and click on the comments. (Note -- it may be just me, but this web site sometimes won't play ball. Keep trying.)
Bill's account relates to 1984, and therefore may have limited relevance for today, but it makes for an interesting contrast with what one hears of American courses of the same kind.
Friday, January 27, 2006
Malcolm Pryce: The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth
The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth is the third in Malcolm Pryce's series of novels about Louie Knight, a private eye who is based in, um, Aberystwyth. Which, for the sake of those living outside the UK, is a modest little town (with a lot to be modest about, one suspects) on the west coast of Wales. It has a university (part of the University of Wales), an old castle, a pier, an arts centre, and a marina. Pop. 13,500.
Pryce's first book in the series was Aberystwyth Mon Amour, which appeared in 2001; then came Last Tango in Aberystwyth, in 2003; and in 2005 the third in the series.
The Aberystwyth books are definitely cross-genre. At the very least they are crime/fantasy, thought they could be labelled crime/fantasy/humour. I enjoyed the first two enough to take the trouble to track down the latest.
In the great private-eye tradition of Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, Louie Knight acts as his own first-person narrator. And, again in the great tradition, the story begins with a client sitting in the PI's office; only this time the client has a tail, because she's a monkey who was once an astronaut on the Welsh Space Programme, and her son, Mr Bojangles, is missing.
It gets weirder than that in places. Before long, for instance, we meet a veteran of the Patagonian War called Rimbaud. (Try pronouncing it in French, rather than Welsh.) And we also meet a nun called Sister Cunegonde. But fear not. You are in the hands of a most assured writer. This guy is smart, and he's been practising.
In fact, there are whole pages at a time in this book when the writing is so good that it really leaves one a bit breathless -- at least if you're a writer. If you're a reader, I think you probably won't notice, consciously, how outstanding it is. Because although it is very clever, this prose does not, thank God, stand up, wave a flag, and shout LOOK AT ME! AREN'T I BRILLIANT? In the way that many a literary author's prose does.
On page 111, for example, we have a description of a clapped-out seaside district which is quite outstanding in its power to evoke a scene which will be dreadfully familiar to many British readers. (Shades of summer holidays in caravans, with Mum and Dad, in places which looked lovely in the brochure but turned out to be a bit different.) Here's a brief quote. The town is described as being:
In short, what we have in The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth is a gem.
I have no idea whether Mr Pryce is a full-time writer or not (his biography, as we shall see, is decidedly fishy). But, for what it is worth, I want to make the point that this book could certainly have been written by someone working in his spare time. And yet a very special kind of someone, because this man was not in a hurry when he wrote. I don't say that he spent hours sweating over each sentence. But the story has a leisurely feel to it. This was written by a man who was not so consumed by ambition -- to win next year's Booker, say -- that he rushed things along. And it shows. It has an unhurried and unforced feel to it, which in places is quite wonderful.
Pryce's first book in the series was Aberystwyth Mon Amour, which appeared in 2001; then came Last Tango in Aberystwyth, in 2003; and in 2005 the third in the series.
The Aberystwyth books are definitely cross-genre. At the very least they are crime/fantasy, thought they could be labelled crime/fantasy/humour. I enjoyed the first two enough to take the trouble to track down the latest.
In the great private-eye tradition of Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald, Louie Knight acts as his own first-person narrator. And, again in the great tradition, the story begins with a client sitting in the PI's office; only this time the client has a tail, because she's a monkey who was once an astronaut on the Welsh Space Programme, and her son, Mr Bojangles, is missing.
It gets weirder than that in places. Before long, for instance, we meet a veteran of the Patagonian War called Rimbaud. (Try pronouncing it in French, rather than Welsh.) And we also meet a nun called Sister Cunegonde. But fear not. You are in the hands of a most assured writer. This guy is smart, and he's been practising.
In fact, there are whole pages at a time in this book when the writing is so good that it really leaves one a bit breathless -- at least if you're a writer. If you're a reader, I think you probably won't notice, consciously, how outstanding it is. Because although it is very clever, this prose does not, thank God, stand up, wave a flag, and shout LOOK AT ME! AREN'T I BRILLIANT? In the way that many a literary author's prose does.
On page 111, for example, we have a description of a clapped-out seaside district which is quite outstanding in its power to evoke a scene which will be dreadfully familiar to many British readers. (Shades of summer holidays in caravans, with Mum and Dad, in places which looked lovely in the brochure but turned out to be a bit different.) Here's a brief quote. The town is described as being:
...about as poor as you can get without selling a kidney. It's not a one-horse town, not even a hoof, maybe the imprint left by a horseshoe nailed once long ago to a fence or maybe just a handful of oats.
After a short walk over the hilltop you arrive at the top of a valley that the sun never kisses; never even shakes hands with or even acknowledges with a curt nod....
Down below I found a few grubby bits of land on which caravans were anchored with bricks and strung together with a cat's cradle of washing lines and TV aerials; white pebbles from the beach were laid out to signify territorial possession....
For entertainment you can lose some money at the amusement arcade situated in a breeze-block room that anywhere else on earth would be called a garage. Or you can take a car out to the main road and drive fast over the hump-backed bridge.
In its bleakness, this description reminds me of Swinburne's great poem A Forsaken Garden. And you have to be pretty damn good to remind me of Swinburne.
Pryce's description of going into a girls school is also well nigh perfect.
And there's a lot more like that. Mr Pryce also has a nice line in original similes and metaphors. Nice, because they seem to come naturally, without having had an enormously long delivery time. Richard Condon and Chester Himes were a couple of other crime/thriller writers who went in for colourful similes, but in Condon's case they often felt a bit artificial: as when he described someone as having a voice which sounded like 'a suit of armour falling downstairs'.The sweet descant of girls' singing drifted on the air like the scent of flowers at dusk. It was accompanied by something I hadn't encountered for many years: the smell of school dinner. Cabbage boiled to the colour of bone; the smell of water drunk from a glass made from car windscreen material; brown food colouring and flour and fat congealing into the brown tapioca that is called gravy.
In short, what we have in The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Aberystwyth is a gem.
I have no idea whether Mr Pryce is a full-time writer or not (his biography, as we shall see, is decidedly fishy). But, for what it is worth, I want to make the point that this book could certainly have been written by someone working in his spare time. And yet a very special kind of someone, because this man was not in a hurry when he wrote. I don't say that he spent hours sweating over each sentence. But the story has a leisurely feel to it. This was written by a man who was not so consumed by ambition -- to win next year's Booker, say -- that he rushed things along. And it shows. It has an unhurried and unforced feel to it, which in places is quite wonderful.
As for the humour... Well, it's certainly a very funny book in places. Towards the end it becomes a bit more serious and a bit sadder than I would wish. But hey -- it's not my book. And the author is entitled to call it the way he sees it.
I can't help feeling, having seen the wonderful Funland, that this would make a good TV serial. Let's hope so.
Now for further info. Mr Pryce's official web site, like his book, is a bit eccentric. However, his publisher (Bloomsbury) helps out. You can read the first chapters of the first two books, and also study his biography. This maintains, as such things always do, that he has worked on the BMW assembly line, and has sold aluminium; and, doubtless, worked as a doorman at a brothel for one-legged sailors. It claims that he lives in Bangkok. Personally I think this is all a load of kok from start to finish. I think he's a librarian in Swansea.
Tesco online book sales
I imagine that everyone in the UK who is interested in the book trade knows that Tesco (a hugely powerful and successful supermarket chain) uses its clout to sell books at massively discounted prices. And they sell lots of them -- sometimes out-ordering and out-selling WH Smith by five to one. But what you may not know -- I certainly didn't until I went googling for something -- is that Tesco also have an extensive online bookstore.
I've been having a look at it, and my first impressions are that it's rather good. Limited, of course. Doesn't list every book ever published, and leans, as you would expect, towards the popular side of things. But you can find the paperback version of the GOB on it, if you want to.
What is more, you can use the site to buy lots of other things, such as DVDs, CDs, and the like. You can even download music.
Now -- I've spent a few minutes googling and can't find the answer to this -- did Tesco build all this from scratch? Or are they piggy-backing their online presence on the back of some other company which does the stocking and despatching? The latter, I expect. But who?
I've been having a look at it, and my first impressions are that it's rather good. Limited, of course. Doesn't list every book ever published, and leans, as you would expect, towards the popular side of things. But you can find the paperback version of the GOB on it, if you want to.
What is more, you can use the site to buy lots of other things, such as DVDs, CDs, and the like. You can even download music.
Now -- I've spent a few minutes googling and can't find the answer to this -- did Tesco build all this from scratch? Or are they piggy-backing their online presence on the back of some other company which does the stocking and despatching? The latter, I expect. But who?
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