Life Sentence

Review: Alone in Berlin by Hans Fallada

2010-08-08T04:16:00.001-07:00

The old saying "never judge a book by its cover" is a bit of a redundant one sometimes, I think. I realise it is supposed to apply more to people than books in the literal sense, but cover design is still pretty crucial in the publishing world. Only the classics can afford to be stacked on the shelf with just a plain cover, Penguin-style, when the title says it all.

So I can honestly say that it was the cover of Alone in Berlin that captured my attention. I had never heard of it before I spotted it in the book shop one day and I didn't buy it straightaway, but it stayed on my mind and I decided to purchase it a few weeks later.

The cover was atmospheric - a lone man almost lost in a whirl of snow amid crumbling monuments - and the font was strange. It compelled me. And the blurb on the back, promising a story about one man risking his life by daring to defy Hitler, was intriguing.

As I didn't actually bother to read the jacket notes before starting the book, I had no idea that this was not a contemporary novel. It was written in 1946, but the style and language led me to believe it might have been a 21st century creation. Learning halfway through that the story came from an author who had lived through the Second World War, rather than a modern writer who filled out the human suffering with research rather than experience, made it even more of a poignant read.

The action centres on Otto Quangel, a silent and reserved factory foreman living in 40s Berlin who has refused to join the Nazi Party, but otherwise harbours no extreme feelings towards the rise of the Third Reich. But the loss of his only son to the war and the subsequent reaction of his wife, Anna, releases something in Otto. Suddenly, this placid, self-contained man is inexpressibly angry.

His response is to start writing postcards that basically slag the Fuhrer and all he stands for, dropping them anonymously around the city. In an era when I could insult God's mother on this blog if I wanted and have the whole world see it, that might seem like a pathetic crime. But the point is that in wartime Germany, it was a crime and a capital one at that. So when Otto embarks on his quiet, gentle campaign, he is taking his life in his hands.

His aim is to start a silent revolution, envisaging his postcards being passed from hand to hand and stirring up anti-Nazi feeling that might ultimately stop the war. But the reality is very different and Otto soons finds himself the object of a slow, patient investigation by the Gestapo's creepy Inspector Esherich.

The book blurb paints Alone in Berlin as a 'cat and mouse' game between rebel and police, but although there are certainly gripping moments as Otto risks discovery, the story isn't really about that. Indeed, the novel takes some very unexpected turns and even seems to ponder on whether resistance really is futile. But particularly in the last act, Fallada manages to combine the cold realities of Nazism with a clearly unshakeable belief in the dignity and power of the individual.

The climate of fear in Germany under the Nazis is brought to life in chilling, painful detail and the reader is really made to care for these characters, making you feel a heart-stopping concern for their fate. Set against a backdrop of horrifically real fact, this fiction is an emotional yet ultimately uplifting read.

At the back of the book, there is some fascinating background detail about Hans Fallada, who by the time he was 20 had already been involved in a suicide pact. Rather obviously, he failed to die but his friend didn't and so already Fallada's life was off to a dodgy start. Although Alone in Berlin drips with venom towards the Nazis, it is interesting to read about his precarious relationship with the Third Reich as he continued to live and work in Berlin during the war and the way he explored this in his fiction.

Review: Don't Look Now & Other Stories by Daphne du Maurier

2010-07-16T11:02:00.000-07:00

Daphne Du Maurier is widely considered to be one of our most gifted female writers. In fact, scratch that because it sounds patronising, as if women need to be sectioned off in their own area. She is widely considered to be one of our finest writers full-stop, so I have always meant to read more of her work.

The only book I’ve read until now was Rebecca, a novel which constantly makes it onto all-time greatest lists whenever masterpieces are being discussed. I was a kid when I read it, plucking the dated TV tie-in paperback from my parents’ wicker bookcase, a youthful and bewildered Joanna David gazing out from the cover. In fact, a guilty glance over my shoulder to my own bookcases has just revealed that yes, I never put it back...

Rebecca is a really great book. I was probably only about 10 or 12 when I read it and if a story about old-fashioned love and adult jealousy can enchant someone who still watches Grange Hill, it’s got something going for it.

However, I was not immediately gripped by the idea that I should seek out more of her work. And I think it is because Rebecca, however thrilling and occasionally dark, still resonates a gentility which doesn’t quite match my literary tastes. The titles of Du Maurier’s other novels – Jamaica Inn, Frenchman’s Creek – just seemed to nudge towards the twee, so she wasn’t really at the top of my must-read list.

While browsing about in the bookshop the other day, I suddenly spotted a copy of Don’t Look Now and Other Stories and knew immediately that I must have it. Never having seen the film – another highly celebrated work – all the way through, I only had a vague idea of the storyline. But with my love of paranormal fiction, I knew at once that it was a must-read.

And I wasn’t wrong. Although Don’t Look Now is the big-name striker in the team, all the other players on the pitch quietly make their own mark. From the sublimely odd and unexpected turns of the title story, to the equally bizarre A Border-Line Case, Du Maurier shows an awe-inspiring grasp of character and place.

Somehow she manages to take strange, fanciful notions and place them right into the middle of ordinary life in the most believable way. I felt a little frustration with A Border-Line Case, simply because the language and action felt almost dream-like and as if Du Maurier had become a little self-indulgent. But on the whole, these five stories were intriguing and bold, in most cases seeming to introduce ideas and characters merely to let us know they existed, with no conclusion or even real comment on them at all.

Although Don’t Look Now is her most satisfying tale, as it does at least have an ending, The Way of the Cross might be the most accomplished. In just 67 pages she paints an astonishingly vivid picture of a group of disparate tourists in Jerusalem, all suffering a series of minor calamities and for what purpose? Just as we get a grip on them all, we leave them. And that is where Du Maurier’s consummate skill and assurance really makes itself known.

The final story, The Breakthrough, left me positively gripped and desperate to know more about the psychic energy experiments of an eccentric scientist. But I guess I will never know what might have been if the story was allowed to progress, the plug pulled on that particular intrigue.

This copy of Don’t Look Now is part of the Penguin Decades series, a really beautifully presented collection with covers by Zandra Rhodes, which makes it something of a keepsake.

Review: Let The Right One In By John Ajvide Lindqvist

2010-07-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

The screen adaptation of Lindqvist's vampire novel was widely hailed as a triumph. Indeed, some critics pronounced it to be among the best films of last year, which is no mean achievement for a horror film. Usually they are judged only against others in their genre and not taken seriously as stories, but Let The Right One In seemed to have overcome that obstacle.

I have not seen the film - I would quite like to, but I confess to being a little bit nervous about it. For although vampires do not scare me like ghosts do and I am not overly squeamish, I have heard that the film is pretty gruesome. Very intelligent and gripping, but gruesome nonetheless. And sometimes I find that non-stop wincing can really spoil my enjoyment of a movie.

But the book was recommended to me by a friend who knows my literary tastes pretty well, so I was curious to see if the source material was as captivating as the film is reported to be.

And the answer is - yes. I can't speak for the adaptation of course, but I can see how the novel could be converted into a thrilling and thought-provoking film. Because right from the first page, the characters leap out of the page and grab you by the throat, teeth bared and ready to bite.

The action centres on 13-year-old Oskar, a young boy who struggles to co-exist with his lonely mother and absentee father, while coping with bullying at school. Yet Oskar is not your typical victim. Even as he confesses to giving into the bullies' humiliating demands in the quest for a quiet life, he radiates a quiet dignity and sense of purpose which is way beyond his years.

Oskar's rather grey and pedestrian life in a Swedish suburb is turned upside down when he befriends Eli, the delicate little girl next door whose strange lifestyle soon raises his suspicions. With the innocence that only children can muster, he simply accepts Eli's stranger qualities and they form a touchingly powerful friendship.

But in the community around them, something is not right. In fact something is going very, very wrong and Oskar begins to realise that Eli might be at the epicentre of the storm.

Delicately balancing the drama of his high concept against the more mundane truths of human existence, the author creates a story that grips you from start to finish. Just as caught up in the mystery as Oskar, I was keen to find out what lay at the beating heart (or otherwise) of Eli and I was also intrigued by Lindqvist's refusal to paint any character in black and white. Though I was left feeling a little torn as to just how much freedom Eli deserved in the final reckoning.

Review: One Good Turn by Kate Atkinson

2010-07-13T12:08:00.001-07:00

I have only read one of Kate Atkinson's books before, but I really enjoyed it and often thought that I must read more.

Well, I say I enjoyed it - I enjoyed the language, the insights, the wit. Behind the Scenes at the Museum is one of those books that doesn't really have a plot as such. It's just a story about life and some aspects of it were a bit depressing, in that they pinpointed some elements of human relationships with unromantic accuracy. But it was a good and memorable read, so when I spotted One Good Turn in the bookshop, I remembered Atkinson's previous work and snapped it up with great expectations.

And I enjoyed this one too, but in a very different way. One Good Turn definitely has a plot and quite a complex one at that, all about how one bizarre incident of road rage brings a number of diverse lives together in unlikely fashion. Before you start thinking it's just a rehash of Crash, it's not the same idea - this story links the witnesses to the attack, with the two feuding figures that open the action turning out to be the least interesting characters in the book.

There are elements of the murder mystery to it, though it is the investigations and adventures of the witnesses which take centre stage over the police procedures. In this way, One Good Turn seems more lightweight and unsubstantial that I had expected. The story takes its time introducing all the characters, by which time you begin to fear that threads picked up by the reader in the first few pages are already being dropped, but Atkinson soon picks up the pace and the story held my interest until the final page.

But I wouldn't say that I was gripped by it. Despite murder being at its heart, the story is more about the machinations of human emotions and the way life sometimes deals you a duff hand. For although the general tone is quite lighthearted, no one in the book is happy. Those who have become wealthy are living with loveless marriages, or no marriages at all; those who are fulfilled in their work have no home life; those who seem to have it all really have things which turn out to be charades. In this way, Atkinson continues to pick apart the human condition and although the story ends on an upbeat note for at least two of the characters, it left me feeling that the sweetness was tinged with a sour note.

I suppose that's just the reality of life and maybe I am too naive, wanting my literature to make that reality different. But isn't that the point of fiction, sometimes?

Review: A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

2010-07-13T12:06:00.001-07:00

Although the book was recommended to me by a dear friend whose opinion I trust and respect, I confess that I approached A Clockwork Orange with not a little trepidation.

Both the novel and subsequent Stanley Kubrick film are notorious for their scenes of violence and rape, neither of which turn me on as a reader or a film fan, so it was something I had chosen to avoid on the assumption that it would take all value away from the story. But I have to admit that I was wrong and A Clockwork Orange turned out to be a highly intelligent and thought-provoking novel.

There are two things that hit you about the book straightaway. The first is the language, some sort of youth slang which appears almost impenetrable at first glance, but never underestimate the power and versatility of the human brain. Built for code-breaking, my little straining grey cells grasped it surprisingly quickly and although there were some words and phrases which I'm still not sure about, I was astonished at how easily I was able to follow the story.

The second thing is the violence. Within the first few pages, our lead character Alex and his cronies get up to some truly appalling antics, yet strangely enough it was not as nausea-inducing as I had assumed it would be. I put that firmly down to the use of this strange language, as it somehow muffles the horror, like watching the acts through obscured glass, or catching a conversation in French when you have only a beginner's grasp of the language and so can only pick up the general gist. Whether this was a deliberate ploy by Burgess to soften the blow of this revolting behaviour or not, I don't know, but it is somehow effective and leaves the reader feeling less soiled by the experience.

Alex, a 15-year-old delinquent who enjoys 'ultra violence', rape and classical music, is the stuff of nightmares. Yet he is also horribly real. Clearly an intelligent and articulate boy, you can't help feeling the same frustration with him as you would with a real-life promising child who goes the wrong way and, true to form, he dissolves into remorseless self pity the moment the tables are turned.

God knows when or where the book is set, but Burgess transports the reader there effortlessly. Without a word of background explanation as to what this dystopian future is like or how it got that way, the reader understands Alex's world very quickly. It sounds like a horrible place with little in the way of stimulation or warmth, which prompts the usual questions about whether nature or nurture is to blame for producing such a horrendous little arsehole.

I don't think I'm giving anything away when I say that fairly early in the book, Alex is caught and submitted to a radical new treatment in which he essentially has a conscience forced upon him in the only way he can understand. And this is really the crux of the story's message - ideas of conscience and whether it is possible, or indeed desirable, to take away someone's free will for the sake of the greater good. Also, it raises uncomfortable questions about the conscience and its purpose. Do the majority of us avoid doing atrocious things to other people simply because we do not wish them to be harmed, or because we know we'll feel terrible if we did? Is all generosity, consideration and altruism simply a mask we wear, a facade that is more designed to protect the person within than be of benefit to the people around us?

When Alex - initially devoid of this burden - is forced into caring, it sheds a rather unsettling light on the true nature of human understanding and motives. Even when an unexpected ray of kindness enters Alex's life, it turns out that this person has their own motivations and is not above a little cruelty if it serves their purpose.

Like all the best endings, A Clockwork Orange leaves you wondering just what has really happened and quietly debating the story's themes with yourself long after you have turned the final page.

Review: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

2010-07-13T11:47:00.001-07:00

A real heavyweight among contemporary storytellers, Sarah Waters is one of my most admired authors. Her last three novels have each been nominated for the prestigious Man Booker Prize and the television adaptation of Tipping the Velvet, her debut tale of lesbianism in Victorian England, was an eye-opening experience for many viewers.

I have not yet read Tipping the Velvet but, after being gripped by her latest novel, The Little Stranger, I have decided to explore Waters' back catalogue. Set in the aftermath of the Second World War, when society has changed and formerly rich families are struggling to maintain their grip on the good life, The Little Stranger tells a slow and creeping story about the effects of decay, both physical and social. Brilliantly narrated by a character who keeps you guessing about his own motives and plays with your sympathies, it touches on the supernatural in an ambiguous way that I find rather thrilling.

So I went on to read The Nightwatch, again set in and around the Second World War, and I was not disappointed. With this novel, Waters seems to excel in telling stories that are kind of about nothing - nothing, that is, other than the complexities and absurdities of human life. Even though it often concerns itself with the minutiae of day to day life - affairs, failed romance, petty and not so petty crimes - the secrets you know are coming still grip and enthral the reader. Telling the story in reverse chronological order, Waters' grasp of structure is awe-inspiring and a useful lesson to all aspiring writers out there.

As a reader, Fingersmith was my first foray into Waters' Victorian period. And to be brutally honest, after the first few pages, my heart was starting to sink. Although it had clearly been intricately researched and was written with as much class as ever, I began to feel uneasy. For the dialogue was too twee, the research shovelled too heavily onto the page, as if the authenticity of its setting had been judged more important than the story or establishment of character. When a chap nicknamed 'Gentleman' turned up, I wondered if I had inadvertantly picked up a Catherine Cookson potboiler by mistake.

But I stuck out this inauspicious beginning and almost immediately, my faith began to pay off. When Waters allowed us to move beyond the grim atmosphere of a thieves' den in Victorian London, the story picked up apace and before long, I was hooked. The twist at the end of part one literally made my jaw drop and now, I cared - I wanted to know what happened to these characters and I had opinions on how their fates should pan out, which is surely the mark of a truly successful storyteller.

Of course there was a bit of lesbo action, but it was handled in a tender and not remotely titillating manner. Indeed, given the behaviour of the story's male population, getting busy with a fellow chick seemed an infinitely more favourable prospect. At one point, I was a little concerned that a subplot about sexual deviancy was going to poison the experience, but it was expertly handled. Without subjecting the reader to the ins and outs of it, so to speak, the deeply unsettling influence is made to pervade the atmosphere, just as it does the lives of Waters' fictional heroines.

Drawing characters that are all too human, Waters leaves you wondering if they deserved their fates; who was good, who was bad and just how far you have to go in order to earn redemption.

Review: The Piano Teacher by Janice YK Lee

2010-07-13T11:44:00.000-07:00

I'll be honest, I wasn't looking forward to reading this book. It really didn't look like it would be my kind of thing.

Last year I was buying birthday presents for a neighbour and wanted a couple of novels to go with her champagne and chocolates. My friend is a gentle, lovely, homely sort of person and I wanted some gentle, lovely, homely sort of books - so I chose The Return by Victoria Hislop and The Piano Teacher by Janice YK Lee.

I had read and enjoyed Hislop's first novel, The Island, so I knew it was the right sort of thing. The other, I'm afraid, was a real case of judging a book by its cover. I knew nothing about either the story or the author but it looked like it would be of a similar ilk.

When my friend offered to lend me The Piano Teacher a few weeks later, I politely accepted, but I'm afraid I wasn't enthusiastic. As a fan of Edgar Allen Poe and the like, chick lit makes me do a major swerve on sight. Anything with high heels on the cover or a blurb going on about women looking for husbands and I can't bung it back on the shelf fast enough.

With its pastel colours and whimsical picture of a woman in Oriental dress meandering across a beach, the cover wasn't floating my boat. And when I reacquainted myself with the synopsis - 'two beautiful women, one mysterious man', etc - my heart sank and it got chucked straight to the bottom of my To Read pile.

After several months had passed, I thought I'd really better get the thing read and returned before my friend forgot I'd ever borrowed it. And, against expectations, it was a jolly good read.

Set in Hong Kong, over two time periods - one at the outbreak of the Second World War and the other in the early 50s - The Piano Teacher took me on a highly unexpected journey. Yes, its focal point is love (or lack of it) but this is an engrossing and at times upsetting exploration of the impact of war.

When naive English newlywed Claire is brought to Hong Kong by her nice but dull husband, she finds herself both captivated and alienated by the exotic, complicated social etiquette. But a handsome older man soon begins to show her that she can be more than the English rose everyone expects. Yet Will, the dashing chauffeur, cannot let go of a past betrayal, something which will come between Claire and her exciting but distant lover.

The two stories are interspersed throughout the tale, with the darkness of the past creeping into the light of the present. From the very beginning, Lee shows a strong talent for characterisation, bringing the culture-shocked Claire into sharp focus almost immediately and making her the most sympathetic character in the story. Far from a bland tool to help shed light on the haunted Will, Claire's character is carefully sketched and her relationship with Will is far from idealised.

At the start I thought that Will was going to be a paint-by-numbers contrary cad, intriguing yet cold, but as his past experiences are drawn out into the light, his own inner conflicts give him greater depth and interest. Interestingly, it is with the book's most exotic character, Will's wartime lover Trudy, where Lee fails to fill in the blanks.

Whether this is deliberate or not is open to debate, particularly as Will himself is uncertain how to read Trudy's actions and attitudes. For much of the time it appears that she is a cardboard cutout, a character being sold as loveable purely on the basis of looks and charisma. At other points we are given a glimpse of something more illuminating, a contradiction which is reflected in Will's enduring confusion over his lost love.

But the story really gets into a different territory when war finally breaks into the champagne lifestyle of moneyed Hong Kong, taking dark and at times horrific turns as the mirage of Western privilege is rapidly dissolved by the realities of conflict.

There are some unanswered questions at the end, but life isn't always black and white, so that's no bad thing.