Who Will Run The Frog Hospital?

I've mentioned before my penchant for a sad tale. So, in seeking inspiration for a tale of heartbreak, I Googled this very theme and the title that caught my eye was this one by Lorrie Moore. Although I'm not sure it met my initial brief (my heartstrings were left largely untugged), I did find this an intriguing tale of growing up and growing apart.

Berie Carr is grown up now, visiting Paris with her husband and some very large alarm bells sounding to the reader as regards the health of her marriage. While there, she reflects on a friendship lost and takes us back to a summer back in 1972 where, on the cusp of womanhood, events see the beginning of the end of her close bond with childhood friend, Silsby.

I felt Moore captured beautifully those heady days of adolescent summers and the intensity of teenage female friendships. It's difficult to read this book and not reflect back on your own schooldays, feeling the pinch of regret at losing touch with those you never questioned as being part of your everyday life. There is little dialogue in this book, more just the narrative of Berie's reflections as she recounts the moments, small at the time, which unleash a chain of events that separate and part; at first the break is dramatic, but then the drift sets in and the subtle changes occur to make their worlds very different.

The bittersweet tone was this novel's strength; however, I wasn't totally convinced by the overall flow. I don't think the reflections from modern day Paris were particularly coherent with the rest of the narrative or really added much; in places, I felt the modern day parts got in the way of the story's progression. I also felt the characters shifted a little too much towards the end, particularly Silsby; the girl the adult Berie described wasn't a convincing reflection of the grown up version she reveals later on.

I've read some reviews of this since which have suggested it would have been better as a short story rather than a short novel and I can't help but agree. As a wistful reflection on innocence lost and how people change over time, this was a great read. I'm not convinced, however, it was at its strongest as a short novel as I felt there was some padding out with the Parisian sections especially. Still, if you feel like stirring some memories of those lost summers of youth and reflecting on those friends from yesteryear, this isn't a bad book to trigger that. Plus I guess it's not a bad thing it wasn't too heartbreaking; there's nothing worse than trying to stifle a tear-y moment when packed in on public transport...

(Available from Amazon)

Prudence

Sometimes there's nothing better than indulging in a bit of guilty pleasure. For me, there is no pleasure more guilty than a bit of Jilly C.

In my view, Jilly Cooper is where chicklit begins and ends. Her characters are silly and frivolous and their world utterly incomprehensible to the everyday 21st century woman, but it's brilliantly escapist. Her heroines are glamorous, beautiful and sophisticated and they know it. They all date knee-weakeningly handsome men called Pendle or Lazlo. I know it's trashy and I know it's silly, but I just can't resist!

Part of her girls' names series, Prudence follows the same delicious formula as the rest of Jilly's novels. Prudence is a glamorous girl about town, spending her time in 1970s Chelsea attending oodles of fabulous parties. At one more dull affair she meets the dashing and aloof (textbook Jilly) Pendle Mulholland. After showing a little too much enthusiasm on their first encounter, Pendle blows cold. Prudence is confused, but delighted when he invites her to meet his family. Is she finally getting through to him?

His family, of course, are riotous and seem to be more interested in each other's partners than their own. The house is a chaotic world of parties and glamorous guests and Prudence finds herself in the middle of some curious family skeletons tumbling out the closet. The Mullhollands are all handsome and dashing and Prudence becomes increasingly intrigued by Pendle's woman-chasing brother Jack and elusive Ace (yes, really...).

The plot is full of twists and turns, all brilliantly over the top, and fast-paced. One needs to completely suspend disbelief, but for me Prudence was one of my favourites in the series. It is pure, unadulterated escapism which I found myself racing through. Even at its most ludicrous (who on earth is called Pendle or Ace in real life??), it is always entertaining.

Don't get me wrong, the book is terribly dated in places (I did find my eyes widening at some of the less PC remarks which would definitely not make it through an edit in contemporary chicklit!). However, it's so refreshing from much of the post-Bridget Jones women's fiction of today. Jilly's heroines are confident, strong and have great self belief. There is no calorie counting and fretting about appearance; in the land of Jilly, there is nothing that can't be fixed with a bit of lipstick, a stiff drink and a quick wash of the hair.

Sure, it's hardly the definition of feminism but it's fun. When immersed in this book I was no longer packed into a Tube carriage, I was at a fabulous party with handsome, improbably-named men. So, if you're looking for a bit of fun, definitely give this a try!

(Available in paperback and ebook from the Random House website)

Amity & Sorrow

When an author describes her novel as a tale of "God, sex and farming", it's hard to know what to expect. Having weighed this up against all the buzz that's been surrounding it, I delved in.

I wasn't disappointed.

Amity & Sorrow is an exciting read and instantly you're plunged into the action as mother Amaranth and daughters Amity and Sorrow speed away from all the girls have known. The urgency of their escape is slowly revealed through cleverly interwoven flashbacks to their time as first wife and eldest daughters in a polygamous cult. We follow them as they settle on a farm (some better than others) run by a lonely abandoned husband, living with his adopted son and elderly father, with a mixture of fear and hope that they would be found.

Peggy Riley's characters are brilliantly crafted and immediately credible. Amaranth tries to right the mistakes that has seen her children grow up without knowledge of the world. This ignorance, designed to protect them, has corrupted them in ways that Amaranth could never have foreseen. I loved the characters of both sisters too; Amity, apparently blessed with healing powers and open-minded to a new life, and reluctant Sorrow, stubborn and longing for her old existance with an increasingly terrifying ferocity.

The creation and collapse of Amaranth's idyll is recounted and the consequences seen in the damage done to her daughters. There are parallels with the life of farmer Bradley as he seeks to keep his farm afloat and is alone, and offers the family kindness even in the face of Sorrow's destruction.

Riley's creation is a masterful one. She crafts great villains whilst also offering hope; darkness is never far from light. The novel's themes are powerful and gritty and elements of it are disturbing. Amity & Sorrow isn't a light read, but is all the more rewarding for it. With strong links to the Branch Davidians and frequent references to Waco, this is a cautionary (rather than sensationalist) tale of how power and greed corrupts, as well as a fascinating view of one family's escape from the sinister grip of a polygamous cult.

This was a really enjoyable, thought-provoking book. For me it definitely lived up to the hype and was one that made me groan at the end of my commute when I had to stop reading for a while. I would warn that it's not necessarily for the faint-hearted, but is rewarding nonetheless.

(Available from Amazon)

Life After Life

Life After Life comes with an intriguing premise. A baby is born in a snowy February in 1910. She dies at birth. In the next chapter, she is given another chance and survives; the reader then follows the child, Ursula, as she grows up before, between and during the World Wars, with a unique gift. She can go back and correct her mistakes, dying then starting again.

I've read several reviews of this now, mulling over how my thoughts compare. I was encouraged to pick this up after seeing adverts and reviews for it everywhere. Now having read it, I think my conclusion is that I liked it, but only loved it in parts.

The story is complex and Kate Atkinson's writing is clever and flowing. Metaphors of darkness and light pervade and a real sense of foreboding exists. Some sections are brilliant, such as when Ursula is battling to prevent the death of her, her brother and her maid from Spanish Flu. The repeating and thwarting of her efforts add an almost comic twist. However, some sections I found slightly laboured, such as Ursula's time with Eva Braun and Hitler as the continent inches towards war.

Overall, I think this was a great mind-twisting journey. Throughout the story you question what is real, and even when the worst happens you have hope that Ursula can reset and have a happier life. Characters die and are then brought to life. I also loved the sense of familial love at the heart of the novel, and it helped add grounding and a sense of reality. The character of Ursula changed and adapted as she subconsciously learnt from her errors in her parallel lives. The result is a character you wish the best for, but also she is not the same person from one segment to another. The constant characters of her siblings and parents help anchor the story and attach Ursula to each of her lives.

I do think this is a book worth reading; I suspect it's not worth reading in the way that I did. As the title of this blog suggests, I do most of my reading on my commute. I don't think this is a book designed for this purpose. I often found myself a bit confused when opening at the beginning of my journey and having to flick back a few pages to remind myself. The sense of deja vu which facilitates the central premise just makes the tale a bit confusing when you are reading at the extremities of your day. Perhaps if I'd read it over a weekend it would've been different. Instead, I often found myself a bit disorientated, and at the end I felt I'd been reading Ursula's saga for a very long time.

This is definitely a clever, interesting read; just perhaps not one for the rush hour.

(Available in hardback or Kindle format from Amazon)

The Shock of the Fall

Sometimes it's hard to truly capture how you feel a book. For me this applies to The Shock of the Fall, and I hope I do it justice. So here goes...

I'd heard great things about this title, so was excited to download it from NetGalley ahead of the UK publication date. I wouldn't quite call this a story; more a portrait of a very vulnerable young man. Following the childhood death of his brother, The Shock of the Fall is in parts the coming of age tale of Matthew, a teenage schizophrenic, but mainly a chronicle of his descent into mental illness.

Nathan Filer's style is no holds barred but also full of charm. Matt is charismatic and Filer's style is a masterful combination of coherent and chaotic. The latter captures Matt's desperate state of mind as he recounts his thoughts via the computer in his day centre, or at his typewriter in his lonely flat. The former is cleverly achieved to weave the tale of Matt's background into the narrative of someone battling mental illness.

This is very much a character-led piece. The reader inhabits Matt's world, seeing what he sees, including the schizophrenic visions of his deceased brother. Filer's approach is subtle and his experience in mental health nursing shines through to create a heart-renderingly beautiful portrait of an unwell mind. The scenes in which Simon, his brother, keeps appearing were particularly well done and moving. During Matt's 18th birthday, he describes how "everyone broke out in a loud chorus of Happy Birthday. Simon joined in too. He was in the flames. Of course he was in the flames. A nurse quickly grabbed hold of my wrist, leading me quickly to the cold tap. I had no idea what I had done, only that I had been trying to hold him".

In a society where mental illness remains something of a taboo and too often hysterical in its portrayal, Filer has provided a strong and sympathetic voice in Matthew. He creates sympathy and pathos for what he sees and feels, as his treatment makes him lose his brother all over again. You want nothing more than for him to get better, but this is a realistic portrayal of an illness that won't be simply cured.

So would The Shock of the Fall make a good rush hour read? I found it a very compelling book and a very honest account of grief, loss and mental illness. Its themes are more heavy ones, but despite this it's highly readable and impressive. In my view this is a brilliantly different and important piece of writing and a real privilege to read. It shows strong promise as a debut and I can't wait for more from this author!

(Released on the 23rd May 2013. Available for pre-order via Harper Collins or Amazon)

The Dinner

I shall have to tread carefully with this one, as one false word and I'll spoil everything...

Two brothers and their wives meet for dinner in a fancy restaurant in Amsterdam. The air is thick with history and old resentments as they greet and exchange pleasantries, putting off the real reason why they are there; they need to discuss their troubled children.

I love an unreliable narrator, and Paul is as unreliable as they come. What seems to be simple fraternal irritation at his brother Serge's mannerisms and the persona he's adopted to enhance his political career soon become something deeper, darker. At first you chuckle along as he grows irritated with the niggly details of fine dining and the related pretensions. However, as the story progresses, there is clearly more to Paul's pedantry than meets the eye.

Paul's descriptions of his oafish brother and his faux sophistication, his weariness with pretentious waiters and  his sharp observations as his thoughts meander made this book almost comedic in its first half. Indeed, for me it had Dutch echoes of Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's tour of Northern eateries in The Trip. Then, slowly and subtly, the observations and Paul's recounted reactions adopt a darker turn, less everyday, and you start to question just how much you do relate to Paul after all...

I found this a brilliantly dark read and a real journey; from one page to the next I had no idea where I would end up. Herman Koch creates a false sense of security throughout, then throws in twist after twist, each one still catching you out every time. This book had me truly gripped and the ending left me genuinely surprised. The one thing you couldn't criticise The Dinner for is being predictable.

There are quite a few loose ends in this story; a lot of the tales told are quite fragmented, as Paul dictates exactly what you as a reader need to know. I'm not sure how I felt about this as a narrative style and it's something I know I'll dwell on later. I would love to have known better the character of Claire, Paul's wife, but she was something of an enigma and my main criticism would be that I never really knew what made her tick. In some ways this is a tale of strong males where females blend into the background. I'm not sure if this is particularly a criticism, however, as this was perhaps more a reflection of the strong narrator and his equally strong resentment for his brother.

So, all in all, I would highly recommend The Dinner as a rush hour read for its subtle twists and subplots, somehow managing to be a slowburner and a rollercoaster all in one. Definitely a fine foray into the world of Dutch literature!

(Available in hardback, paperback, Kindle and audio through Amazon. For more information on this and other great reads, please visit the Atlantic Books website)

The Death of Bees

"Today is Christmas Eve. Today is my birthday. Today I am fifteen. Today I buried my parents in the backyard. Neither of them were beloved."

And so begins The Death of Bees. This beginning (along with the opening chapters' gruesome detail on the disposal of said parents' bodies) suggested this novel should have been somewhat shocking. Set in a Glasgow council estate, sisters Marnie and Nelly have grown up with addicts; drugs, abuse and alcoholism are part of their norm. Yet, despite these heavy themes, The Death of Bees had me gripped from the beginning.

Told through a series of short chapters, we shift perspectives between Marnie, Nelly and their elderly neighbour Lennie. They are a diverse set of characters; Marnie is tough, streetwise and academically gifted. Her narration is often cold, her hard exterior masking how desperately underloved and abandoned she has been. Nelly is different; a gifted violinist, she talks like something out of a Bette Davis film, and her innocence masks the horror of her life so far.

After trying to cope on their own, the sisters begin to forge a close bond with neighbour Lennie; mourning the loss of his lover, he relishes the opportunity to look after the girls and have company again. He is cultured and shows them a kindness they have never known. However, their arrangement is threatened by the appearance of the sisters' sinister grandfather, desperate to know the whereabouts of his daughter, as well as a local drug dealer owed money by their father, and Lennie's dog's habit of digging up bones from under the lavender bush...

As mentioned earlier, there are so many issues crammed into this novel; addiction, abuse, abandonment, sexuality and underage sex amongst others. Lisa O'Donnell, however, shows real skill in not trivialising the issues, but not allowing the story to become bogged down in them. This is a tale about survival and the importance of love and kindness. As a result, the issues they face are obstacles they overcome, and the outcome is a powerfully uplifting read which serves a slice of (not always comfortable, but always true) real life.

This is a gritty, truly unique read and one I flew through. I was so disappointed whenever my commute ended and I had to put this one away; thank goodness for the weekend when I could finish it in one sitting! This is a fantastic debut and one I cannot rave about enough. Lisa O'Donnell has masterfully created a world of cruelty where kindness wins through. Every character is perfect and form a cast you can't forget. It's a definite must read, and a great addition to any commute.

(Available in paperback and Kindle edition at Amazon)