Laura (lindsacl)'s Complete Booker

I've been actively reading Booker winners & shortlisted works for several years. I know I've also read a lot of longlisted books, but I don't track them so I couldn't say how many.

Rather than list books read here, I'll direct you to the page on my blog that I use to keep track. As of this writing, the count stands at 75 (all 40-something winners, and the rest shortlisted nominees):
Laura's Booker Prize Project Page

I've approached my Booker Prize reading as a "perpetual reading challenge," aiming for some sense of completion but with no time limit. I host a group blog, The Complete Booker. where similarly weird people gather to share Booker reviews.

I try to read about 12 Bookers each year: the current year winner and nominees from previous years. In 2011 I decided to focus on Iris Murdoch, who has won once and made the shortlist 5 times.

Revised May 2012. This used to list books I'd read and planned to read in 2011.

Read in 2011:
An Artist of the Floating World, by Kazuo Ishiguro
The Handmaid’s Tale, by Margaret Atwood
A Month in the Country, by J.L. Carr
Alias Grace, by Margaret Atwood
Bruno's Dream, by Iris Murdoch
The Nice and the Good, by Iris Murdoch
Remembering Babylon, by David Malouf - details
The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters
On Chesil Beach, by Ian McEwan
The Book and the Brotherhood, by Iris Murdoch
The Good Apprentice, by Iris Murdoch
The Black Prince, by Iris Murdoch
The Sense of an Ending, by Julian Barnes

As always, your organized (not to say obsessive!) approach to reading is so impressive to me. I cannot even aspire to such a thing, but the fact that you do makes me happy because I think it balances out my erratic and slapdash non-system!

>3 laytonwoman3rd:: that gave me a good laugh, Linda. I am a bit OCD when it comes to organizing my reading: lists, lists of lists, and so on. But I have found many kindred spirits on LT!! And some, like you, who teach me the importance of lightening up once in a while!

I need to give Iris Murdoch a try again. I tried to read her in college (my college professor did her dissertation on Murdoch - even met her in person!), but I was so busy with all my reading assignments that I skimmed through the book. I don't even remember the title. That's terrible. Dr. Mettler would be ashamed.

She's a bit of an acquired taste Jill, but I have grown to like her writing a lot.

Remembering Babylon ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
1993 Shortlist

Set in mid-19th century colonial Australia, Remembering Babylon explores issues of race and class through a young man named Gemmy Fairley. Gemmy turns up in a Queensland village, seemingly out of nowhere. He is white, but "appears" black and speaks the language of native people. He is most comfortable communicating with the three children who first discovered him, members of the McIvor family. Through various means of communication, Gemmy shares his background as a ragamuffin boy tossed from a ship, who lived with aboriginal people for 16 years. The McIvor family take him in, providing for his basic needs and giving him work to do around their property. Gemmy baffles the community:

He had started out white. No question. When he fell in with the blacks -- at thirteen, was it? -- he had been like any other child, one of their own for instance. (That was hard to swallow.) But had he remained white?

They looked at their children, even the smallest of them chattering away, entirely at home in their tongue, then heard the mere half-dozen words of English this fellow could cough up, and even those so mismanaged and distorted you could barely guess what he was on about, and you had to put to yourself the harder question. Could you lose it? Not just language, but it. It.

For the fact was, when you looked at him sometimes he was not white. His skin might be but not his features. The whole cast of his face gave him the look of one of Them. How was that, then? (p.40)

But Remembering Babylon isn't so much Gemmy's story as everyone else's. Janet, Meg, and Lachlan are forever changed after finding Gemmy. Several settlers actively work to oust Gemmy, showing their true selves and straining Jock and Ellen McIvor's relations with them. And just beyond the hubbub lives Mrs. Hutchence, an eccentric woman who offers love and kindness to everyone she meets. Malouf introduced every type of character imaginable: angry, bigoted settlers, a young schoolmaster, a preacher nearing the end of his career, etc. Most were not as well-developed as the McIvor family, and after a while I found the frequent new faces a distraction. The ending was also strange, jumping ahead in time while leaving a number of loose ends back in the 19th century. Still, this was a worthwhile read, an interesting study of human nature, set in a historic period I enjoy reading about.

Oh, I read that some years ago, but can't remember much about it now!

The Black Prince ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
1973 Shortlist

Bradley Pearson is a marginally successful author well past his professional prime, who fancies himself much more talented and good-looking than he is. At the beginning of the novel Bradley is preparing to leave on holiday, sure that a change of scene will inspire him to write his greatest work. But barriers arise in rapid succession, as he learns of his ex-wife's arrival in London, his friend Arnold Baffin calls asking for help resolving a quarrel with his wife Rachel, and his sister Priscilla breaks down after trouble with her husband. Bradley immediately falls into "fix-it" mode, but every act has consequences. Watching Bradley is like watching a row of dominoes fall. And then Bradley becomes positively delusional, falling head over heels for a much younger woman and being just arrogant enough to think the relationship will work.

Iris Murdoch's characterizations are brilliant. Bradley is a bumbling fool but doesn't know it. Rachel and Priscilla are women of a certain age, each with her own set of neuroses. Rachel and Arnold's relationship is typical of many long marriages, but Bradley fails to understand how two people are angry or frustrated with one another without fracturing the strong bond between them. I also love Murdoch's ability to describe the ordinary in such extraordinary ways:

The division of one day from the next must be one of the most profound peculiarities on this planet. It is, on the whole, a merciful arrangement. We are not condemned to sustained flights of being, but are constantly refreshed by little holidays from ourselves. We are intermittent creatures, always falling to little ends and rising to little new beginnings. Our soon-tired consciousness is meted out in chapters, and that the world will look quite different tomorrow is, both for our comfort and our discomfort, usually true. How marvellously too night matches sleep, sweet image of it, so neatly apportioned to our need. (p. 232)

The Black Prince has a very interesting structure. Bradley's story is written in the first person, as if he is telling it to the book's editor, who wrote a "foreword" to this book. A second foreword, written by Bradley, provides the reader with his personal history. After Bradley's story is complete, four important characters offer postscripts. These not only supply a denouement, they also shed entirely new light on everything that was written before. It turns out Bradley is one of the most unreliable narrators I've ever experienced. The plot twists at the end sent me off in search of earlier passages, to re-read in a new light. I'm still puzzling through the intricacies of this book, which is why Iris Murdoch is one of my favorite authors.

Great review! She is one of my favorite authors as well. I haven't read this one yet, but it's on my list.

The Little Stranger ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2009 Shortlist

The Little Stranger is a good old-fashioned gothic mystery set in the 1940s, in an old and stately English house which is just as much a character as the Ayers family who inhabits it. We first "meet" Hundreds Hall through Robert Faraday, a local doctor whose mother worked in service at Hundreds when he was young. Some thirty years later, he is called out to care for one of the maids, who has fallen ill. There he also meets Mrs. Ayers and her adult children, Roderick and Caroline. The family has come on hard times since Mrs. Ayers became a widow. Roderick is struggling to cope with the estate he inherited. Money is scarce, and the family has been faced with difficult decisions to make ends meet.

Dr. Faraday offers to treat Roderick's war injury with an experimental procedure, free of charge. And thus he inserts himself into the life of Hundreds Hall, and gets all up in their business. He worries endlessly about Mrs. Ayers, and begins to fancy Caroline. At least that's what he tells us, because Robert is the story's narrator. He spends more and more time at Hundreds Hall. When Mrs. Ayers decides to give a party, the first in years, he finds himself on the guest list -- unusual due to their different social classes. Things begin to unravel at the party, when the family dog Gyp bites a young guest and leaves her severely disfigured. Progressively weirder things happen, with progressively greater impact on the emotional well-being of the Ayers family members. And Hundreds Hall falls into an even greater state of disrepair. It appears some sort of ghost is terrorizing the household, and it's very creepy indeed.

I was constantly torn while reading this book. My literary mind wanted to believe there was a ghost because after all, this is a gothic mystery/ghost story. My rational, analytical side dismissed that as nonsense and looked for a rational, analytical cause for all these mishaps. When I finished the book, I still wasn't sure. The ending is such that Waters might have given me the rational answer, which gave the story a chilling psychological thriller angle. Or she didn't, and there was just a lot of inexplicable weird and creepy stuff going on.

If I could rewrite the ending, I know what I'd do. But I can't tell you; you'll have to read this book and form your own conclusions. I ended up docking my rating 1/2 star because it all left me rather frustrated.

I wanted a ghost too! What's the point of reading good old-fashioned Gothic mysteries unless there's a good old-fashioned Gothic ghost in there too!

I do think it's a shame that her earlier books didn't get the award recognition that I feel they deserved.

Sounds like a ghost story in the good old The Turn of the Screw tradition, I will have to give it a read.

Nice review of The Little Stranger, Laura. Despite reading several lukewarm reviews I am looking forward to reading it later this year (it will be my Orange read for one of the last three months of the year).

Nice review, Laura. I liked The Little Stranger much better because it wasn't clear there was a ghost; I liked the psychological aspects of it and the way the decline of the house and the family reflected the social changes in postwar Britain. If it had just been a ghost story, I wouldn't have found it as thought-provoking. I also liked the way Waters ratcheted up the creepiness as the books went on and kept me guessing.

The Good Apprentice (did not finish)
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
1985 Shortlist

Iris, you let me down on this one. Having read nine of your novels, I've come to expect three elements in perfect balance: strong characterizations, especially of hapless or arrogant male protagonists, moral dilemmas, and a certain "talkiness" in the prose. The Good Apprentice had all these elements, but they were out of balance and failed to deliver an enjoyable reading experience.

Murdoch's protagonist is Edward Baltram, a young man who played a prank that went horribly wrong and resulted in a friend's death (this is not a spoiler; it happens in the first few pages). Edward is fortunate not to be charged with a crime, but he is devastated and knows his life is permanently changed. His family throws a dinner party to help him "get over it," which is mostly a way for Murdoch to introduce a broad cast of characters. We meet his stepfather Harry, Harry's son Stuart, Edward's aunt Midge and uncle Tom, and Ursula, the family physician. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the dinner party fails to lift Edward's spirits. He decides he'll escape to the country and reunite with his biological father Jesse, and Jesse's wife and adult daughters.

Flip ahead about 100 pages, and you'll find Edward settled in Jesse's house, surrounded by quirky relatives and still wandering around morose and confused. And you'll also find Stuart, a religious fanatic, in endless philosophical dialogue with Tom, and Midge thinking way too much about how to shorten a dress and insert a new panel of fabric.

Amazon calls this book, "Funny and compelling, ... at once a supremely sophisticated entertainment and an inquiry into the spiritual crises that afflict the modern world." Sorry, but I found it repetitive and boring. I'm sure Murdoch's symbolism and ideas become clearer by the end of the book, but I just didn't have the patience to struggle through more than 550 pages.

59. On Chesil Beach ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2007 Shortlist

Ian McEwan has a unique ability to make me love his books, despite making me feel so terribly sad. On Chesil Beach is the story of one young couple's ill-fated wedding night. The book opens as Florence and Edward are enjoying a private dinner in their honeymoon suite:

They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible. But it is never easy. They were sitting down to supper in a tiny sitting room on the first floor of a Georgian inn. In the next room, visible through the open door, was a four-poster bed, rather narrow, whose bedcover was pure white and stretched startlingly smooth, as though by no human hand. (p. 1)

Florence was scared to death, ill-informed, and disgusted by the few facts she knew about impending events. Edward was filled with desire, but also with intense fear of failure. The first chapter (33 pages) builds tension up to the point that Florence and Edward make their way towards that four-poster.

McEwan then leaves Edward and Florence in a state of suspended animation, and takes the reader back in time to understand how they met, their family histories, and their relationship. Florence is a violinist in a string quartet, and the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Edward was from more humble stock, but well-educated, and while he did not particularly appreciate classical music, he was very supportive of Florence. He also dutifully accepted employment with Florence's father, even though it was far removed from his field of expertise.

Back to the bedroom, where you can cut the tension with a knife. You just know things aren't going to go well for this couple, and their complete inability to communicate just takes things from bad to worse. It's not just that they can't talk about sex, it seems they can't talk about anything important. Their responses are all too human, but as McEwan shows, small acts of anger have lasting consequences.

At just over 150 pages, On Chesil Beach was a very quick read, but Ian McEwan is such a master at both characterization and drama that the book had enormous emotional impact.

Great review of On Chesil Beach. I really liked that one too, although I can see how some readers would find it dull.

On Chesil Beach is a great book! Glad you liked it!

I seem to recall you're a massive McEwan fan, Jill ! I have to say, I am too.

Me too! (waving wildly)

Fabulous review of On Chesil Beach, Laura! McEwan did a brilliant job in conveying the awkwardness of this couple and the tension between the two, and I remember pleading with McEwan and the couple to reach a satisfactory resolution. Then again, I should have known better; McEwan doesn't do happy endings. :-)

Count me in the McEwan fan club, too. I think I've read nearly all of his books, except for Atonement, Solar and The Innocent.

Oh, Darryl, Atonement is my favourite of his. Different from the others, I think. Hope you like it when you get around to it.

Loved Atonement and thought the film was excellent, too. As I said in another LT group, McEwan does "bummer" like nobody else!

This reminds me that I have Saturday on my shelf, and it needs to be read!

Also a huge McEwan fan - I think I have read every book of his and the only one I did not enjoy was Solar, and I cannot say it was because of his writing style, rather content and interest.

The Book and the Brotherhood ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
1987 Shortlist

When a group of middle-aged Oxford school friends reconnects at a gala summer ball, they set in motion a series of events that forever change their relationships with one another. When Jean Cambus dances with David Crimond an old flame is rekindled, Jean's husband Duncan gets into an argument with Crimond, and Jean ends up leaving Duncan for Crimond (for the second time, in fact).

The rest of the group is stunned. Their personal and collective responses offer a way for Murdoch to explore various archetypes and relationships. The cast is rich and varied. Gerard Hernshaw views himself as somewhat in charge, but is tormented by childhood loss and a general sense of emptiness. His sister and brother-in-law have moved into his house and are increasingly putting down roots, but Gerard is unable to confront them. Rose Curtland has always loved Gerard but never acted on her feelings. Jenkin Riderhood is a quiet, unattached schoolmaster; Lily Boyne attends the ball as Crimond's date. Gulliver Ashe is a younger man who has been unable to find a job, and Tamar Hernshaw, Gerard's niece, is younger still.

Several years earlier, the group formed a "brotherhood" to finance Crimond's effort to write a political book, but the book has yet to be published. Each member of the brotherhood pays their annual dues, but demands nothing from Crimond; they are reluctant even to approach him about his progress. Even Jean cannot speak to him about it. And while this drama is in progress, several other subplots unfold involving the other characters. Tamar's youthful naiveté and conflicted relationship with her mother lead her into a situation with significant personal consequences. Gerard takes steps towards a relationship he never thought possible. Rose faces her spinsterhood with a stiff upper lip.

And then there's Crimond, the only character consistently referred to only by his surname. Arrogant and detached, when he finally finishes his book he loses his sense of purpose. He tries to engage Jean in some shocking behavior that culminates in one of the novel's most harrowing scenes. And there's still more dramatic tension as Crimond goes a bit off his rocker. Tragic events follow, made even more so as each member of the "brotherhood" feels somewhat at fault. One by one, Murdoch gets into their heads as they examine their role, dwelling on small actions that led to other actions that ultimately led to the tragedy.

The Book and the Brotherhood also serves as a forum for Murdoch's own ideology, which I admit often goes over my head. I enjoyed the character-driven nature of this book much more. I also felt it went on a bit long, and some of the subplots could have been resolved more quickly. Taken as a whole, this was fairly representative of Murdoch's work, even if it wasn't my favorite.

The Sense of an Ending ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2011 Winner

Now in his 60s, Tony Webster is retired, divorced, and taking stock of his life. He begins by recounting his youth and young adulthood, and his social circle, which revolved around Adrian, the aloof ringleader. These relationships falter on leaving school, and when Adrian begins dating Tony's former girlfriend Veronica. Years later, Veronica's mother passes away. Tony is quite surprised to learn she left him a bequest. He gets back in touch with Veronica, and makes a nuisance of himself in attempts to understand the bequest. The reader learns a lot about Tony's true self, even as Tony remains oblivious. As Veronica says repeatedly, "You just don't get it."

Julian Barnes packed so much into this novella, and yet I'm hard pressed to explain just how he did it. The plot appears straightforward, as everyday events unfold through Tony's eyes. But it is actually layered with complexity, requiring the reader to flip back and forth to see what they missed on a first reading. Little by little, you realize how much memories are influenced by what you want -- and don't want -- to remember. Small but important details can escape notice, leaving two people with completely different impressions of events. And sometimes these different points of view have tragic consequences. So it came as a complete shock when Tony finally "got it," and I understood what was actually going on all those years. Or at least I think I understand. I may need to read it yet again.

With a series of haunting images that set the stage, an unreliable narrator, and an overall sense of loss, this book will stay with you long after turning the last page. As Tony says:

What you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed. (p. 1)

Very real thanks to lindasacl and wookiebender for giving me the idea to use Booker winners and short lists as an ongoing and systematic source for finding wonderful novels. I've haphazardly read many Bookers over the years, but I've started using the list itself only since joining this group.

>29 danieljayfriedman:: Hello and you're quite welcome!
If you'd like more Booker inspiration, check out The Complete Booker. This is a group blog that I've hosted for just over 4 years, where contributors share reviews of Booker winners & nominees. You can browse the site or become a contributor yourself.

In the Country of Men ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2006 Shortlist

That visit has remained with me ever since. Whenever I am faced with someone who holds the strings of my fate – an immigration officer, a professor – I can feel the distant reverberations from that day, my inauguration into the dark art of submission. Perhaps this is why I often find a shameful pleasure in submitting to authority. … And this is also why, when I finally think I have gained the pleasure of authority, a sense of self-loathing rises to clasp me by the throat. I have always been able to imagine being unjustifiably hated. (p. 159)

When his father disappears one day in 1979, nine-year-old Suleiman’s life is forever changed. Just a short time before, the same thing happened to his best friend Kareem’s father. Instead of spending long happy summer days playing with neighborhood boys, Suleiman tries to make sense of his world. He acts out his emotions and uncertainty, turning on Kareem instead of offering support.

Under the Qaddafi regime, Libya had become a place where dissent was dangerous. Counter-revolutionaries were rounded up for interrogation; some never returned. Suleiman’s mother Najwa tells him Baba is on a business trip, and consoles herself with “medicine” (alcohol, obtained illegally). She has her own demons, having been forced by her family to marry when she was just 14. To protect Baba from investigators, Najwa and a family friend Moosa burn his books and papers. But Suleiman nearly gets caught in the web when a strange man begins asking him questions about Baba and his associates. In one of the more horrifying scenes Suleiman, Najwa, and Moosa watch a public execution on television. At the end, the TV broadcast returned to images of flowers and nationalistic music. And life went on.

Suleiman grew into a man, but one with emotional scars that would never heal. Hisham Matar writes convincingly, and from direct experience: his own father disappeared many years ago, and to this day Matar doesn’t know what happened to him. When he describes the televised execution’s impact on Suleiman, you know he’s also talking about himself:

Something was absent in the stadium, something that could no longer be relied on. Apart from making me lose trust in the assumption that “good things happen to good people,” the televised execution … would leave another, more lasting impression on me, one that has survived well into my manhood, a kind of quiet panic, as if at any moment the rug could be pulled from beneath my feet. … I had no illusions that I or Baba or Mama were immune from being burned by the madness that overtook the National Basketball Stadium. (p. 198)

This book started slowly and quietly, but the tension steadily grew. I was drawn into the family's story, and felt quite emotional reading about how the events of 1979 affected Suleiman for the rest of his life. This is a very powerful book deserving of its 2006 Booker Prize nomination.

Good Behaviour ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
1981 Shortlist

For certain families, keeping up appearances in public is of prime importance. The St Charles family is one of these. Daughter Aroon, now the ungainly, unmarried daughter, looks back on her childhood at Temple Alice and how expectations of "good behaviour" ultimately brought unhappiness and even tragedy. Aroon and her brother Hubert grew up in the care of a cool and distant mother and a philandering father. Mummie preferred to look the other way, rather than confront Papa's infidelity. Papa loved his children on one level, but preferred riding, fox-hunting, and women to life at home. When Papa is wounded in the war, his convalescence provides Aroon and Hurbert an unexpected opportunity to enjoy a new level intimacy with their father. Mummie remains aloof, and can't hold back a sadistic glow when she realizes her husband is unable to ride.

As Aroon grows into a young woman, she sets her sights on Hubert's best friend Richard. She wildly misinterprets his behavior towards her, and convinces herself they are lovers. She fails to see what's obvious to the reader: Richard and Hubert are much more than friends. When Richard suddenly goes off to Africa, Aroon continues her delusion, sure he will return for her one day. When a letter finally arrives, she is at first disappointed -- until she finds a way to infuse each paragraph with hidden meaning.

Inevitably, the family's fortunes change. They have lived way beyond their means, with a bad habit of stuffing every bill into a drawer. Their solicitor knows the score and tries to help, but Mummie and Papa are compelled to maintain the illusion of wealth and society, so their irresponsible spending continues unchecked. Even in the most intense and private situations, good behaviour rules:

When the last speechless hand-grip was completed, Papa, Mummie, and I were left in the hall, with empty glasses and the empty plates; funerals are hungry work. We exchanged cool, warning looks -- which of us could behave best: which of us could be least embarrassing to the others, the most ordinary in a choice of occupation? (p. 113)

Good Behaviour landed Molly Keane firmly on my favorite authors list. Her characterizations are classic examples of an author showing, not telling. At an early age Richard is "caught" reading poetry in a treehouse. Richard and Hubert go to great lengths to be together alone. Slowly, the reader comes to realize they are gay. It's brilliantly done. She conveys emotion with similar skill. When Aroon goes to a party alone and finds she's been paired with an older, misfit of a man, her pain is palpable. And yet there are also moments of delightful wit, such as Mummie's visit with neighbors, when she finds the primary bathroom already in use. Her host directs her:

'You'll have to try the downstairs. I'll just turn out the cats. They love it on a wet day.' I could imagine them there, crouched between the loo and the croquet mallets and the Wellington boots and the weed killer. (p. 157)

My Virago Modern Classics collection includes several more books by Molly Keane (who also wrote under the pseudonym M.J. Farrell). I can't wait to discover more of her talent.

Wow, two great Bookers in a row!

>33 Cait86:: Yes Cait, and in the same week as well. I don't think I've ever read two 5-star reads back-to-back.

Oryx and Crake ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2003 Shortslit

Human society, they claimed, was a sort of monster, its main by-products being corpses and rubble. It never learned, it made the same cretinous mistakes over and over, trading short-term gain for long-term pain. It was like a giant slug eating its way relentlessly through all the other bioforms on the planet, grinding up life on earth and shitting it out the backside in the form of pieces of manufactured and soon-to-be-obsolete plastic junk. (p. 243)

Snowman, formerly known as Jimmy, lives in relative solitude, sleeping in a lean-to and scavenging for food and water in a city destroyed by a disaster. He wears a watch, although it no longer functions, and covers himself with a bed sheet as protection from the sun's harsh rays. Snowman also watches over the "Children of Crake," a group of ... what are they? People? Aliens? And how did all this come to pass?

Snowman's entire life is set sometime in a near future, that bears some resemblance to the world we know today. The story takes us back to Snowman's childhood, when his father worked for one of many corporations using science to "improve" the world. Through genetic engineering, they seek to evolve human and animal life to advanced forms, free from perceived weaknesses. But of course that comes with a price to people and society. Snowman and his best friend Crake spend their days in typical boy/teen pursuits, like videogames, but even these have a somewhat sinister aspect. As they grow up, their paths diverge -- Crake is more scientifically minded, and is recruited by a renowned university -- but they meet up again in their 20s, along with Oryx, a beautiful woman they have both admired for years.

Along the way, Margaret Atwood leaves tiny clues, so the reader begins to envision what will happen, and how Snowman ends up as possibly the last remaining human on earth. It's both gripping and highly disturbing. Atwood considers her work "speculative fiction," not science fiction. And Oryx and Crake has the requisite dystopian and apocalyptic elements. It's not my usual fare, but she is so good at it, I could easily imagine Snowman's world, and see the path to it from the world I know today. In writing Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood said she intended to give one answer to the question, "What if we continue down the road we're already on? How slippery is the slope? What are our saving graces? Who's got the will to stop us?" And frankly, her answer is bleak. It could be a wake-up call. Or we could all just continue down the road we're already on ...

I have your thread starred. Great reviews! I plan to read the Black Prince and The Good Apprentice (which I see you did not enjoy) this year. I've also thought about Good Behavior, which I did not immediately realize was a Booker shortlisted book.

Loitering with Intent ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
1981 Shortlist

Fleur Talbot is a “modern” young woman, living and working in London in the middle of the twentieth century. An aspiring novelist, she lands a secretarial position with the “Autobiographical Society,” an organization that helps clients write their biographies as life unfolds. The society promises to store these works for seventy years, publishing only after everyone in the book has died.

If that sounds a bit strange, hang on, because the story gets more bizarre with every page. The society’s clients are a band of misfits and unknowns, and it’s hard to imagine anyone would be interested in their life stories. But Sir Quentin Oliver, head of the society, coddles them and coaches them through each chapter, focusing on their childhood, their early romantic and sexual experiences, and so forth. As secretary, Fleur has access to their manuscripts and uses her creative talents to spice things up a bit. In the office, which is actually Sir Quentin’s flat, she engages in a power struggle with Quentin's housekeeper Mrs Beryl Tims, and befriends his elderly and incontinent mother, Edwina.

But all of this is secondary to Fleur; her life is focused on finishing her novel and getting it published. She’s also distracted by an affair that’s gone sour, and an unlikely friendship with the man’s wife, Dottie. For some reason she convinces Dottie to join the Autobiographical Society and write her memoirs, and gradually discovers Dottie may not be the friend she thought (really? I could have told her that). She also begins to see another side of Sir Quentin that is obvious to the reader, but would stun the society members who idolize him. When Fleur’s manuscript goes missing, and scenes from her novel are played out in real life, the story gets very strange indeed.

Spark’s characters are very funny. Edwina pees on the floor nearly every time she stands up; Beryl Tims is very proper and judgmental. There’s an unfrocked priest with a story that’s far less controversial than he thinks, a disabled mystic, and many more. The madcap storyline moves along at a brisk pace. This is a light read, darkly funny, and while I enjoyed it on one level, it was also all a bit over the top. I found it a nice diversion from some of the heavier stuff I’m reading. For my tastes, Spark is best taken in small doses like this one.

Thanks for the reviews of In the Country of Men and Good Behaviour. Those look really great. Anytime you give 5 stars I sit up and take notice.

I'll be the lone dissenter here and say I don't care for Ian McEwan.

>38 1morechapter:: hi there! Happy to add a couple books to your reading pile. :)

Slow Booker reading this year, but here's one I read in July. Two more will follow soon as I just checked them out of the library.
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The Accidental ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2006 Shortlist

Eve and Michael Smart, and their children Magnus and Astrid, rent a house in Norfolk for the summer, hoping to escape the stress of everyday London life. One day a young woman named Amber appears on their doorstep, and everyone is so caught up in their own cares, each assumes she is known to one of the others. Astrid thinks she's a friend of Eve's; Eve thinks she's one of Michael's university students, etc. Amber stays for dinner, and spends the night, albeit in her car. Time passes and before you know it, Amber is firmly entrenched in their lives. She's a dubious role model and mentor to 12-year-old Amber, the object of 17-year-old Magnus' passion, and the one woman Michael wants but can't manage to seduce. Amber also becomes privy to several deep family secrets, some shared with her directly and others obtained through her powers of reason.

It's all very strange, because she's not particularly likeable. You'd think one of the parents would kick her out, but every member of the family is so locked inside their own head that no one understands the effect she's having on them collectively. As Amber inserts herself into the family, she shares remarkably little about herself, and yet manages to get everyone else to let their guard down. Each family member has the chance to tell their version of the story, taking turns as narrator, which enables the reader to get just as deep into each person's psyche as Amber does. Ali Smith used very different writing styles and techniques for each character, underscoring the differences between family members. On the other hand, Amber's chapters are decidedly sparse, so as readers our understanding of her is just as limited as the family's.

I was initially intrigued by Smith's quirky writing, but eventually tired of it. The story seemed about equal parts positive and creepy. Only when the family returns to London does the full impact of Amber's visit become clear, and the whole thing struck me as quite creepy indeed. And while this book gave me some interesting thoughts to ponder, I was left wishing some of the family relationships and related themes were further developed.

Carry me Down ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2006 shortlist

Creating an effective child narrator is a difficult task. Whatever their age, they need to be credible. If the child's speech sounds too old for their age, or they handle situations that are overly complex or physically impossible, that's not credible. Carry me Down is narrated by 10-year-old John Egan, and while his speech and inner thoughts sounded about right, his actions didn't always ring true for me and this significantly affected my impressions of this book.

Early in the novel, John becomes physically ill after catching one of his parents in a lie. Over time he uncovers more lies, first with similar results but later he is able to detect lies without getting sick. John becomes convinced he has a special gift for lie detection, and obsesses about getting into the Guinness Book of World Records. John is a bit of a loner and a social misfit at school, and using his "gift" doesn't help much. Meanwhile, there is a lot of dysfunctional behavior between his mother, father, and grandmother. John's father is out of work, and they have been forced to live in grandmother's house. John's mother is an emotional train wreck with unpredictable mood swings. The reader has to interpret events through John's lens, but he doesn't understand half of what's going on. Some gaps are easier to fill in than others. Eventually John's lie detection escalates to a level that leads to family crisis.

M. J. Hyland describes John as very tall for his age, and implies his physical maturation is taking place earlier than normal. But how "abnormal" is he? Some characters were put off by his size; others dismissed it as a minor detail. I also found it difficult to decide whether John was a misfit because he had superior intelligence, or because he was emotionally disturbed. John seems to ignore his height, which would be unusual for a child wanting to fit in at school. And yet late in the novel, he uses his size to gain an advantage in a frightening way. This was the most significant credibility gap in his character, but there were many other minor situations that didn't seem like the behavior of a 10-year-old.

The story of John's unraveling family held my interest, especially because so much was left to conjecture. But I've read a lot of "dysfunctional family novels," and they need to bring something new and fresh for me to really enjoy them. In this case, too much revolved around John's character, and once he had lost credibility my enthusiasm for this novel waned.

A Long Long Way ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2005 Shortlist

Willie Dunne enlists in the British Army right at the beginning of World War I, and joins the 16th Irish Division, one of two southern divisions supporting Home Rule. Willie begins his service excited about supporting his country, but quickly faces the intense fear of daily living at the front. His regiment is composed of local boys, all from the same region, sharing common beliefs. Included are some memorable characters, like his Sergeant-Major Christy Moran, and Father Buckley, who ministers to the regiment. Their shared experience creates a bond of friendship, but even that is threatened by the stress of battle.

Barry's writing is beautiful. Early on, he sets the scene for the carnage to follow:

And all those boys of Europe born in those times, and thereabouts those times, Russian, French, Belgian, Serbian, Irish, English, Scottish, Welsh, Italian, Prussian, German, Austrian, Turkish -- and Canadian, Australian, American, Zulu, Gurkha, Cossack, and all the rest -- their fate was written in a ferocious chapter of the book of life, certainly. Those millions of mothers and their million gallons of mothers' milk, millions of instances of small-talk and baby-talk, beatings and kisses, ganseys and shoes, piled up in history in great ruined heaps with a loud and broken music, human stories told for nothing, for ashes, for deaths' amusement, flung on the mighty scrapheap of souls, all those million boys in all their humours to be milled by the mill-stones of a coming war. (p. 4)

And, later, Barry describes the moments after a man has been court-martialed and shot, with echoes of the earlier passage:

The birds began to sing in the stand of trees behind the fallen body. It was as if he never had been. It was as if there never had been a proper reason for a life, as if all stories and pictures were a lie and a nonsense. It was as if blood were ashes and the song of a life was the only the painful tension of a baby's cry. How his mother had loved him and rejoiced in his coming and fed him were hardly known. He seemed in that moment to leave no echo in the world. (p. 161)

Despite this superb prose, A Long Long Way was too much like other World War I novels I've read. Think All Quiet on the Western Front, but with Irish soldiers, and the 1916 Easter Rising thrown in for good measure. The soldiers begin as raw, enthusiastic recruits, until they see the horrors of battle. Men are injured, left with lifelong scars or worse. Other men are lost; friendships end in an instant. Home leave is not the pleasant respite expected, but instead fraught with conflicting emotions. And after a time, the protagonist and reader alike have to ask themselves, "what's it all for?"

This is a well-written book, recommended if you're new to war literature or interested specifically in the Irish war experience.

Great review, Laura!

Thank you, Darryl. *bows*
:)

#42 - Hi Laura - Nice review - this one sounds intriguing. I actually don't have much experience with war literature, so I don't think the repetition would bother me.

Is there a plan to your Booker reading? I notice several from 2005 and 2006?

>45 DorsVenabili:: Kerri, I'm choosing semi-randomly from the shortlists. I finished my quest to read all the winners a couple years ago, so each year I read that year's winner. Last year I decided to read all of Iris Murdoch's shortlisted novels (there are several). This year, I thought I'd try to complete a couple of short lists (2005 & 2006). 2005 is now complete, but 2006 includes Mother's Milk which is part of a series and I really want to read the preceding books so ... scratch that 2012 goal! But I'm also close to completing the short lists for 2000 & 2002 and have the remaining books in my sights for this year.

#46 - Thank you - I was curious. I'm reading all the shortlisted books from 1978 and 1985 this year, although I may hold off on the one Iris Murdoch, because I plan to do an author read of her books next year (I've already read a few and consider her one of my favorites.)

I also plan to read the rest of the winners, starting next year (it will definitely take me longer than a year.) There are actually only two that I'm dreading: The Kingsley Amis and the V.S. Naipaul, although I do want to give Naipaul another chance after one dreadful experience several years ago.

>47 DorsVenabili:: well ... I can't help you on your dreaded books because they were two that I really disliked (1 star!). But I read them, whereas I actually also had 3 "DNFs" from the winners list. So have I really "read" all the winners?! Some would debate that, but I say life's too short!

I love Iris Murdoch too, which is what inspired me to focus on her last year.

#48 - That's funny that we have negative feelings about the same two books! I rarely abandon a book (often against my better judgement), but A Bend in the River is one of the few that I threw across the room in disgust (and then gave away to a friend). Plus, it's difficult to get over that nonsense he was spouting last year about how female writers are inferior, etc.

>49 DorsVenabili:: oh yes, ABSOLUTELY.

Bring up the Bodies ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2012 Shortlist

"Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived."

That's how school children remember the fate of King Henry VIII's six wives between 1509 and 1547. Bring up the Bodies is set in 1535-36, when Henry is married to his second wife, Anne Boleyn. Thomas Cromwell has risen from humble birth to a place as the King's Master Secretary. He engineered Henry's divorce from Catherine of Aragon, and his marriage to Anne Boleyn. But Anne has been unable to deliver Henry a son and heir, and Henry turns on Anne:

Henry beckons her to approach. Beckons her till her face is close to his own. His voice low and vehement: 'Why not geld me while you are at it? That would suit you, would it not, madam?'

Faces open in shock. The Boleyns have the sense to draw Anne backwards, backwards and away, Mistress Shelton and Jane Rochford flapping and tut-tutting, the whole Howard, Boleyn clan closing around her. Jane Seymour, alone of the ladies, does not move. She stands and looks at Henry and the king's eyes fly straight to her, a space opens around her and for a moment she stands in the vacancy, like a dancer left behind when the line moves on. (p. 175)

Cromwell knows what needs to be done, and that he must be the one to do it. He carefully builds the case against Anne, whether that case be real or imagined. Henry looks for loopholes in marriage law that would allow him to declare his marriage invalid. But Cromwell finds a stronger case against Anne, one of adultery. It's never clear how true the allegations are; but just as Henry can twist marriage law, Cromwell can twist off-hand remarks and connect them into a pattern of escalating flirtation. Before you know it several key people are arrested and locked up in the Tower of London to await their fate.

And yet Cromwell is such a likeable character. He is assured and confident in his abilities and his standing at court, and he doesn't hesitate to use his power. He also knows he could use that power to have any woman he wants. But at heart he is a family man, mourning his dead wife and children while nurturing his one remaining son and others he has mentored into adulthood. And as things get tense at court, Cromwell knows that everything he has can be lost in an instant. In Bring up the Bodies, he is successful. History shows Cromwell died in 1540, after Henry's disastrous marriage to Anne of Cleves. And that will be the subject of Mantel's last book in this trilogy, which can't come soon enough for me.

Dirt Music ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2002 Shortlist

Fishing is central to the western Australian village of White Point, driving the economy and shaping social order. Jim Buckridge is the best fisherman around, which affords him "big man on campus" status. His partner, Georgie Jutland, ended up in White Point after chucking a nursing career and a failed relationship. Their relationship is fragile: Jim mourns his first wife Debbie, who died of cancer, but he refuses to talk about it. His young sons see Georgie as the evil stepmother. Georgie stays up into the wee hours, drowning her sorrows in vodka. It's not surprising, then, when she discovers Luther Fox poaching fish in the dark of night and ends up in bed with him.

Well, OK, that was kind of surprising. The chemistry between Georgie and Lu wasn't well-developed, and her relationship with Jim still had life in it (that is, until she slept with Lu). But Luther was an interesting character, a man forever scarred by the sudden tragic loss of his entire family. I felt sorry for him, and wanted him to find love and happiness with Georgie. Thus Tim Winton sets up the central conflict, "what will Georgie do?" and takes the reader along on her quest. Along the way, he reveals tiny details that flesh out each man's past. What exactly happened to Luther's family? Why is Jim such a badass? Why won't he talk about Debbie, and what does he really want from Georgie? Winton also brings the Western Australian landscape to life. As someone completely unfamiliar with the geography and the flora and fauna, I kept a map close at hand and found images of animals, trees, and birds to visualize the scenery.

While Winton was successful in drawing me into the story and it held my interest, it fell short of its potential. Georgie's character could have been developed more fully. She was somewhat of a paradox: hard-edged and abrasive, but known for her caring and nursing skills. Not the least bit concerned about fashion or makeup, and yet considered sexy. It just didn't add up. Then, as the central conflict reached its climax, Winton placed his characters in a situation that struck me as far-fetched, and the resolution was just too neat to be believable. Ah, well.

The Keepers of Truth (DNF)
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2000 Shortlist

Well, that was a waste of perfectly good reading time. The Keepers of Truth starts out with a mystery: a man disappears from a small midwestern town, and his ne'er-do-well do son is automatically a suspect. Bill, a reporter for the local newspaper, is on the beat but for some reason doesn't want to cover the investigation; instead he wants to write Really Great Prose about the meaning of life and how the crime is somehow representative of the sad decline of small towns and American industry in general. Bill is a recent college graduate but comes across more like a 40-year-old suffering a mid-life crisis. The other main characters are all various archetypes of the American white male. Women are cast in subservient roles, primarily as waitresses or cheerleaders. Their breasts fall out of their blouses and they reveal their underwear with alarming frequency. Even the woman TV news reporter is objectified.

As if that weren't enough, the story darts all over the place. Bill is on the scene reporting the crime. Bill pines after his former girlfriend. Bill spends all night in a diner, several nights in a row (how does he go to work the next day? Beats me). Bill decides to prepare for law school again having failed the first time. Bill pines after his girlfriend again. Bill joins the police chief in rounding up rowdy high school students cruising the main drag.

All that in just over 80 pages. By then I'd had enough. The Keepers of Truth was nominated for the 2000 Booker Prize, competing against a field that included The Blind Assassin (which won), The Deposition of Father McGreevy, English Passengers, The Hiding Place, and When We Were Orphans. Go read one of those instead.

The Garden of Evening Mists ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2012 Shortlist

When Yun Ling Teoh retires from her career as an attorney and a judge, she returns to the Malaysian highlands, where she spent the years immediately following World War II. Recently diagnosed with a degenerative memory disease, she wants to record her life's memories before they disappear.

Yun Ling was the only survivor of a Japanese camp; her sister died there. After the war, Yun Ling sought out Aritomo, former gardener to the Japanese emperor, to learn the art of Japanese gardening and create a garden in her sister's memory. Yun Ling is filled with anger at the Japanese, and overcome with guilt over her sister's death. Her time with Aritomo becomes a time of healing and spiritual renewal.

As readers we live in Yun Ling's mind, moving seamlessly between present and past. So seamlessly, in fact, that occasionally I had to back up and re-read pages to ground myself in the correct time period. In the present day, Yun Ling is visited by a man researching Aritomo's life and work. This storyline, combined with Yun Ling's memories of Malaysia during and after the war, convey the brutality of this period in a very powerful and emotional way. But this is not "just" a wartime story. The Garden of Evening Mists is also about beauty and love, and the ability of both to persist through the most horrific circumstances.

I had looked forward to reading this book after it was nominated for the 2012 Booker Prize, and received several rave reviews on LibraryThing. I was expecting a 5-star read, which is probably unfair. The writing was beautiful and poetic, but it wasn't "unputdownable," and I always felt at a slight distance from the characters and the plot. Nevertheless, I recommend this book for those who like quiet, slow-paced, character-driven novels.

It's always tough when a book has been so highly praised; it can hardly live up to the expectations. I've heard so many people raving about this one it makes me hesitate to read it! I'll put it on the "Someday List", and read it when I've forgotten the hype. A little distance will probably be beneficial.

>55 laytonwoman3rd:: Linda, that's a good thought. I think the hype gave me unrealistic expectations.

I just realized I've read two Booker nominees this year and haven't posted them here yet.
Meanwhile, I changed my LT username!

The Patrick Melrose Novels ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2006 Shortlist (for Mother's Milk)

The Patrick Melrose Novels is a 680-page omnibus of four works by Edward St. Aubyn, originally published between 1992 and 2005: Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk. A fifth novel, At Last, was published in 2012. Each book covers a period in Patrick's life, often only a day or two, spread out over four decades.

In Never Mind, Patrick is five years old and living in France with his British father and American mother. This tightly written novella tells you all you need to know about David and Eleanor Melrose, and it's not pretty. David is an overbearing, sadistic man; Eleanor and Patrick are victims of his cruelty. Towards the end of the novella, something unthinkable happens, and you know Patrick will be scarred for life. In the following books you can see Patrick trying, mostly in vain, to move beyond this childhood trauma. In Bad News, 22-year-old Patrick has taken to drugs and is constantly in search of his next hit. By age 30, in Some Hope, he has given up drugs (or has he?), and is making an effort to address long-term psychological issues.

Have you seen the amazing "Up" documentary series? Bear with me, there's a point to this digression. In the documentaries, director Michael Apted visits the same group of British-born people every 7 years, beginning at age 7 (the latest installment, 56 Up, was released in 2012 and will soon arrive in US cinemas -- see it if you can). The Patrick Melrose Novels share a similar premise, taken from the Jesuit motto, "Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man." Like the documentaries, each novel gives us a glimpse into Patrick's life at a point in time. We know little about the intervening period. But the events in Never Mind are like a thread woven through Patrick's life, influencing everything he says and does, and the man he becomes.

By the time we get to Mother's Milk, Patrick is 40, married, with children. He's a devoted father with stable employment. You might think he's living the dream, right? Well, no. Patrick's aging mother has pretty much disinherited him by making increasingly irresponsible decisions about her estate. Patrick's well-being teeters on a precipice; not surprisingly, we see some backsliding into destructive behaviors. The scars from Never Mind have never healed.

When I picked up this book my original intention was to read the first novella and return to the others later. Instead I found myself drawn into Patrick's story, despite the fact that nearly every character is unlikable in the extreme. The writing is harsh and direct; St Aubyn doesn't sugar coat the situation in any way. It was all so unpleasant! And yet something kept me coming back for the next installment, hoping to see Patrick in a better place with each passing decade. I did have one quibble with the writing, however. Mother's Milk is told largely through the thoughts, words and deeds of Patrick's very young sons. Their voices didn't ring true; I've never met a preschooler who could think or speak in such a sophisticated way.

Mother's Milk was nominated for the 2006 Booker Prize, and because of that I nearly made the mistake of reading it as a standalone novel. I don't think you can appreciate it unless you've read the three previous books. Perhaps the Booker judges were recognizing a body of work more than an individual novel?

Family Matters ()
Reviewed on LibraryThing & on my blog
2002 Shortlist

They continued to cope, poorly, with the excretions and secretions of their stepfather's body, moving from revulsion to pity to anger, and back to revulsion. They were bewildered, and indignant, that a human creature of blood and bone, so efficient in good health, could suddenly become so messy. Neither Nariman's age nor his previous illnesses had served to warn them. Sometimes they took it personally, as though their stepfather had reduced himself to this state to harass them. And by nightfall, the air was again fraught with tension, thick with reproaches spoken and silent. (p 68)

Nariman Vakeel is an elderly, retired English professor suffering from Parkinson's Disease. He lives in the family home -- ironically named Chateau Felicity -- with his middle-aged step-children, Jal and Coomy. Nariman married their mother Yasmin when Jal and Coomy were children, after his family forbid him to marry his true love, Lucy. He raised them along with a younger half-sister, Roxana. Coomy is filled with resentment; everyone else walks on eggshells to avoid her bitterness. Jal feigns obliviousness, tinkering with his hearing aid when tempers flare.

When Nariman falls while out on a walk, Jal and Coomy are quickly overwhelmed by the responsibility of caring for him. Coomy wastes no time tricking Roxana into taking him in. Roxana and her family live in a smaller flat and struggle to make ends meet, but they are blessed with a more positive outlook on life. Even Roxana's young sons take things in stride:

The balcony door framed the scene: nine-year-old happily feeding seventy-nine.

And then it struck her like a revelation -- of what, she could not say. Hidden by the screen of damp clothes, she watched, clutching Yezad's shirt in her hands. She felt she was witnessing something almost sacred, and her eyes refused to relinquish the previous moment, for she knew instinctively that it would become a memory to cherish, to recall in difficult times when she needed strength. (p. 98)

But as weeks pass, the strain takes its toll on everyone. Coomy takes dramatic steps to keep up the illusion she is unable to care for Nariman. Jal is silently complicit. Roxana tries, in vain, to stretch Yezad's salary to cover the cost of Nariman's medication. And Yezad responds to the financial strain through a series of progressively destructive acts aimed at improving their financial situation. Eventually they hit rock bottom in ways both inevitable and shocking, and are then faced with the challenge of rebuilding what they hold most dear.

I put off reading this book for some time, thinking it might strike too close to home. My father has Parkinson's, and last year a medical incident set in motion a series of events culminating in my parents' long-overdue move to a continuous care retirement community. Family Matters was indeed painful to read, although I could distance myself from it because the Vakeel family's situation was very different from mine. And yet there are valuable messages in this book about the importance of family, and living for today, that are still with me days after finishing the book.