Quick Book Verdicts

I thought I'd about finished packing my books away (this time I haven't been counting, because I really don't want to know), and just found a swathe I'd put aside because, having read them, I intended to post my impressions of them. Oh, intentions. You mean so little. Most of these books I read last year. I won't be able to do any of them justice now. Nevertheless.

Crandolin - Anna Tambour

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Tambour is an exceptionally luscious, rich, textured, decadent, and enchanting writer, and this book is no exception. It is the story of a monster, which takes the form of a stain found on a page in an ancient cook book, and for which time is not linear, or acknowledged. It spans ages, this story, myriad lives in myriad cultures and walks of life. It is a thick, sumptuous affair that I found incredibly hard to withdraw from, much like treacle. Beyond this, I honestly don't know how to explain this book to you. Like a spell, it affects without letting you understand how. So very incredibly recommended.

Under the Glacier - Halldór Laxness

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Purchased in Reykjavík after experiencing how very exalted he is in this City of Literature. He's a Nobel Prize winner, and widely translated with English copies of his works available in nearly all bookshops there. This I selected as it is blurbed by Susan Sontag as being "one of the funniest books ever written." And it is, although a very precise sort of funny which comes from being an outsider of a culture's geographical and religious history, and having only a passing understanding of how this history shapes a nation and such a people. It is one surreal and absurd event after another, with structured religion befuddled by the organic beliefs of those who live under the Glacier. Curious characters, a landscape that didn't require my own memories to be evocative, a bemusing tale. Worth reading.

A Wrinkle in the Skin - John Christopher

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I've already established a gobsmacked love of Christopher, and this book met those expectations. Brutally. Here, a massive shift in the continental plates changes the world, the shapes of the land, moving the seas and so completely destroying all infrastructure and civilisation. Following Cotter, who lived on in of the Channel Islands at the time, this book explores the various ways in we (well, the English) adapt to or fall apart when presented with the end of civilisation. It's harrowing, brutally honest and never looks away. Refreshingly minimal in sexism as well. Left it wide-eyed with horror and so excited at having read something so incredibly perfectly well crafted. Worth reading for the sake of it, also as an example of sparse and effective story telling for writers.

The Kraken Wakes - John Wyndham

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Okay, my advice to you is don't read these two books back to back. In fact, don't read apocalypse books by older English writers back to back. Ever. At all. Your world view will cop a beating and you'll be left wandering around asking what the point is, we're all going to die horribly anyway, humanity is doomed, etc, etc, etc. In this one, something seems to take up residence at the bottom of the oceans, and from there, shit goes from bad to incredibly fucked up to someone is going to be extinct by the end of this. Just like Christopher, is powerful, sparse, and doesn't ever avert its eyes. I loved it, and I won't be reading anything by either Christopher or Wyndham for a long while yet. That's quite enough.

Rant - Chuck Palahnuik

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I've always loved Palahniuk's work, so didn't fight too hard when J insisted insisted insisted I read this. As much as I feel that Palahniuk is something of a one-trick pony in that I know exactly what I'm getting in any story of his, he's an incredibly talented pony, and that trick is fucking amazing, and even so, even so, this, this, is just...wow. WOW. HOLY FUCKING SHIT DID YOU SEE THAT. It is a masterpiece in which he subverts the narrative and the reader over, and over. I just. You know, with all the reading, writing, and editing I've done I think I have some qualifications backing me up when I say this is a work of genius. The ways it can be read, interpreted, are manifold. It left me open-mouthed with astonishment and J going "You see!? You see?!" I just. Wow. WOW. No, I can't actually tell you anything else about the book. Much like Crandolin above, it defies easy summation. Read it. READ IT.

The Honey Month - Amal El-Mohtar

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Full disclosure, I am friends with and love this woman to bits. The concept behind this book is simple; she sampled a different honey every day for a month, and wrote a piece based on that. That she managed to sustain production every day for a month is amazing. That all her pieces remain fresh, individual and plump is incredible. There are fables, poems, vignettes, heart-break, joy, sadness, homes found and lost. She walks through these narratives. Her prose is wonderful and breath-taking, which is what happens when poets write stories. A rich, wonderful and warm collection. Just like honey.

Decay Inevitable - Conrad Williams

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Full disclosure: I am friends with and love this man to bits, and have a long history of babbling delighted about his writing. This book is sneaky, in that it begins quietly, ordinarily, to the point that I forgot I was reading horror and expected crime, but the horror creeps in softly, and then, not so fucking softly. Amid all the "Oh shit oh shit oh shit-" is a truly warm and loving relationship, which I've rarely encountered in horror. The apocalypse plays second fiddle to the personal.

I really hope I don't find any more books just lying around. Oh, what do you mean I can't have that many tags? GRRRRR.

Reader Failure

At the beginning of the year I seemed to be making a come back with that whole reading books thing, after the recent drought. Needless to say, that didn't really go anywhere.

Here are the books I read so many months ago. I do not do them justice.

Blonde On A Stick - Conrad Williams



Conrad Williams is one of the most powerful writers out there, and this is has all the power of a cyclone and all the precision of brain surgery. It is a brilliant, cocky, startling narrative that struts about and gets away with murder. Magnificent voice. Absolutely recommended.

Counting Heads - David Marusek



Given to me by a friend who said the fury in Acception reminded him of this, and then couldn't think why. This book blindsided me. It. Is. Brilliant. Stole my breath with its ideas and execution, and made me excited about fiction. Absolutely fascinating critiques of society, technologies and the roles they may play. Meaty, glorious stuff, with stunning characters and plot to boot. So very worth it, so very very worth it.

The Scarring - Geoff Page



The same friend gave me this, a novella in poetry. Very easy to read, with (unsurprisingly) a lovely cadence and rhythm to it. I am no poet so cannot speak of its technical merit, but as far as narrative goes....yikes.

That's...

Fuck me.

Above/Below - Stephanie Campisi & Ben Peek



Two awesome post-apocalyptic-ish novellas that fold in upon each other and bounce off each other in wonderful and interesting ways. I think I'm well documented as being a damn sycophant when it comes to Ben's writing, and this is a prime example of why. Campisi matches the grit and anguish in Below with breathless despair and denial in Above. A very intelligent read.

Guardian of the Dead - Karen Healey



Goddamn I love Ellie. Not a character, a person. So many PEOPLE in this book! Quite a lot of laugh out loud with "I know EXACTLY what you mean, girl!" moments, in amidst all the supernatural creepy shit going on. Of which there is a lot. Christchurch, it turns out, is a pretty menacing place in which to insert fiction. Great stuff, omnomnom.

Game - Conrad Williams

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(There was a magnificent sleight of hand involving pigs early in the story. Petite Porker still doesn't get it, and needs to get out of the damn photo.)

I was wretchedly directionless and restless yesterday, and the Wise and Sensible Deb Biancotti told me to: Read a book. Let someone else's world right yours. That's what I do.

So, yeah, I went and picked up my last Conrad Williams book.

Sometimes, the mind can be soothed by feeding it love, warmth, hope and delight.

But when that fails, giving it something a hell of a lot more fucked up than it will ever be can do the trick too.

Game is a short sharp novella that, after the punch-you-in-the-face-kick-you-in-the-gut END OF THE DAMN WORLD horror and despair of the last few novels and novellas of his I have read, is a subtle and restrained creature, all the more sinister because of it.

Bas Eachus is exacting a little revenge that is far beyond what the perceived crimes against him call for. His grand scheme (and as far as revenge goes, it is a fine one) sees Rache and Fi, two of his chosen targets, forced to tear around from one place to another hunting out Bas's other targets and doing his wetwork for him to a specific timetable, as if they fail Bas will drain another pint of blood from Liam. Add into this Ness, a woman who suffers from premonitions more than most fictional characters with premonitions suffer, and what you have is a brilliant and grueling little story.

The characters are marvelously drawn; it's desperation that drives this narrative, and while the dictionary definition of desperation is uniform, how it manifests and shapes the individual it is consuming is a varied and nuanced thing. Each of these characters is driven to such lengths by their desperation, resorting to such means and consciously the future consequences, because here and now there is work to be done and only one goal to be achieved, anything else being a distraction - they haul the story along at an incredible pace, to a conclusion that I truly did not see coming and crowed with satisfaction when it came.

It was also excellent to be served a plate of characters with different vital statistics. Just chance has seen the last few of Williams's story consumed to be centred on the same character structure; the family unit of father, mother and son, with the father as point of focus. Great to witness Williams flaunt is ability to nail university students with lousy boyfriends, sappy sad romantic psychics and criminal entrepreneurs who are perhaps past their prime but not quite ready to fully admit that.

The prose didn't linger as lovingly on the gore, now I think on it. There was opportunity to do so, but in this case there were more important things to be done. The horror being evoked in the reader did not stem from the visual image of the deeds done, but the emotional and spiritual destruction that came from doing the deeds themselves. Quite to my tastes.

Verdict: The Source of Awesome. Damn fine, I say, damn fine. I know Williams has a crime book coming out soon, and the way this story unfolded it had more than a little of a crime bouquet about it. If it be anything like this saucy little darling, cannot wait to get my paws on it.

Rain - Conrad Williams

GIANT FLYING SHARK!
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Moar? Yes! Moar! I have to slow down with the Williams eating, as there's only a couple more books of his I know of. Found this one at Borderlands in SF. Delight! Joy!

I probably should restrict myself to one a year, actually. This is only a slim little novella, but still left me glad as all fuck the sun was out and I had absolutely nothing in common with the events, location, characters or environment in the story.

To rip off the blurb (it isn't a long blurb);

Ben and his family move to France.
There is an accident.
There is death.
There is rain.
Much rain.

I had a moment of "...again?" upon discovering this story was similar in vein to 'The Scalding Rooms' and 'One' in that the emphasis lay on the father-son relationship, and the shattering affect becoming a parent has, and how devastating the love for your child is, equal parts a strength and weakness. The wives/mothers/girlfriends are mostly distant, verging on the point of being the antagonists, either in the threat they pose to the father/son bond or in plainer and more overt terms. Should Williams ever write a story in which there is a healthy happy couple not on the verge of going each other with blunt objects...well, actually, I'd be pretty suspicious and assume I'd accidentally picked up some other Conrad Williams who did not write deliciously fucked up shit.

Particularly enjoyed the environment in this. The rain, the untamed garden and sullen estate they find themselves in, all these aspects speak with precision. Very little happens which doesn't hide the fact that an awful lot happens in a very short time.

Verdict: It's Conrad Williams, it's awesomely brutal.

One - Conrad Williams

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

I told Miss Apricot that this book was all about exploring the father-son relationship, and that the colours suited her outfit perfectly, and she agreed to pose for the photo. Then I told her what it was also about, and she tried to eat my shorts, but I'd already taken the photo, nyah nyah. And the colours do suit her.

No misdirection, that is what the book is about, but it does it against the back drop of the apocalypse. And the bit that comes after the apocalypse. I have not read The Road, but one thing everyone comments on is that it appears to be a lot of very open and bleak landscape. That's what that book is.

This book is less about open and bleak landscape, and more about the catastrophic destruction of history and civilisation, and the horrible things you see and do while trying not to die. And even after the end of the world, that continues. Not much contemplation of landscape, unless you're contemplating sensible things, like what's a like spot for an ambush, are there any exit points, and oh fuckberries did something over there just move I think something moved oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-

The first few chapters of this book are just...you know, I should have expected it really. It's Conrad Williams, in fact I think he's gone so far as to earn the middle title, so it's Conrad Fucking Williams, and of course the book is going to be like getting a stapler covered in twisted pokey staples shoved down my throat and rumble around in my gut. Of course it's going to flatten you by merely batting its eyelashes at you, and leave you stunned and reeling on the train, not even close to your station yet but having to close the book and look around and confirm what you just read has not happened, and if it did happen you'd be very lucky and die right away, so it's all good, think of rainbows and unicorns and do not lie down on the floor at the horror and futility of it all, because damn, the book is just that powerful.

So it should be. The end of the world is a powerful thing. Tossed about in pop culture so happily as it is, it's losing its teeth. This book is all teeth.

To my utter delight, the book showed signs of tying into that brilliantly cool world first seen in 'Nearly People'. In an odd sort of history lesson, it gives no answers as to what happened, or why, only revealing what it was like in those early days. (The horror, the horror...)

As you can probably tell, the lengths one man stretches his love and hope in order to survive on the inside in such an environment are extreme. It's not a kind book. It won't be gentle with you. It will awe you with the destruction of all things, awe you with the terrifying beauty of what now constitutes 'all things', impress you with its unforgiving, unflinching relentlessness, and when you put it down, you'll feel washed out and used up and wrung dry.

You tell yourself you never want to go through that again (and you know it's a lie).

Verdict: Powerful books will have powerful effects.

The Scalding Rooms - Conrad Williams

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The Deal: At this point in time, due to an RSI, I can only type for 10 minutes at a time. What you see below is what is hammered out before the timer goes off- and nothing more.

This book was given to me by the author. After finding the mumbojumbo I wrote about one of his previous books, he offered to send me a copy. Really? Authors do that to converts? Because that seems like a terrible waste of ammunition, I mean, I'm already converted. You don't need to convince me further of your awesome. But I have been convinced further of the awesome, and squeeeeeeeed like mad when this landed in the post. I was convalescing after having all four wisdom teeth out, Dad had given me a lift to my flat to pick up some stuff, and I started reading it in the car on the way home, hopped up on painkillers and heatwaves, all the way back in January.

It is, I was delighted to discover, another story set in the post-apocalyptic world established in his novella 'Nearly People', which is a fucking OARSUM story. It follows Junko, who has a job in an abattoir, an uncertain relationship with his wife and a son who is not a child.

As I've come to expect from Williams's writing, it was just superb. A wonderful palpable air of menace that moved through subtle textures psychological and danger wholly overt and physical.

In particular, I fell in love with the world Junko moved through. Red Meadows. A beach full of 'ears. A plain of nothing but shattered glass. Reading it right after Breathmoss made me hungry to create. Macleod made worlds stunningly heart-breakingly beautiful, and Williams made worlds stunningly heart-breakingly wretched, and both were just so full of wonder and mystery, I could not help but be infected.

The last line, though, what a kicker. I read it, and checked the dedication again, and all the horror, despair, misery and relentless inescapable doom in the story was undone.

(Okay, so that was a bit over ten minutes, purely because I was looking for a passage in the book.)

(Only a couple of minutes over.)

Verdict: I babble. I love Conrad Williams's work, and thank him a hundred times over for this gift, and repay him with an RSI and time-delay hampered crappy write up.

Thanks also to Miss Apricot the Billy Goat, who is whispering the recipe for jam drops in that wizened ear.

Use Once Then Destroy - Conrad Williams

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It's a totally different book with its clothes on. I take the dust jacket off when reading. Now it's all dressed up and I've lost my train of thought. Who's the mould spectre on the front? Shark Puppet approves whole-heartedly.

I was so hooked on The Unblemished that I picked this up almost right away, in direct contravention of my normal reading rules. In order to let a book stand or fall on its on merits (or lack of) I make a practice of following up with books that are entirely different, so I'm not sucked into drawing comparisons between them. Which is, inevitably, what happened in this case.

UOTD showcases a sample of Williams' short fiction over the last 15 years, ample evidence that he's been an amazing and horrible writer for a Very Long Time. There's some nasty stuff in here. I came out of "Nest of Salt" while riding the train, and had to close the book and make a conscious effort not to sit with my nose scrunched up, because...ow. It was an intriguing story, Egan's obsession being all too easy for the reader to take on, until the end, where...ow.

I'm partial to the use of streets in Williams' fiction; Egan, for example, spends too much time and money traipsing about London, looking for one elusive street, and in doing so seems to walk down every other street. I suppose it's something that resonates with me, being a foot and train person. Walking is how I learn an area. I'm there, in it, as are his characters. (His characters die horribly. I don't. I'm good like that.) It's a method of city-saturation he uses not just for London, but Venice as well, as in the highly unsettling story "City in Aspic". You've never known a single discarded glove to be so menacing.

Methinks that single author collections should not be read cover to cover, as I do. Ah, I'm just lazy. I don't like having several books on the go at any one time. I prefer to give a book my undivided attention, because I'm considerate and sensitive like that. It works against me, regarding collections. Short stories are suppose to stand alone, but reading a bunch all in one go, you can't help but draw comparisons between them, nor can you help but develop a feel for the writer's...signature? Style? Touch? I found myself coming to know the shape of these stories before they had a chance to unfold, and anticipating the rhythm and beats that the story telling unfolds to. In this case, the struggle against and final acceptance of fate (usually grisly) and an intense relief coupled with that final submission. As a result, a lot of superb and ghastly stories blended into each other, into one big block of OMG THIS IS HORRIBLE I LOVE IT. Life Lessons Extracted from UOTD: England is miserable and depressing, London is out to get you, all couples are unhappy and breaking up and only ever got together for the sake of having someone, anyone, and when they're falling apart they try to salvage their relationship by driving out to small villages on the weekend, where they die horribly and/or kill each other.

I'm never going to England.

Stories that didn't follow those rhythms stood out. "The Night Before" is not horror, or unsettling, and when I finished it I had to wonder what it was doing among such company. It's a softer piece, set in Australia, an environment markedly different from any other offered in the collection, and the story smells different accordingly. It sat with me longer than any other.

Hidden up the back of the collection is a trifecta of Genius with a capital Hot Damn. "The Suicide Pit" is the train story (there's always trains, I love it), with reality gently unraveling around Fullbrook, who has the most depressing job in the world - photographing rail accidents. "Excuse The Unusual Approach" follows the fight/accept fate path, but is wearing a whole new suit, making it fresh and delicious.

The crown jewel, "Nearly People", skulks about the very back of the book. It's shoots off in a different direction from everything that precedes it, venturing more into the realm of furious and filthy post-apocalyptic fiction, taking only the nastiest and best bits of horror with it. I adored it. I dipped into it at work when the supervisors weren't looking, caught myself in that trap of wanting to know what was going on NOW but not wanting to finish too soon, and being quite bereft when the final line was read. There's a second Howling Mile novella out there, The Scalding Rooms, which I'm much a-twitch to get my paws on. Good thing PS is sold out, 'cause I shouldn't be spending that money right now. Bad thing PS is sold out, 'cause...you know. Le sigh.

Another collection, PENETRALIA, is slated for 2010 from PS. Fingers crossed.

Ultimately, this wasn't the "again! again!" I wanted after The Unblemished - there's a fine layered tension that can only be constructed in the story arc of a long work, like being slow run through with a whaling harpoon. UOTD was less like a harpoon than a gun stuck on automatic fire; just as relentless, but fucking you up in a different way.

Verdict: I suspect Mr Williams has become one of those authors about which there's no point in listening to me - you know I really, really, really dig the stories, now go decided if you do to. YOU DO. OF COURSE. DON'T EVEN QUESTION THAT.

The Unblemished - Conrad Williams

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AAAAARGGGGGHHHHHH.

No, wait-

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKkkkkk-ew omg wtf AAAAAAAARRRGGGGGHHHHH sf;klajweoijas;i;asejf;lksdajkl.

THAT WAS SCARY. THAT WAS GROSS. THAT WAS VERY UNSETTLING. All served on a 'this story is exceptionally well written and you can't stop reading it' platter. Williams is a stylist, and shows this off with careful and precise control. He does Very Bad Things and isn't the slightest bit coy about it. It's very clear what is happening, here on this page, just as it's very clear what is in my fridge - these things just are. When he throws away lines full of gore and bodies, it is not left to my imagination, I know exactly what he means, and he's made sure of it.

Eeeee.

This is an end of the world due to uprising of unknown and hidden monster population. In the afterword Williams mentions that The Unblemished had to "be a London tale", and not something that starts in some small rural town somewhere, and he's right. There's no other way and no other setting this story could have unfolded in and still retained that sharp edge of authenticity. That a major city wouldn't notice the butchery going on within its confines until it was far, far too late is something I don't just believe, I know. Melbourne isn't even a smidgeon of London's size, but from my job I'm well aware how much can go on before any one notices something out of the ordinary. Monster apocalypse, if the monsters are on the sly and quick to learn how to camouflage themselves? Piece of cake. Probably already happening. DON'T AGREE WITH ME ON THAT LAST POINT. Which adds a huge chunk of latent fear to the whole book.

The book isn't without its hitches. While it is well balanced, there are moments of 'erm, I dunno what just happened' which never cleared themselves up. I'm still not sure exactly what occurred between Manser and Gyorsi and the fire, or how Gyorsi became Ray (actually, I just figured that out, but then why keep that face? Sarah recognised him later). And I might be touching on a cliché hiccough, but all the random females encountered were young and descriptions dwelled on how delectable they were more than any other type of person. The older asian woman with the headphones got two sentences of acknowledgment, the girl on the same train a couple of paragraphs. NPC guys didn't fare much better.

Towards the end the narrative seemed in danger of unraveling, just as the fabric of society had already done, but never actually fell apart. It ended the only way the world can end, and I was so relieved to have lived through it and be able to close the damn cover and get away from the fug of fear and horror and desperation. Yes, this book actually scared the shit out of me. I read it on the train, which was a mistake (I actually did that with London Revenant as well, which is an even worse book to read on the train late at night). I read it when I couldn't sleep, home alone after midnight, which was an enORmous mistake, as it scared the sleep right out of me, and couldn't keep from opening my eyes every few seconds because I had to be sure, you know, really sure that there was no one else in the room. About to eat me.

Eeeeeee.

AGAIN! AGAIN!

Verdict: I loved this book. I was addicted to this book. I was terrified of this book. Fuckin' OARSUM. Coming at the end of the world from a very unique angle. You read this. Yes.