Sunday, 24 March 2013

Half Sick Of Shadows by David Logan

Half Sick Of Shadows was published after winning (jointly, with Michael no-relation Logan's Apocalypse Cow) Terry Pratchett's 'Anywhere But Here, Anywhen But Now' speculative fiction prize for debut authors. This makes me wonder, perhaps a little uncharitably, if the author had to hurry to finish his manuscript before the submission deadline for the competition, because - although there are many positive things to say about this novel - my main criticism of it is that to me, it reads rather like a first draft, particularly towards its conclusion.

When I bought this book, I didn't know it had won the prize in question, and therefore I wasn't expecting a whimsical Pratchettesque romp - I mention this because some reviews I've seen on sites like Goodreads and Amazon have suggested this was probably the case for a lot of people who have consequently been disappointed, as this book is most emphatically not that sort of novel. I suspect this expectation has been the cause of some unfairly harsh reviews from readers.

Narrated primarily by Edward Pike (although there are some short sections of third-person omniscient narration - more about that later), it opens with a dysfunctional family living in the Manse, a rundown, isolated house in what appears to be somewhere at least similar to rural Ireland, burying their rather repellent grandmother. At around the same time, the young Edward meets a gentleman in a Morris Minor who claims to be a time traveller and Sophia, his twin sister, promises their bullying father that she will never leave the Manse. It soon becomes clear that Sophia's promise is far more significant than it might have appeared, and as the story unfolds, the consequences for Sophia are grimly serious. Fast-forward a few years and Edward is sent to boarding school - presumably a state boarding school for children who live in extremely isolated locations, as the Pikes are clearly living in considerable poverty - where he meets Alf Lord, a boy with a particular liking for poetry and an odd tendency to disappear.



While Half Sick Of Shadows is far from riotously comical, it is very funny at times in a dark, League Of Gentlemen sort of way. Edward himself, frequently described by others as 'precocious' and academically gifted beyond his peers, is also hopelessly naive and at times his inability to read social situations or grasp certain nuances of language seems suggestive of a condition akin to Asperger's Syndrome. The tragicomic matter-of-factness with which he relates the casual cruelties and constant hardships of his childhood makes him impossible to dislike and lends a degree of warmth to the book which might otherwise be missing.

However, at times Half Sick Of Shadows is genuinely bleak and borders on disturbing: we can laugh guiltily at the almost Lemony Snicket-like horrors of Edward's boarding school years and the black farce of some of the goings-on at the Manse, but the story of Sophia, trapped with two older brothers (one an aggressive bully, the other with serious learning difficulties) and her ailing parents (one of which is an obvious abuser) and denied any sort of education or social life, is a different matter. This isn't a negative as far as I'm concerned, but some readers might find it so.

You may have noticed I mentioned a time traveller appearing at the beginning of the review, and a mysterious disappearing boy, yet my review then seems to become a critique of a book with no spec-fic elements whatsoever. That's because while those elements are, in fact, present in the novel, but for the most part are heavily played down until the book is close to its conclusion. As the story progresses we learn more about Alf, and it becomes obvious that there is a reason why nobody in Edward's world has heard of Tennyson, and why some things about the novel's setting seem slightly out of kilter with what we think of as reality.

Half Sick Of Shadows is an odd book, at times baffling, and there is no spoon-feeding whatsoever from the author. For example, the frequent parallels and allusions with Tennyson's poem 'The Lady Of Shalott', a line from which gives the book its title, are significant to the extent that if you're not familiar with it, as I fortunately was, you'll miss out on a large part of what Half Sick Of Shadows is about (or at least what I interpreted it to be about).

I enjoyed a great deal of this book, and I certainly don't feel my time was wasted by reading it, but I do think it was lacking something, and it's this that made me wonder if the author rushed to finish it. On a technical level, there are some devices which I had an inkling were desperation passed off as style: the occasional jarring switch into third-person omniscient narration, for example, and a few pages near the end in which conversations are related in a sort of script format. I have no problem with switches in style if they add something to the book, but these felt suspiciously like the author realising too late that his plot relied on Edward not being present at essential moments and having to find a way around this, or that he needed some very 'talky' passages to explain some difficult concepts and didn't really have a better way of relating them. I also felt, as I read the final quarter of the book, that either the ending needed to be less rushed or the middle section about Edward's schooldays needed to be shorter. At it is, the structure seems to lack balance.

Much of Half Sick Of Shadows is excellent, full of fascinating concepts, well-executed characterisation and pitch-perfect prose -  but ultimately it just didn't feel quite complete to me, as if it were missing some revisions and a final polish. I'll look out for more from David Logan, though, as I felt there was so much potential in Half Sick Of Shadows, and I'd like to see what he produces next.

Friday, 15 March 2013

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

You've probably seen the distinctive black cover of Gillian Flynn's Gone Girl everywhere in recent months. WHSmith's, Waterstone's, Tesco, airports, trains ... along with SJ Watson's Before I Go To Sleep, it seems to be the thriller of the moment. What, then, is so special about it?

What Gone Girl definitely did for me was keep me turning the pages. It was one of those books I kept thinking about while I was doing other things, wondering when I'd be able to get stuck into it again. The writing is sharp, observant and witty, with two very strong narrative voices - the story is told from the points of view of Nick, who comes home one day to find his wife Amy has disappeared amid signs of a struggle, and Amy herself, through old diaries that tell the story of their relationship. What complicates matters is that Nick seems far from devastated about Amy's disappearance, and not only the American media and the local police force but we as readers can't help but be suspicious. What is Nick withholding from us? And why are his feelings towards his wife, whose diaries suggest she's desperate to make the marriage work, so ambivalent?

This set-up makes for an intriguing but fairly standard well-crafted whodunnit (or perhaps more of an ifdunnit). However, it's about halfway through the book, when we realise that Amy, too, might not have been entirely honest with us, that Gone Girl really starts to stand out from the crowd.



Just as I began reading Gone Girl, the former LibDem MP Chris Huhne and his wife Vicky Pryce were sentenced to eight months each in prison after Pryce, apparently driven by a bitter need for revenge after Huhne's affair with another woman was exposed, revealed  she had once agreed to lie to the police in order to accept Huhne's speeding points for him. What struck me about that case was that both Huhne and Pryce seemed to be astonishingly unpleasant people, and that their once (presumably) happy marriage had curdled like sour milk into something toxic and foul. In some ways, Gone Girl is about a similar situation. Funny, affable midwest boy Nick and well-off, high-achieving New Yorker Amy - or Amazing Amy, as she's known in a bestselling series of Ramona-style kids' books written by her parents - have begun their relationship as the perfect couple, and yet their marriage has decayed into rottenness.

Both Nick and Amy are deeply flawed characters and, for the most of the book, are very hard to like: if you're the sort of reader who struggles to care about the outcome for a particular character unless you actively like them, Gone Girl probably isn't for you. I, however, raced through Nick and Amy's accounts of their deteriorating relationship with a sort of horrified fascination.

The lesser characters -Amy's infuriatingly close parents, a brash, Mr Loophole-style celebrity lawyer and Nick's twin sister Margo - don't have an enormous amount to do, but they are just about interesting enough to support the plot and certainly Margo (or Go, as she's called throughout the book, which grated on me no end) and Amy's parents are essential in the sense their support for their respective family members goes some way towards validating the characters of Amy and Nick, demonstrating that they are capable, at least up to a point, of maintaining functional relationships, if not with each other.

For me, Gone Girl does run out of steam a little towards the end, which I felt dragged on just slightly longer than necessary - although it is, ultimately, chilling and shocking, it could/should have been accomplished in far fewer words. It also suffers a little from the plot shedding plausibility as it unfolds. Overall, though, this a smart, engaging psychological thriller.

Sunday, 10 March 2013

Jamrach's Menagerie by Carol Birch

The beginning of Jamrach's Menagerie is an arresting one: Jaffy Brown, a small boy in 19th century London, encounters a tiger on the streets of Wapping. Far from being terrified, Jaffy reaches out to touch the tiger's nose and is picked up in its jaws. Rescued by the tiger's owner, exotic animal dealer Charles Jamrach, eight-year-old Jaffy is offered a job helping to care for Jamrach's collection of animals. It's here that Jaffy meets Tim Linver, a slightly older boy with whom he develops a long and complicated friendship full of ambiguities and conflicts. Some years later, when Jamrach sends his animal collector Dan Rymer on a quest to trap him a 'dragon' aboard a whaling ship, Jaffy and Tim decide to take to the sea.



Jamrach's Menagerie is packed with colour and atmosphere, and the streets of Victorian Wapping and their docks full of ships bringing exotic people and goods from distant lands are vividly realised, as is the menagerie itself and the sad, captive beasts that live there. It's a little disappointing, then, when it becomes clear that this only forms the setting for a small portion of the book and much of the scene-setting seems infuriatingly redundant when we leap forward to Jaffy's mid-teens and life at sea.

That's not to say that the parts of the novel set at sea aren't just as richly described - so richly described, in fact, that it's worth pointing out that this isn't a novel for the squeamish; it's viscerally gruesome in places. It's more just that I found myself feeling slightly duped and the sudden shift in setting does feel a little jarring, a little disjointed. The novel does have the feel, at times, of a series of set-pieces rather than a coherent whole.

It's difficult to write about the most powerful section of the novel, in which disaster strikes the crew of Jaffy's ship and a number of the sailors find themselves adrift in two of the ship's whaling boats with a limited ration of food and water, without giving away an enormous plot spoiler. Suffice it to say that this section of the book is gripping, shocking and at times disturbing, and, brilliantly written though it is, has a stifling sense of claustrophobia about it as, ravaged by hunger and thirst, the crew endure day after banal, dragging day of suffering. When Jaffy finally returns home to London, effectively already a broken man in his late teens, it's hard not to feel that the final section of the book is somewhat anticlimactic - albeit also touching and convincing.

Jamrach's Menagerie is a book I'm glad I've read. I was captivated by the characters, all of whom have their own degree of depth and complexity, the settings and Carol Birch's dazzling prose - there are parts of this book that truly are stunning. But I still haven't quite decided whether, as a whole, it exceeds the sum of its parts.