Mohsin Hamid - How to Get FILTHY RICH in Rising Asia

Finally, finally, here it is - the review I promised you so many months ago.

I stumbled across this book by accident. I loved Mohsin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist but had no idea Hamid had published other books since. I was looking for a new book to read and trawled through my go-to book-related sites (which include various book blogs, Amazon, the Guardian books section, the New York Times and Goodreads). And I started hearing good things about this book with a funny title. In a Booker discussion group on Goodreads, for example, this book joined members in unanimity - they all thought it was a shoe-in for the longlist (in fact it was NOT longlisted, though Hamid has previously been on the shortlist for TRF).  When I saw that it was by Mohsin Hamid, my mind was made up and I lifted my finger for that all-important 'click' which is the simple action of purchasing a Kindle book on Amazon.

It was soon obvious this was a good choice. After reading only a few pages I was in. The story moves at a galloping pace and the portrait depicted of Pakistan is neon vivid. Bearing some initial resemblance to Aravind Adiga's book White Tiger (though that was set in India), How to Get Filthy Rich is the story of a poor boy rising to the heights of corporate success in Asia.

Hamid chooses to tell the story in the second-person, which is quite rare, and he uses an unusual conceit: the book is written as though it were a self-help book. Each chapter doles out a different piece of advice about how to transform oneself from a peasant living in an impoverished rural environment to a wealthy entrepreneur in a big city. There are chapters entitled 'Learn from a Master', 'Work for Yourself' and 'Befriend a Bureaucrat'. Hamid is heavy on the irony and much of the book is darkly comical.

Initially I was resistant to both the second-person narration and the self-help lingo, but I soon fell into the story. The thing about second-person narration is that it forces the reader to become subjectively involved in the story. It personalizes everything. You become the hero. So that when something happens to 'you', we feel like it might be happening to us. It works.

The facade of the self-help book, however, is potentially a different story. Yes, it provides Hamid with the ability to comment, at the start of each chapter, on the plight of those living in modern-day Asia, on the notion of self-help books as a genre (a genre which is parodied here with brutal accuracy), and on the notion of selfhood itself - 'the idea of self in the land of self-help is a slippery one'. It allows him, in short, to ruminate on bigger political and philosophical issues, outside of the story he is telling at the book's core. The obvious problem with this is that it takes him (and us) outside of the story. But the conceit also allows Hamid to tell a story that is bigger than the characters. The characters are devices, in some way; their story is a synecdoche for the greater story, that of Pakistan itself.

Hamid is such an effective story teller that I was never weighed down by lofty political commentary. I was quickly caught up in the vivid coming-of-age story at the centre of the narrative, about a man (whose name we never learn), his quest for success, and the woman he has always loved. It is a tale about what it takes to succeed in a land still weighed down by a deeply entrenched class system and systemic corruption. The frequent interruptions for philosophical musings didn't disrupt my enjoyment of the book. In fact, in retrospect, they probably enhanced it. What might seem clunky and contrived at the start becomes contextual enrichment by the end. Reviewing the book now I realize that it is about so many things - Hamid does so much, so well. This is a love story and a political story. It is a farcical self-help book. It is a book about the notion of 'self', about how fast life moves and how critical it is to seize what is important to you when you have the time to do so. It is also a book about writing and creating fiction. All of this works to keep us readers distanced, to some degree, from the characters central to the Bildungsroman around which all of this is constructed. And yet by the end I was surprised at the extent of my engagement with that story. I was so engaged, in fact, that I was moved to tears by the final scenes.

This is such an original book and, mostly, it works. Hamid is a wonderful writer. I thought of the book several times during our travels, so it has stayed with me. I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoyed Adiga's White Tiger, to anyone who likes a good story told in a new voice, to anyone who enjoys a bit of politics spicing up their fiction.

Overall assessment: 4 out of 5 stars.

Favourite Passages: 'We are all refugees from our childhood. And so we turn, among other things, to stories. To write a story, to read a story, is to be a refugee from the state of refugees. Writers and readers seek a solution to the problem that time passes, that those who have gone are gone and those who will go, which is to say every one of us, will go. For there was a moment when anything was possible. And there will be a moment when nothing is possible. But in between we can create.'

'But when you read a book, what you see are black squiggles on pulped wood, or, increasingly, dark pixels on a pale screen. To transform these icons into characters and events, you must imagine. And when you imagine, you create. It's in being read that a book becomes a book, and in each of a million different readings a book becomes one of a million different books, just as an egg becomes one of potentially a million different people when it's approached by a hard-swimming and frisky school of sperm. Readers don't work for writers. They work for themselves. Therein, if you'll excuse the admittedly biased tone, lies the richness of reading.'

Richard Beasley - Me and Rory MacBeath

It seems fitting, somehow, that I will have read more Australian novels this year than in any previous year. It is, after all, the year I am departing Australia. Call it a farewell salute. This one, by Richard Beasley, is set in 1970s Adelaide. The last book I read by Richard Beasley was Hell Has Harbour Views, and whilst I enjoyed both that and Me and Rory MacBeath immensely, they could not be more different. Hell Has Harbour Views is a cynical, satirical look at big city law firms and the nasty practices and people that are to be found therein. Me and Rory MacBeath is a hugely moving coming-of-age story about a boy who lives in the wealthy suburbs of Adelaide with his barrister mother, Harry, and whose friendship with a boy called Rory changes him forever. In my opinion, it is the better book, and marks Beasley as an Australian writer for our times, one who will be remembered.

Jake is a sweet twelve year old boy whose life thus far has been reasonably sheltered and defined by his privileged suburban neighbourhood - running through sprinklers, playing backyard cricket with his best mate Robbie who lives just a few houses away. He lives with his mum, Harry, who is single and who teaches Jake to argue persuasively and to use words, not fists, when he's angry. Jake and Robbie know everyone in their neighbourhood, from Mr Nixon, who strictly guards his wife's precious garden against encroachment by footballs, cricket balls and the like, to the Williams, whose daughter is Jake's young crush. Jake's biggest worries are the balls he loses over the Nixons' fence and the embarrassment caused by his having once seen Mrs Williams ironing without a top on. That is until Rory moves in to the neighbourhood.

All of a sudden backyard cricket takes on a new dimension - it is England against Australia against Scotland, which everyone knows doesn't work, three being a crowd in backyard or front-yard cricket. At first Jake doesn't understand what Rory is good for, but when he sees Rory string a fishing line, gut a fish, and fight a bully he suddenly realises there is room in his life after all for one more friend. Before long Rory, Robbie and Jake are inseparable and life seems to be one long summer. Robbie's dad takes them away on fishing trips, they camp overnight in Robbie's backyard, they listen to Harry's lawyer mates getting drunk during parties at Jake's house.

But it is a formative period in their lives and before long they are exposed to things that have them growing up quickly. Jake is sent to a new school, and slowly sees less of both Robbie and Rory, and when Rory's life undergoes a shocking change Jake finds himself having to navigate through the murky waters of adult morality to decide where his own values lie.

Beasley writes beautifully here, capturing the essence of boyish youth perfectly. Much of the humour in the book arises from Jake's quoting of his mother's sardonic quips, not understanding that they were meant in jest - it comes across as entirely real and believable. I found myself particularly drawn to the characters of Jake and Harry, who is brilliantly portrayed as a chain-smoking, wine-swilling single mum who is a force against evil in the courtroom, and who "smokes her cigarettes differently after court than the way she did before court".

The courtroom drama which occupies a third of the book is fascinating and richly illustrated, and the story as a whole is true to the time in which it is set. A judge who is faced by a woman driven to extreme action after years of violent abuse at the hands of her husband comments that "her marriage was an unfortunate one", capturing at once the stilted language of a judicial figure and the rampant chauvinism of the 1970s.

Jake's endless summer comes to an end in a touching and believable way when he realises his life will never be the same as it once was, and that whilst he wasn't yet a man, he "didn't feel like a boy either." I was moved by this story and am pleased to have found an Australian novel which reflects and immortalises a particular kind of suburban upbringing, one to which I can relate.

Overall assessment: 4.5 out of 5.

Favourite passages: Beasley's use of language is highly evocative for much of the novel, such as when he describes a boy at Jake's school as one with "small footprints, their impact slight, almost nothing, amid a school where other boys stomped around." He gets the tone of a boy on the brink of adulthood just right, infusing Jake's narration with a kind of innocent wisdom that is highly endearing. For example, describing his mother in action in the coutroom, Jake says:

"Harry put her hand on her head then and straightened her wig. It was one of the things she did a lot. Whenever she finished a point, an important one, she often adjusted her wig. But in reality, she unstraightened it. She seemed to like it to be ever so slightly on an angle, not quite comically so, but just enough to give the impression, if you did make assumptions, that she thought wearing a barrister's wig was just a bit funny, or odd. It was like a wink to the jury."

This one is really worth a read.

Madeleine St John - The Women in Black

Not to be confused with the West-End-play-turned-Daniel-Radcliffe-film The WomAn in Black, this is a charming little book about women working in a department store in Sydney during the late 1950s. Madeleine St John was a graduate of the University of Sydney with contemporaries such as Clive James and Bruce Beresford, and she wrote four books late in life, one of which was short-listed for the Booker. The Women in Black is a delightful story which deftly and lightly depicts the lives of women in Sydney at a particular time.

F. G. Goodes is an elegant department store, much like I imagine David Jones was in its day, an icon in the Sydney CBD, where the best of the best is sold. The women who work there wear a smart black uniform and come to know much about one another. St John depicts their lives with sardonic humour, yet she clearly empathises with the characters and sympathises with their subjection to the times and traditions in which they live.

The story focuses on four women who staff the ladies' cocktail dress department. Patty is a childless woman whose dull life becomes unsettled when she is enchanted by a glamorous black nightie in the lingerie section one lunchtime. She buys it and takes it home, and when her blue collar husband discovers her in the act of trying it on, an unexpected and unprecedented night of passion ensues, after which her discombobulated husband disappears for a time. Patty is left properly jolted for the first time, and wondering what her future might hold, realising the status quo is no longer. Faye is a single girl on the verge of being a matron. She realises her behaviour is in danger of giving her a reputation as a 'good-times girl' and has given up on parties, certain she will never find a husband, until she is one day introduced to one of those strange, 'continental' types, who changes everything for her. Magda is the wise European glamour-puss who runs the exclusive 'Model Gowns' section of the cocktail dress department. St John uses her to illustrate the attitude in 1950s Australia towards all things foreign - Magda is regarded with suspicion and yet admired as the most sophisticated of the staff, just as the model gowns themselves are different yet sought-after. Magda's dress-sense and character alienate her from the other staff, but she appears to prefer it this way and, when a young work experience girl is hired to work in cocktail dress, Magda takes her under her wing with expansive warmth, playing Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle. Lesley, the work experience girl, a young slip of a thing, takes the opportunity to change her name to 'Lisa' as she has always wanted to, and blossoms under Magda's knowledgeable supervision. She represents a new generation, having completed her leaving certificate and hoping to attend 'The University', in spite of her father's derision. Lisa welcomes the refined input Magda gives to her life and passes it on, introducing her mother to new delights - such as salami. Through her we see that Sydney, too, will ultimately benefit from increased foreign influence.

St John paints a marvellous, light-hearted picture of a society that is changing rapidly. This is not an earth-shattering book but it is hugely enjoyable and will resonate particularly for women who experienced 1950s Australia themselves, or whose mothers can recall this period.

Overall assessment: 3.5 out of 5

Pros: St John's writing is quite novel, for its time - there is a passage where she described a New Year's Eve party, and she does so entirely in little snippets of dialogue. Brilliant, and thoroughly unexpected, particularly as a highly anticipated romantic encounter takes place during the night and is thus glossed over.

Cons: Not sure this will continue to carry such resonance as time moves on. However, I do hope this little treasure of a book is retained as a portrait of the time.

A M Homes - May We Be Forgiven

Don't you love it when you pick up a book, turn to the first page, and know immediately you have found something special? For me, this was one of those books. I was immediately engaged and remained thoroughly engrossed for the rest of the novel.

With May We Be Forgiven, A M Homes has catapulted herself into a top ten position on my favourite authors list. This is a wild, rollicking adventure of a book, tragic but simultaneously hilarious and moving. Jeanette Winterson calls it the great American novel of our time, and it is certainly the best book I've read this year. Which is saying something, as you know.

The book opens on a family Thanksgiving dinner. While his brother George sits at the table, ignorant of the fact that help is needed, Harold ferries plates back and forth to the kitchen to assist George's wife Jane who has prepared all the food. She interrupts him as he picks at the turkey carcass, 'fingers deep in the bird, the hollow body still warm, the best bits of stuffing packed in' to kiss him full on the mouth. It is a kiss that is described as 'serious, wet, and full of desire', and like Helen of Troy's face, it is a kiss that launches a wild ride. The story takes off, galloping through a fatal car accident which leaves behind an orphaned boy, a very brief adulterous relationship, George's mental breakdown and ensuing hospitalisation, and finally a murder.

All in the first 50 odd pages. At which point I quite honestly wondered where Homes could possibly take the story next, what the next 400 odd pages could feasibly hold. But as Salman Rushdie says in his cover quote, this book starts at maximum force - and then it really gets going. The narrative speed does not stop or slow, nor does the story ever become boring. From here we are shuttled through the sometimes dirty, sometimes downright dangerous world of online dating, to the peculiar realm of alternative correctional facilities; from life at a posh American boarding school to village society in rural South Africa; from the world of academia and whispers of forgotten works of fiction by Richard Nixon to attempted car-jackings, inappropriate teacher-student relationships, a missing girl, a wedding in a senior care facility, a stroke, watered down Judaism, lots of Chinese food and the life of modern immigrants to the United States.

Harold is left bereaved, divorced and caring for George's two children, Nate and Ashley. His life has changed irreparably yet he conducts himself with aplomb. In church at the kids' mother's funeral, he brings out some Gummi bears for the kids and finds a mother behind him leaning in to ask 'how do you know about snacks?'. When Ashley calls from school, in tears and upset, Harold finds her mother's Amazon account and orders books to be sent to her. Touching moments like this are what set this book apart, charging it with humour in the midst of horror.

In the middle of the book Harold realises that he has never tried to do anything with his life, to succeed. He has always been satisfied with mediocrity or less: "...it's all coming back like a kind of psychic tidal wave, and there's a bad taste in my mouth, metallic and steely, and I'm feeling how much everyone in my family hated each other, how little we actually cared for or respected anyone but ourselves. I'm feeling how profoundly my family disappointed me and in the end how I retreated, how I became nothing, because that was much less risky than attempting to be something, to be anything in the face of such contempt." He pulls himself out of this mire, and out of the guilt he feels for his part in Jane's death, to create a family around him that is everything his family was not - loving, supportive, close.

Harold's journey is a new-age picaresque of sorts, but without the cynicism David Foster Wallace and John Kennedy Toole lend to the genre. His story is an uplifting tale of self-discovery and redemption, that is simultaneously unsentimental and deeply moving. And Harold himself is a genuinely sympathetic character, someone whose self-doubt is matched only by his warmth and ability to care for other people. He is the most maternal male character I have ever read, naturally taking in both human and animal strays and treating those around him with compassion and empathy.

I laughed outloud so often whilst reading this that Bibliohubby came to refer to it as 'that funny book you're reading'. But my laughter was as often prompted by astonishment as humour. Homes's writing is fresh and unexpected and compelling. I absolutely loved this novel.

Overall Assessment: 5 out of 5. Outstanding. Homes writes beautifully, and her story-telling is top tier. Such an imagination. I now want to go and find everything she's ever written and read it.

Note: This book also won the Women's Prize for Fiction (formerly the Orange Prize) this year, beating works by Zadie Smith, Hilary Mantel and Kate Atkinson. So I am not alone in my stellar assessment of it!

Curtis Sittenfeld - American Wife

This was recommended to me as a good read, and between feeding a newborn, dealing with my toddler son's temper tantrums and preparing for a move overseas, I really needed a good read. I had never heard of Curtis Sittenfeld, even though her first book, Prep, was nominated for the Orange Prize. And I would not have been drawn to this book had it not been recommended - especially after hearing that it is based on the life of Laura Bush. George W is not my favourite person in this world (massive understatement), and I am not particularly interested in his family, either.

But American Wife really is a good read, albeit a long one. Sittenfeld writes in the first person from the perspective of a woman who grows up to become the First Lady of the United States. The vast majority of the book focuses on the relatively normal childhood and early adulthood of Alice Blackwell (nee Lindgren), but it is a titillating set-up: regular small-town girl ends up married to the President. It's like a great make-over story, and I'm a sucker for those.

But I had one major problem for most of this book: I did not like the protagonist. The narrative is easy to read, it washes over you like a summer rom-com, which is probably what kept me pushing through even when I became intensely annoyed with Alice. She is such a cloying goody-two-shoes, it irritated me to no end. For much of the book she seems to have no back-bone, no spunk. I know she is supposed to be a product of her time, and of her small-town upbringing, but I found her to be so wet at times that I almost threw the book across the room, willing her to stand up for herself. She is not my kind of woman at all, and it frustrates me that (if there is any truth to this story at all) a woman like this could become First Lady. Indeed, that a man with the potential to hold such an esteemed position would be attracted to a woman like this. And that his family would deem her suitable for him. But I kept reading in spite of these irritations because the story was good and I really wanted to know what happened next, even though I kind of already knew. I wanted to see how it would all develop, layabout Charlie becoming the President of the United States. It seems so unlikely, when his character ss first introduced. And in spite of myself, even though I was picturing Charlie as George W (I couldn't help it!), I became quite intrigued by him. I could even kind of see that he might have some personal charm about him, although obviously his political prowess leaves much to be desired, even in fiction. For example, Alice describes him as being lukewarm on the actual politics of being president: "Being president is for [Charlie] like taking a ninth-gradfer English test on The Odysser, and he's the kid who did most of the reading, he studied for an hour the night before, but he's not one of the people who loved the book." Instead Charlie is described as being in it for the power, and because he is concerned about his personal legacy.

In the end - minor spoiler alert - the whole story really is a lead-up to the moment when Alice finally does grow a back-bone, and this is what saved the book for me. There is a hint to this in the prologue, but I must admit it was lost on me until I returned to the prologue having turned the last page. When I did finally put the book down after coming to the end, I finally understood what Sittenfeld was trying to do with American Wife. For most of the novel I had been lost as to why she had felt compelled to write this. Was it just because the premise was fun? Like a high school reunion novel, where the protagonist makes it HUGE on the world stage before returning triumphantly to the place where she grew up? But if that was the case, why choose a real-life first lady to base this on, why restrict oneself so? Or was the motivator a peculiar fascination Sittenfeld has with Laura Bush herself? But if this was so, why choose to re-create in fiction a life that has already been thoroughly examined in biography?

In the last part of the book, when Charlie has finally made it big - you know, as the most powerful man in the world - it finally started to become clear. Sittenfeld is as critical of George W Bush as I am. This is not clear through the majority of the novel, which portrays him as a magnanimous, fun guy who is misunderstood and (perhaps) underestimated by his own family. But what Sittenfeld seems really interested in - and it is innately interesting, I'll give her that - is the question of how complicit a wife is, how much she can be held accountable, for her husband's actions. I think we are meant to dislike Alice, as I did, when she turns the other cheek every time someone does her wrong: when her best friend drops her for a negligible friendship misdemeanour; when a boyfriend treats her badly and speaks ill of her. What is most frustrating is that while Alice is a push-over, she is not stupid. She acts deliberately, intentionally letting things go. And Sittenfeld wants to know: when someone like that does not speak out against things she knows are wrong, can she be held accountable for the consequences of that decision to remain silent? Specifically, can a wife be held accountable for what her husband is doing, if she has known all along that it is wrong? When she does not object and instead sits idly by, supporting her husband, while he conducts himself in a way to which she is deeply, morally opposed - are the consequences of his actions not then her fault as much as his?

Charlie, like George W Bush, starts a war when he is President which is wildly unpopular with large factions of the population. He must deal with protestors and detractors, and Alice tells the readers (we are treated like a dear diary) that, in her view, he only persists with the war because he is too humiliated to back out of it - even though thousands of American boys continue to be killed. She tells us this in the same affectionate tone she reserves for Charlie throughout, and even though we know she does not agree with his stance on the war, it is difficult here to forgive her for her silence, and for her continued support of Charlie.

In introspective moments Alice contemplates her own position on the page, asking at what stage and how should she have acted.

"All I did is marry him," she asserts. "You are the ones who gave him power."

Should she have refused to marry him, way back when, because even then their political views were not aligned? Should she have prevented him from running for office? Should she have left him when he did, even though they had a child together and were in love? It's a tricky question, and Sittenfeld's exploration of the issues involved is interesting. Nevertheless, I can't believe that the answer is the one Alice proposes - that every marriage contains some degree of betrayal, of treachery, and that in keeping silent, and in secretly taking active steps against her husband she is just acting like any other American wife.

But the Alice we ultimately get to know is far more treacherous than we are led to believe for most of the book, and that at least made her more interesting to me.

Overall assessment: 3 out of 5. A good read, light but with some thought-provoking passages.

Bookshelf porn

I have always dreamed of one day having a library. It would be the room where I sit and read, the room where I write at my desk, a room with the walls lined in floor-to-ceiling shelves, with all of my friendly books looking down on me. A room where I could spread out the books I am reading, the books I am referencing, the books I wish to browse through. A room scattered with throw cushions and rugs and tea-cups, containing a comfortable couch, my leather reading chair and many, many lamps, preferably fitted out with a window seat complete with a cat curled up into a warm ball. Sometimes, when I dream of this room, I wonder what the shelves containing my books might look like. And then I browse Google and drool over the many wonderful pictures of rooms just like the one I wish for. It's bookshelf porn, and here are some gorgeous examples, for your fantasising pleasure:

For those lacking space, but rich in renovation funds: why not try shelves set into the staircase itself?

Creative bookshelf design. I love the look of it, but am not sure it would allow for easy browsing.

Such gorgeous, spacious shelves! Though I am afraid this room would lack the cosy feel I require in my library.

I love this idea, for a house with a gabled roof and a library set in the attic.

Instead of a shelf built into the stairs, how about shelves occupying the (generally useless) space underneath the staircase? Fantastic idea!

Oh, I love this. If my room had shelves like this on each wall, I would be satisfied. The colour of the couch, though, leaves something to be desired.

Lovely down-lights on these floor-to-ceiling shelves.

What an innovative idea! Shelves in the ceiling, for a room with limited space. Too small for me, though, and access to the books would be difficult.

A bookshelf ladder like this is something I have always wanted. I like the thought of climbing up my shelves, visiting the books placed up high. 

Oh how I love these shelves! But why the curtain? In my room the shelves themselves will be the feature.

What pretty lamps on these shelves! 

I hold the vision for my own library in my mind's eye. What does yours look like?

Sheryl Sandberg - Lean In

It might seem odd that I would choose to read this whilst at home, on maternity leave, spending most of each day nursing a tiny baby. In fact, it was yet another bookclub pick - thanks Bibliofillies! - but it is also a book I've been curious about since it came out, even though I am rarely drawn to non-fiction. And actually, I think now is the perfect time to read it. Maternity leave is a wonderful time for reflection and soul searching. The experience of bringing new life into the world, of taking a break from your career and spending time at home, focusing energy on the physical task of nurturing young children rather than the intellectual tasks of a workplace, puts everything else in your life into perspective and allows you to observe it more objectively.

I will come right out and say it: I am a feminist. I make no apologies for my use of a word that has garnered all kinds of (largely undeserved) negative connotations. I believe in women making it in this world - however they choose to define 'making it'. This is even more true, and more poignant, now that I have a daughter. I loved Sheryl Sandberg's infamous TED talk (find it here), but a friend of mine, one of the Bibliofillies, was not impressed. "Nothing I haven't heard before," she commented. Nothing new. And fair enough - Sandberg draws heavily on statistics and case studies, so yes, most of the facts she presents in her talk, and in more detail in Lean In, are not new. But somehow the way she puts it all together, her collation of information, the simplicity of her message when she boils the facts right down - to me, it sounds fresh. It has made me re-think a few things. In fact, I have found it the most inspirational book on women in the workplace that I have ever read.

After several very bad experiences in law firms, and after watching Australia's first ever female prime minister get hammered by the press, I had decided I never wanted to make partner in a law firm, I never wanted to be general counsel of a corporation, and in fact I never wanted to make it to any public leadership position. It's not worth it, I thought. Success of that nature would require me to fight every day of my life against particularly nasty individuals who believed I had no right to be doing what I was doing, because I am a woman.

But Sheryl Sandberg has made me sit back and rethink this. That was the wrong message to take away from those experiences, I now realise. I am a woman with a certain degree of intelligence and privilege, who has obtained a number of undergraduate and postgraduate degrees. For any woman, but especially for women like me, who have had opportunities thrust at them, shying away from leadership positions just because the road might sometimes prove hard is not the right thing to do. With opportunity comes responsibility. And to turn down opportunity because of a perceived systemic bias against women gives the wrong voices too much power. It ensures that the culture created by those voices will continue to dominate. It does other women no favours at all.

The first chapter of Lean In is subtitled What Would You Do If You Weren't Afraid? This hit me, hard, because of course, without realising it, I was charting a course steered by fear. Sandberg points out that:

"Fear is at the root of so many of the barriers that women face. Fear of not being liked. Fear of making the wrong choice. Fear of drawing negative attention. Fear of overreaching. Fear of being judged. Fear of failure. And the holy trinity of fear: the fear of being a bad mother/wife/daughter."

She recounts a speech to female University graduates in which her advice was that as they started their adult lives they should "Start out by aiming high." And of course we should - all of us should, male and female.

In the following chapters, Sandberg parcels out succinct pieces of advice, often using her personal experiences to illustrate the authenticity of that advice. She recounts a story of women attending a meeting who chose to sit on the chairs lining the side of the room when there were insufficient places at the conference table for all attendees, rather than confidently grabbing one of those spots for themselves. Sandberg points out that this behaviour did not help those women with how they were regarded in the workplace, it did not create an impression of competence or equality. She says that we should always feel confident enough to sit at the table - both literally and figuratively - rather than take a back seat out of misguided notions of diplomacy or benevolence.

She talks about using our natural qualities so that they work for us rather than against us in the workplace - we don't have to be liked by everyone, but also we don't have to behave like men to get ahead (she even says it's ok to cry at the office). And one of my favourite pieces of advice in Lean In is to think of your career as a jungle gym rather than a ladder. It's rare for people to start down one career path and follow it linearly, through promotion after promotion, until they ultimately reach the pinnacle of their profession. It's more likely, Sandberg says, that success will come from looking more flexibly at one's career, from being open to opportunities even when at the time they may seem like sideways moves. A jungle gym, not a ladder. And isn't this realistic, these days? It is no longer the case that people who start out at one company then stay with that same company until retirement. Things have changed, opportunities might come from the most unlikely places. Sandberg also suggests that the right career choices inevitably move with the market: pick the company with the highest growth. Follow market growth, Sandberg says, even if the role seems less significant, and your career will grow too.

More practical advice from Sandbrg is to be honest in the workplace, to speak up truthfully even if it is easier or seems more diplomatic to remain silent or to sugar-coat something, and to seek the same honesty from your co-workers, even if it's hard to hear some of the truths you thus invite.

And the key career advice from Sandberg, the heart of the book: don't start leaning back from the workplace in preparation for a life you may one day lead, before you are actually leading that life. Don't make career decisions that take into account the baby you have yet to fall pregnant with, the husband you have yet to meet. I feel ashamed to admit that I am guilty of this. When I was seriously considering making a significant change in my career, had indeed taken several steps down that path - several successful, exciting steps - I let some advice I received influence me and I decided not to follow that path after all because doing so might interfere with my ability to meet someone and start a family during my thirties. Now that I have my family I don't regret the decision I made, because had I behaved differently back then my life now would surely be different too. But certainly I regret having made a decision to lean back from my career before I really needed to. I don't think that was the right basis for my decision. I'm sure that, had I followed that career path, I still would have eventually found a way to create a fulfilling family life.

The advice in Lean In is compelling because Sandberg herself is a woman who has clearly succeeded at the highest level. In the latter chapters of the book she talks about how it was possible for her to achieve this professional success while raising children, and the answer lies in her domestic set-up. It is most important, says Sandberg, to ensure your spouse is a true partner - someone who contributes equally to your family. When looking for a life partner, she says, her advice to women is "to date all of them: the bad boys, the cool boys, the commitment-phobic boys, the crazy boys. But do not marry them. The things that make the bad boys sexy do not make them good husbands. When it comes time to settle down, find someone who wants an equal partner." She cites statistics that I found most interesting, indicating high levels of happiness for women who juggle multiple roles, as long as they have support at home, and which also show that children benefit enormously - thrive, in fact - from having fathers who are genuinely involved in domestic duties. Of course, finding a partner like this might be easier said than done, but Sandberg's point is that women should insist upon it. Only by doing so is it likely to become the norm. Men, she says, must learn to 'lean in' to their domestic lives, just as women must lean in to their professional lives, accepting opportunities and achieving leadership positions. Only then will it gradually become as acceptable for women to hold the top jobs - in politics, corporations, and so on - as it is for men.

For Sandberg the concept of 'having it all' is "the greatest trap ever set for women." It is intended to be aspirational, says Sandberg, but in fact it makes us all feel bad. She says that the very concept "flies in the face of the basic laws of economics and common sense... it is best regarded as a myth." She says that the more pertinent goal is doing it all, and even that is an impossibility. Women with both careers and families worry continuously about measuring up (no one needed to tell me that!), but Sandberg says that we measure ourselves against the wrong yardsticks: "we compare our efforts at work to those of our colleagues, usually men, who typically have far fewer responsibilities at home. Then we compare our efforts at home to those of mothers who dedicate themselves solely to their families." And on and on - we compare our bodies to those who are paid to dedicate themselves solely to looking a particular way (models, or athletes). She quotes Gloria Steinem, who famously said: "You can't do it all. No one can have two full-time jobs, have perfect children and cook three meals and be multi-orgasmic 'til dawn... Superwoman is the adversary of the woman's movement." I know all of this, I have heard it before, but isn't it something we should hear again and again?  As I sit here writing, I am also jiggling with one foot the baby rocker in which my seven week old daughter lies. I have gotten up intermittently during the writing of this post to tidy a room, start preparing dinner, and put away the laundry my husband has folded, all the while calculating the hours left until I need to pick up my 20 month old from daycare, where he spends two days a week. I have kept the computer on in front of me whilst trying simultaneously to get some reading done of our new bookclub book, and checking Facebook and my email each several times, when I am actually trying (in and around the writing of this blog) to finish writing cover letters and a synopsis of my book so that I can submit it to publishers. I managed to get a run in this morning, but am still unsatisfied by my post-pregnancy weight (although at seven weeks postpartum I don't know why I am putting this pressure on myself). I want the house to be perfect before our landlady inspects tomorrow, I want to give my daughter a bath, I want to have dinner sorted for my son before he gets home this evening (and I want him to eat it!) and I want dinner to be prepared for myself and my husband by the time I put my son to sleep later tonight. Mainly, I want to post this before today is over. And all the while, I am fitting in the regular feeds Lulu requires, which become ever more frequent as evening approaches. Of course I am falling short on all counts. At night, when I get up to breastfeed Lulu, I will also be trying to get some reading in on my Kindle, but my brain won't be up to processing much; and when I get back into bed, my brain will be just active enough to keep me awake worrying about everything: how much more there is to do for our move overseas later this year, my lack of progress on the next book, whether the kids are each getting enough attention, whether my son is eating a balanced enough diet and getting enough stimulation, about my parents, about our finances... the list is endless. All this and I'm not even working at the moment (though this, of course, is yet another cause of stress). All this and I am one of the lucky ones - I have help, and I have a true partner in Bibliohubby.

We cannot have it all, or do it all, at the same time. It should be a mantra women repeat over and over to themselves. Sandberg cites Nora Ephron (RIP, smart, funny woman), who, in a 1996 commencement address, said: "It will be a little bit messy, but embrace the mess. It will be complicated, but rejoice in the complications. It will not be anything like what you think it will be like, but surprises are good for you. And don't be frightened: you can always change your mind. I know: I've had four careers and three husbands." Sandberg says that at Facebook one of the posters up on the walls says "Done is better than perfect." And she stresses that what we need to lose, all of us women, is GUILT. That tricky, pervasive mother guilt that afflicts us all. Sandberg says that "guilt management can be just as important as time management for mothers." She says that while she looks at the number of nights spent away from her children and berates herself for this failure, her husband celebrates the fact that they eat dinner together as a family as often as they do, and that these conflicting viewpoints are indicative of our problematic and counter-productive female guilt. But she also says that it can be fun when our various roles collide - when we bring our children to the office and they get to see where we work, for example. She says Facebook is family-friendly and it was a positive thing for both her work and her family life that her kids got to know her colleagues. I agree - I remember as a child visiting my mum at the clinic where she worked as a doctor, and I remember how normal it seemed that she was on call several nights a week, and might disappear at midnight without notice. My mother says that when she stopped working, I said to her (in all my youthful wisdom): "But you've been a doctor as long as I've known you!". I grew up proud of my mother, not at all concerned by the number of hours she was away from the house. Of course, I was lucky to have a father who stayed at home longer in the mornings to prepare our breakfast and pack us lunches for the day before going to work himself. This meant he got home later at night, but my mum got home earlier - that's how they balanced it. And that is Sandberg's point, too - we have to decide what's important to us and then find a way to make that happen, and be ok with letting the rest of it go. We need to find what works for us. She points to a Stanford professor's research which shows that setting obtainable goals is the key to happiness. Striving for perfection is not (again, I'm not sure why it require Stanford level research to prove this!).

Sandberg says that many women shy away from talking about all of this, especially the bits about the difficulties of being a woman in the workplace and being a feminist, because they perceive that it will do them a disservice to raise it and to be seen as 'one of those'. But the point she makes, with which I wholeheartedly agree, is that the reverse is true: the only way to effect change, and to work with other people (not just women) to create that change or even just to get through it all in good company, is to talk about it. It's been said before, but feminism is not a dirty word.

Everyone will take different things from this motivational read, but these are my take-home points: I should not be afraid, any longer, to succeed at work, I should grab opportunities even if they come out of left field, I should rely on my husband to be a true partner, I should be ok with achieving some goals, the ones I set for myself, and not others, and, above all, I should embrace the mess. 'Cuz that's life.

Overall assessment: 4 out of 5

Pros: This is without question the best book I have read about working mothers. Note, however, that this is not necessarily saying a lot - I don't read a lot of non-fiction and I hardly ever read self-help, though I'm not sure this book fits into that category. I do read feminist writing, though, and I think we can safely categorise this as a feminist text for our generation's working woman. Aside from the fabulous Caitlin Moran's How to be a Woman, and my idol Tina Fey's Bossypants, this is the most influential feminist read I have picked up in a long time.

Cons: This is a book for working women. Parts of it - particularly the partnership chapter, and the chapter on the myth of doing it all - will also speak to women who are stay-at-home mums, and Sandberg is sympathetic to any choice a woman makes for her life. But really, the readers who will get the most out of this are working mothers. Also, even though I am (most of the time) a working mother, my choices are different to those that Sandberg has made. When I read about her decision to willingly sacrifice being present at all of her children's dance recitals and parent-teacher conferences and so on, it initially made me uncomfortable. But when I kept reading I recognised that she is not calling on everyone to make those same decisions - they are simply the ones she has made for herself and her family. And all of us have that choice to make.

The Art of Linguistic Expression

I was watching a video online the other day, of Jeanette Winterson interviewing A M Homes, in which both authors agreed that people no longer cared about the quality of writing in a book. One of them, I don't remember which, suggested that use of language was never mentioned anymore when a new book was reviewed, and the other nodded vigorously in agreement. Both authors felt that the new generation of readers didn't seek out high-level linguistic expression in books, and they attributed this modern lack of interest in the quality of writing to the internet era - to text-speak and emoticons, to acronyms and abbreviations.

I found the whole thing peculiar, because whilst I acknowledge that there is a generation currently developing into adulthood who communicate largely through informal means, where the rules of grammar are less important than the speed of getting a point across, I haven't seen evidence yet that this has been translated into the world of literature. I read a lot of reviews, and the focus of these seems much the same these days as it always has been. Similarly it seems to me that the use of language is as important as ever in deciding who should win a literary prize.

Of course the existence of new technologies has changed modern literature in some interesting ways - for example, the chapter in Jennifer Egan's Pulitzer Prize winning novel A Visit From the Goon Squad which is written entirely in Powerpoint could not have existed fifteen years ago, and there have been a number of other books (like 'e' by Matt Beaumont, an epistolary novel written entirely as a string of emails between workers in an advertising agency, and Hold the Fries by Nina Schindler, which is told exclusively through letters and text messages) that make a strong feature of new technologies. But in my view a really good book (including the ones mentioned above) is still one which combines beautiful writing with remarkable story. And I truly don't believe that the text-generation will do away with lyricism, or clever use of vocabulary, or spare but stunning prose.

Maybe I am being optimistic. But I think it is far more likely that Homes and Winterson are being unduly pessimistic. Every generation feels the next spells the end of what matters. And inevitably, that next generation simply introduces change to the existing order - not on a grand scale, but
on the same incremental level as the change wrought by the generation before. Change is not a bad thing. Organic beings are defined by constant change. That's what it is to be organic. Change is growth.

And language, like human beings, is in a state of constant flux; it's like a living organism. Those of us living in the English-speaking world are perhaps less aware of this fact than people in some other cultures, because English is the official language in several countries. In some non-English speaking nations formal linguistic change is more obvious. For example, Germany has formalised the process of updating the national language in a way that has a very real influence on spoken German. An official committee meets regularly to discuss whether a new word should be adopted into German from slang, or from another language, due to regular usage, or whether an existing word should be dropped, or even whether a spelling or a grammatical rule or a Germanic oddity has reached its use-by date. When I grew up in Munich the 'Eszett' or 'scharfes S' still existed - a letter that looked like a capital B on a stick, which denoted a sharp 's' sound. Several years ago it was decided that this should be dropped, and now two S's in a row are used instead to create the same sound. The change was announced, and almost immediately it took effect across the nation.

The English language, too, has official committees devoted to guiding the way our language evolves. In the UK, for example, the Queen's English Society fills that position. But generally those of us who reside in the 'colonies' are unaware of the decisions reached by that Society. Certainly I can't remember ever being aware of an 'official' change occurring in the English language from one day to the next. For conversational English, evolution is largely informal - although the introduction into Urban Dictionary and even the eventual adoption by the Oxford English Dictionary of new English words does indicate that such change is eventually accommodated and embedded in a more formal way. As loathe as I am to acknowledge it, even grammatical errors that become common usage due to ignorance can, through persistent use, eventually become accepted parts of the English language. My personal reluctance to accept the use of 'but' at the end of a sentence rather than as it was intended, a conjunction between two parts of a sentence, does not mean that this abomination will not be regarded as a permitted use of the word in due course. And our objection to abbreviated text-speak does not mean that some of it won't ultimately find its way into the English lexicon.

Nevertheless, I truly believe that in literature, beauty and wit are still widely regarded as virtues. The concept or definition of beauty might change from generation to generation, but I think it is unlikely that the next generation will do away with it altogether. Even in hip-hop and rap music, pithy expression and a clever turn of phrase are admired. The fact that language, and the way language is used, has changed with the advent of the internet and the smartphone, with email and Facebook and Twitter, does not mean that readers have suddenly let go of what has always been one of the joys of reading - experiencing the exceptional use of language by one who wields it with unusual skill.

What do you reckon? Does language matter to you when you read? Do you prefer books where the writer has a particularly aesthetic approach to language? Or do you not care how an author expresses herself as long as the plot keeps you reading?

Edward St Aubyn - Mother's Milk

I feel complicated about writing this review. I have had such unadulterated admiration for St Aubyn since I started reading his Patrick Melrose series that I feel guilty for having turned to this fourth volume at a time when I was probably not in the right frame of mind to embrace it. The result, of course, is that I didn't enjoy this book nearly as much as I did the first three parts of the series. So I am willing to give St Aubyn the benefit of the doubt to some extent, by placing some of the blame for my critical reading on my mindset - but not all of it.

In this episode of Patrick's life, he is married, in his 40s, with two young sons. Unlike the first three books in the series, this novel covers more than a 24 hour period, and I believe some of the intensity that has characterised the books to this point is lost as a result. And whilst the series thus far has dealt primarily with Patrick's relationship with his father and the consequences of that relationship on the rest of Patrick's life, the central story of this book revolves around Patrick's relationship with his mother, Eleanor, her physical deterioration and descent into dementia, and the dissolution of Patrick's inheritance (which makes him very angry). St Aubyn illustrates the effect on Patrick of his mother's gradual demise by using a mix of narrative voices, all focused on Patrick and his actions, including Patrick's own first person voice. What is perhaps most jarring - but also most original - is that the book opens with first person narration by Patrick's first-born son, Robert, when he was a baby. And when I say baby, I do truly mean baby - in the first pages, Robert describes, for example, the feeling of being born:

"Why had they pretended to kill him when he was born? Keeping him awake for days, banging his head again and again against a closed cervix; twisting the cord around his throat and throttling him; chomping through his mother's abdomen with cold shears; clamping his head and wrenching his neck from side to side; dragging him out of his hone and hitting him; shining lights in his eyes and doing experiments; taking him away from his mother while she lay on the table, half-dead."

You can see why this highly original opening was difficult for me to read in the last weeks of pregnancy! Obviously this defies any kind of reality, and that's fine - by starting with such a bold example of false narration, St Aubyn signals to his readers that they should not necessarily expect the narrative voices in this book to be true to life. And I accept that. When Robert later makes astute observations that are easily beyond the wit of most well educated adults, a reader is capable of accepting this because the framework has been set up from the beginning - but as with all books that require such a suspension of disbelief, it must be executed with consistency. That consistency is missing here, and this is where I believe St Aubyn fails - or at least it is where he lost me. I couldn't accept that a child narrator who, on the one hand, is able to assert during the family's trip to America that French Fries should now be called Freedom Fries (and understands the political reason for this), who is aware when his father ruminates in front of him that "[Robert] wasn't being communicated with, but allowed to listen to his father practising speeches", and who has remarkable insight into human relationships - would also, on the other hand, behave like a young child and ask exactly the kinds of questions that one would expect of children in a new country ("why do the pavements glitter?"). As far as I was able to tell (given that my reading of this book, like my writing of this review, was punctuated by a toddler climbing all over me and a baby crying to be fed), Robert was aged between six and nine for most of the book.

A few other inconsistencies also crept into the text of Mother's Milk. The book is written with little regard for the existence of the previous volumes in the series. Patrick drinks heavily but makes no reference to his previous addiction. Indeed, his years of severe addiction are not referred to at all, which beggars belief in a novel that deals so personally with Patrick as a protagonist. I am no expert, but I would have thought it would be fairly problematic for a former drug addict to develop an addiction to another substance later in life - I would have thought the latter would raise all kinds of alarm bells in light of the former. I would particularly have thought that the visit of Patrick's friend Johnny, who was his partner in crime during much of his earlier substance abuse, would have raised a comment or two about their wilder days and their lucky escape from an early end. But no such comments were made, even while the two shared intimate conversation and a bottle or two of wine.

And in the penultimate sequence of the novel, Patrick's family takes a trip to America - yet his earlier time in New York City, where most of the second novel of the series, Bad News, is set, is not referenced once. In fact, the holiday is written in such a way that it could well be Patrick's first ever visit to the United States. Facts and oddities about the United States are shared as though the whole family was observing these as newcomers to the country.

A raft of inconsistencies indeed. So obvious did I find these that I wondered whether they were deliberate. Perhaps St Aubyn wanted this book to stand on its own? Certainly it does so successfully - this book alone, out of the Patrick Melrose novels, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. And I suppose I was more attuned to notice such things than most readers, having read the first four books of the pentalogy in quick succession rather than as they were published, with a year or more in between. Maybe for other readers these things don't matter so much.

More troublesome for me than the inconsistencies, however, was Patrick's character. In book one, Never Mind, Patrick as a five year old child is endearing and pitiful, drawing heavily on the sympathy of the readers. For that reason, we forgive him for his behaviour in book two, Bad News - particularly as Patrick's horrid conduct in that book is fuelled in equal measure by his hatred for his father and a vitriolic self-hatred. By the end of book three, Some Hope, what we are left feeling is that there is indeed hope for Patrick - he has started to redeem himself, and for the first time I found myself liking him. So it was a huge disappointment in Mother's Milk, when one might assume that Patrick's redemption has well and truly arrived - marriage, fatherhood - to find him as an embittered, nasty middle-aged man engaged in casual adultery.

As I stated at the outset of this review, I did read this book at an unfortunate time. Late pregnancy and the first few sleep-deprived weeks with a newborn are not the ideal time to read a book dense with rich language and heavy on the darker side of cynicism. I read this very slowly. Once things had calmed down at home, I re-dedicated myself to the task of finishing Mother's Milk, and I must say that my enjoyment of it increased thereafter. It became clear to me, for example, that Patrick's adultery is a product of his wife's total absorption with motherhood - something that is claimed by Patrick throughout the book, but which at first I took to be merely an excuse. Early on, Patrick says that in picking a wife he was so concerned about choosing someone who would be a good mother to his children that he had neglected to find someone who would be able to juggle that task with continuing to be a good partner to him. And certainly one of his redeeming features here is his determination to be a good father, or at least to ensure that his children lead reasonably good lives - although St Aubyn doesn't portray him with any warmth, and we don't see him engaged in fatherly activities like tossing a ball around with his sons. His fatherhood mission is illustrated more cerebrally. Towards the end, for example, he says that he was obsessed with "stopping the flow of poison from one generation to the next, but he already felt that he had failed." Patrick is far from perfect, but his motivations are not without some merit.

Overall assessment: 3 out of 5.

Pros: As always, St Aubyn's language is impeccable. In spite of my reservations regarding inconsistency and character, I have found myself recalling parts of the novel after putting it down, and calling up quotes in my mind. The interminably sad portrait of Eleanor, Patrick's mother, will stay with me, I think (though I'm not sure that's a good thing!). And this book probably suffers from its necessary comparison with those that came before. I'm surprised that this is the one which was shortlisted for such a prestigious prize, but I am not surprised that, on its own, it was regarded so highly.

Cons: See above re inconsistency and cynicism.

The Future of Books: What of book sightings and signings?

Just over a week ago I posted a quote from a book called Judging a Book By Its Lover, by Lauren Leto. I now feel compelled to share another excerpt from that book, which is really a collection of witticisms and anecdotes about books and reading - from one book lover to others. It's a fun read, and my only true criticism of it is that Leto tends to be rather American-centric in her literary references.

I have written before about paper books ('real' books) versus e-books. Leto gives a compelling argument in favour of paper books that I had not previously thought of:

"There's a reason book lovers are the last ones to hold out in this digital revolution. Music and movie lovers have never had the same pleasure that book lovers have in being able to identify on sight a fellow fan of Tolstoy or Didion. What does the e-reader revolution mean for all of us who get a thrill from noting the book in a stranger's hands?

Music devotees meet other fans at concerts or by recognising concert T-shirts. Movie lovers will wait in line together at midnight for the first peek at the new Tarantino film. Readers, however, have it better; they carry around the objects of their worship and roots of their collective bond everywhere they go."

She goes on to point out that: "...in ten years, print books themselves may be a thing of the past. I fear as digital books become ubiquitous, the tradition of reading may remain as strong but the ability to sight fellow minds will be disintegrated. As book covers slip from hands and are replaced by plastic tablets, readers lose the wonderful, clandestine opportunity to quickly create a mutual understanding with strangers. Then what will we be left with? And what about other print traditions? If bookstores vanish, where will an author's book readings occur? And book signings? What will authors sign?"

Oh, this made me sad.

Most of us books lovers will have a story about seeing someone reading a book we love - on a bus, in an airport, on a plane - and connecting with that person, either entirely in our minds or in reality. I love that sweet moment when one is reading a book in public only to look up and find a complete stranger nearby reading the very same book. Often a smile passes between the two of you, a knowing smile, and to me that connection between strangers is a confirmation of humanity. It makes me warm inside, a feeling I might carry with me for the rest of my day. Other times that coincidence and symbol of similar interests is enough to spawn a conversation. Sometimes, through the haze of severe jetlag, I have enjoyed such a moment, perhaps after seeing someone reading a book by a favourite author, or reading a book I want to read, but have yet to pick up. Frequently, I will ask how my fellow reader is enjoying the book, and a conversation ensues which combats the boredom of a lengthy transit or a long haul flight.

The thought of these chance meetings disappearing fills me with preemptive nostalgia. But worse still: book signings. Author readings.

I have been going to these since my undergraduate days, when writers would come to the English department of the University I attended, and have sought them out ever since. With my mother, I saw Margaret Atwood speak at a theatre in Kingston, Ontario, when she was at her feisty best, and experienced for myself that quick wit and sharp sense of humour. I heard Michael Ondaatje speak in Toronto, alongside Anthony Minguella, soon after the film version of The English Patient was released. They spoke of the process of converting the book into the movie, how Minghella fell in love with the book and tracked down Ondaatje, how they collaborated to make the movie that would win the 1997 Academy Award for Best Picture. I heard another of Canada's great novelists, Timothy Findley, speak before his death in 2002. I attended an intimate bookstore reading by the beautiful Arundhati Roy after which I spoke to her and watched her face fall as I gave what I thought was a compliment:

"I like your style of writing," I said to her.
"I don't have a style," she responded, deadpan. I still remember the sound of her voice as she read from that incredible book, The God of Small Things.

In Sydney I heard the great Jonathan Franzen speak about Freedom, and met his handsome gaze afterwards as he signed my well-worn copy.

In fact I still have the signed copies of all of those books on my shelves. They are my treasured possessions. Someone once told me that they were wary of meeting the writers they loved in case they differed from expectations, in some discomforting way. But I have never worried about that. Writing and reading, when interconnected, become two sides of a rather intimate activity - these people, the writers, have already invited me into the depths of their mind. These are people I already know, in some way. I want to meet these people, more so than actors, who are playing a part when we see them on screen. And I have yet to be disappointed.

The thought of book tours and book signings disappearing along with paper books is just too much to bear. But Leto is right: where would Paul Auster sign his newest e-book for me? How would Salman Rushdie sign an electronic version of Joseph Anton? (even the thought of Joseph Anton in e-book form seems somehow sacrilegious)

So join me, please, and let us rage, rage agains the dying of the light.

Graeme Simsion - The Rosie Project

Surprisingly, I first heard of this book through the website of my favourite Australian televised book show, the ABC's First Tuesday Book Club, hosted by Jennifer Byrne. I say surprisingly because the story of how this book came to be is such that I feel that I should have heard about it before. Graeme Simsion is an Australian IT consultant in his 50s, and this is his debut novel (although it was originally conceived of as a screenplay). Before it was published Simsion entered the manuscript into the Victorian Premier's Unpublished Manuscript Award, and it won. The book was subsequently picked up by small publisher Text. And it has now earned Simsion over $1.2 million in international advances, with production companies on three different continents fighting over film rights. Amazing. So these things do still happen.

When I first started reading The Rosie Project I thought the tone was a little young adult, a little high school. It took me a while to get beyond that and realise there was more to the novel than the cute exterior which it first presented.

Don Tillman is a genetics professor who lives his life according to precise schedules. It is clear immediately Don has undiagnosed Asberger's Syndrome, though he does not realise this himself, even when he teaches a class on Asberger's to a room full of schoolchildren suffering from autism. There is obvious comedic value in this set-up, which Simsion uses to best advantage. Don is a lovely character, one to whom one warms very quickly. When he sets out to find a wife using a 16 page double-sided questionnaire, because he has determined that, statistically, married men are likely to live longer and consider themselves to be happier than unmarried men, we want him to succeed, as unlikely as that might be. When he meets Rosie, a woman who meets none of his rigorous criteria, who smokes, and has tattoos, and works in a bar, we cheer for the inevitability of their blossoming relationship instead of damning the predictability of the plot. This is because the novel has significant charm. There are scenes, too, that are very funny. I laughed outloud during Don's stellar debut performance as a cocktail waiter and mixologist for a conference crowd of medical professionals. And while some might decry Simsion's approach to the publishing and film industry as cynical - writing the story as a screenplay and then, afterwards, as a novel, so that a production company might be motivated to pick up the film rights - I admit I am looking forward to seeing this reinvented as a film. I think it will be sweet and fun and romantic. Also, these days, I think we need to be forgiving - aspiring authors must do what they need to do, given the current state of the publishing industry.

Overall assessment: 4 out of 5. This is a short review, partly because I read the book in the last few days before Lulu was born and have had little time since to sit down and think about it in any deep way. But it is a testament to Simsion's writing that I was able to read his novel, and read it so quickly, at a time when my mind was squarely focused elsewhere. I really highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a fun, diverting, uplifting read.

Pros: One thing this novel does is point out that there is, in fact, a silver lining to Asberger's. I hope people with autism or with close friends or family with autism, do not take this the wrong way - neither I nor Simsion intend to diminish the seriousness of the condition of autism. What Simsion does, though, is to portray a character in a very real way, without overt sentimentality. Don is not painted as someone we should pity - because he's not. He is someone with many gifts, who also faces more than his fair share of personal challenges, and who is finding his way just like the rest of us. I understand that the book has been well received by people with Asberger's for this reason.

Cons: Like most rom-coms, the story is predictable, and some might say the Rosie Project (the genetics project Don takes on in the book to gain favour with Rosie) is contrived. I was willing to forgive both of these elements in favour of being swept up in the lives of the characters. I actually missed the characters after putting the book down, which makes me think it might be one I will pick up again.

Judging a Book by its Lover

A friend of mine recently recommended a book to me written by Lauren Leto, the creator of the internet humour site Texts from Last Night (very funny, should you happen to stumble across it). This is not a review of that book, which is entitled Judging a Book by its Lover - I am still reading it. But I came across a passage early on which I immediately wanted to share, because it so perfectly summarises the way I feel about reading, something that I have expressed here before, though perhaps not as eloquently:

"Considering yourself a serious reader doesn't mean you can't read light books. Loving to read means you sometimes like to turn your head off. Reading is not about being able to recite passages from Camus by memory. Loving young adult novels well past adolescence isn't a sign of stunted maturity or intelligence. The most important thing about reading is not the level of sophistication of the books on your shelf. There is no prerequisite reading regimen for being a bookworm."

Precisely.

Leto does go on, however, to caution that "silly books shouldn't be all we read", or we will all become lazy readers, with narrow perspective.

All of this makes so much sense it causes me to sigh with satisfaction. The rest of Leto's book is a collection of random bookish wisdom along these lines, as well as satirical imaginings, such as what it would be like to have dinner or brunch with any number of famous writer couples (the kind of fantasy I indulge in a little too regularly on rainy Sydney days) and humorous anecdotes, such as Leto's tragic middle school spelling bee experience. All of which makes me think she is the kind of woman with whom I would like to share a bottle of good red wine. Or two.

The Great Gatsby read-along - with Stephen Colbert!!! (and me)

Bibliohubby and I adore Stephen Colbert. We tape the Colbert Report every night and watch it religiously after Iggy has gone to bed. We complain loudly when he takes a break and the show is put on brief hiatus (we don't begrudge him his holidays, of course not, we just miss him terribly while he's away).  When we planned our last trip to New York, Bibliohubby spent months in advance of our touch-down hunting tickets to the show, and was ultimately - yay! - successful. So along we went, and came away even more impressed by his near-faultless live performance. The man is a genius.

(Also, we are convinced that if he could only meet us and get to know us a little, he would feel as strongly about us as we do about him and we would all become the best of friends and regularly invite each other over for dinner.)

We seriously considered asking him to become Iggy's godfather. Because, you know, he would definitely go for that, even though he's never met us personally and we live on the other side of the world. He just seems like such an all-round good guy, as well as sharing our political persuasions and being crack-up hilarious. Our favourite ever Colbert moment is what we like to call the Munchma Quchi moment. YouTube it, now. You'll see.

Anyway, my fandom only increased when he announced a reading challenge the other night (ostensibly as part of the inauguration of the O Colbert Book Club - a spoof on Oprah's book club). Viewers are encouraged to read The Great Gatsby before his show on 9 May, when he will be hosting Jennifer Egan (!!) and Baz Luhrmann to discuss the text, in anticipation of the launch of the movie.

Huzzah!

Anyone who started reading this blog at the beginning of the year, when it first started, and has stuck with it since (I'm not sure anyone exists who fits this description; if there is - Hello, you fool, I love you!) may remember that re-reading The Great Gatsby was one of my early goals for 2013. And now here we are; yet another reason to get to it. Also, since writing the first draft of this post I have discovered that The Great Gatsby is also The Guardian's May book club pick.

So I'm inviting all of you to join me. Or join Colbert. Or The Guardian. Whatever. Just read the book, watch the show, and then come back here* and tell me what you think / thought of Egan and Luhrmann and Colbert, and what you thought of the book. Fun!

* It occurs to me that there is a high likelihood that no one will take me up on this challenge. Unlike Colbert, I do not have an established fan base. But I will be discussing the book and the show anyway, so you may as well drop by to read that, in early May-ish. Assuming the birth of Baby hasn't thrown everything dramatically off-course by then, which it may well do seeing as today is the due date.

Sunday Salon - Book addiction and withdrawal

Last week Sophie Kinsella released a new book, called Wedding Night. I had pre-ordered it on Amazon and so it was automatically delivered to my Kindle on the release date.

I have written before about Sophie Kinsella, and the fact that she has also been published in the past under the name Madeleine Wickham (her real name). But I don't think I was sufficiently effusive in my praise of her comedic chick-lit writing, or open enough about my enthusiasm for her books.

A new Kinsella book for me is a bit like a shipment of drugs for an addict. That may sound extreme, but here is what happened when the book arrived on my Kindle: I opened it up that evening, started reading, and more or less did not stop reading until I finished the book a day later (except when I was forced to, like to pay attention to my son or to cook dinner for Bibliohubby). I stayed up late in the night and read in the dark, I read while the TV was on, I read in between the chopping stages of my cooking, I read while I lay next to Iggy encouraging him to sleep (I am an excellent multi-tasker).

And the strange thing is, I'm not sure it even made me happy. I mean, I enjoyed the book immensely, as I do with all of hers. It made me laugh out loud in places, and chuckle in others, and I was fully absorbed from beginning to end. But the thing with this kind of obsessive reading is that it feels obsessive. It feels like an addiction. Which means that sometimes, whilst reading, I knew that I should be doing other things, or that overall I might enjoy my day more if I spent a bit of time outside - but I was tethered to this book. It was such a strong compulsion it felt like my freedom was being compromised!

And further, when things were not going well for the characters, it affected me emotionally. When I was interrupted in my reading, it genuinely upset me.

I think Bibliohubby finds it quite odd - and rather disconcerting - that my grumpy mood can be caused by something as ephemeral as a novel! But it can. And it was.

And then, I finished the book. This came with a weird kind of release - ahh, I will now have time to do other things! I can re-focus my eyes and get up from the couch and walk from one room to the next without dragging my Kindle along with me. Of course, alongside the relief was a sense of real loss - the characters and the life I had actually been living, alongside my own life, for the past 24 hours, were gone. What would occupy my imagination now? All of a sudden I was released back into my reality of waiting, waiting, waiting for this baby to come.

So tell me - am I an oddity? Is it very strange that I occasionally get so involved in a book that the borders between fiction and my reality start to blur? Am I the only one who suffers from withdrawal when a particularly absorbing book is finished? Tell me I'm not crazy!

Jennifer Egan - Look at Me

So, I turned back to Egan as promised in order to determine whether she really does hold a place as one of my favourite female writers, whether A Visit from the Goon Squad was her literary highlight, whether her voice in more traditional story-telling mode is as magnetic.

Look at Me is a hugely ambitious book. It is beautifully written and plot-driven, but it also acts as an in-depth exploration of larger themes and philosophical questions, particularly over the nature of identity, and the modern prioritisation of image at the expense of authenticity.

Egan took six years to write this book and it shows; it is populated with a large cast of characters, each taking turns in the narrative spotlight, and each illustrating Egan's theme from a new perspective.

Really, though, this is a tale of two Charlottes.

Charlotte Swenson is a 35 year-old model whose face has been wrecked in a car accident and whose reconstructive surgery leaves her with a face so different from her old one that nobody recognises her. Charlotte is an enigma. She is consumed by the desire to succeed in the public eye, to enter what she calls "The Mirrored Room", that elite space reserved for those in our modern society who have obtained a glorified celebrity status - the rich and famous, the beautiful. Her ticket in, before the accident, was her beauty, her face. Although she never made it to the realm of true, stratospheric stardom, she was close enough to be considered 'one of the beauties' on a circuit of wealthy hotspots around the world and in the exclusive nightclubs of New York City. But there is a deeper side to Charlotte, revealed in her ability to glimpse people's 'shadow selves' - their true selves, their real identity, which most people take great pains to hide from the world in favour of what they want the world to see. After her accident Charlotte also starts seeing the 'shadow self' of Manhattan - old signs, hidden behind modern buildings, still plastered on old brick walls, representing a bygone era. Interestingly, these glimpses of the past soothe Charlotte, who otherwise seems so preoccupied by flashy facades.

After realising that her new face means she will never succeed again at modelling, Charlotte finds a new way to sell her soul - to a dot com start-up. Extra/Ordinary commoditises lives on the internet, in an attempt to capture reality and expose it for the masses to see. Inevitably, the 'life' represented online is a departure from reality rather than its essence - it is manufactured, with the manufacturing done by other people: ghost writers, film directors, 'experts'. Even as she achieves the kind of success that she has always dreamed of, Charlotte becomes deeply uncomfortable with the artifice of her manufactured life. She has sold her soul to gain entry to the mirrored room, which she ultimately recognises for what it is: an arbitrary space filled with empty, superficial people, "chimeras... the hard, beautiful seashells left behind long after the living creatures within have struggled free and swum away". She finally realises this is not what she wants, after all, and it thus becomes clear that the loss of Charlotte's face in fact marked the start of her painful journey towards authenticity.

Charlotte Swenson's life is played out against the life of another Charlotte, a high school girl who lives in model-Charlotte's hometown. Young Charlotte suffers at school because of her plain looks and her initial unwillingness to play the games that characterise some of the more shallow social interactions between teenagers. She is a strong young woman with a fierce sense of her own independence and self-worth, traits which have no doubt been developed in response to her younger brother's struggle with leukaemia and her parents' understandable preoccupation with their son's well-being. As she distances herself from her cliquey school and her popular friends, young Charlotte finds herself increasingly drawn to two men. One is her uncle, Moose, who battles against a madness caused by an epiphany he had years earlier, in which he recognised the past as ever-present behind the superficial trappings of modern day America - much as model-Charlotte sees the shadow-self of New York City behind its new facade. Moose's x-ray vision, however, has led him to believe that the modern structures of current-day society, which hide beneath them the true history of America, spell the doom of humanity. He is frustrated by his inability to relay this vital doomsday message to anybody else and hopes that young Charlotte might be his protege, teaching her obsessively about the history of their small town in the hope that her own epiphany lies around the corner.

The other man in young Charlotte's life is a mysterious maths teacher called Michael West, who is not from the West at all, but who arrived in America from somewhere far East with the intent of destroying America, or some part of it. Michael West believes, upon arriving in the States, that the intoxicating images that are exported from the USA to the world, of beautiful women in night clubs and tall buildings made of steel and glass, and the global dissemination of these artifices through ubiquitous fast food and Hollywood movies, are signs of an American conspiracy to take over the world through eroding the authenticity and cultural reality of other places. It is not until he arrives in America that he is gradually lulled into the peaceful acceptance that there is no conspiracy. Americans themselves, he realises, believe in the images they project, and they are too drugged by the artifice to recognise the danger these represent to the rest of the world.

A South African friend of mine once said that the secret to world peace was a backyard and a two car garage - that once people were relatively happy with their lot in life they were far less likely to go and fight wars. Michael West's desire to destroy America dissolves as he gradually absorbs the American life, even going so far as to adopt a layer of fat over his taut physique from ingesting McDonald's, that iconic symbol of American imperialism. He comes to realise that he can be a part of the image he had previously so despised, and that this is a much easier way to live than maintaining his struggle against the artifice and a rage so intense it has caused him to walk out on marriage after marriage, life after life.

Young Charlotte, fighting against the perceived importance of beauty that is the reality at American high schools, feels a kindred tie to both of these men, but does not consciously recognise why she is drawn to them. She is looking for something but cannot explain even to herself what that is.When her own beauty gradually emerges - through the artifice, of course, of well-applied make-up and (like Clark Kent into Superman) the removal of her glasses - she finds the complications of trying to live like her Uncle, or emulating the secrecy and just-suppressed rage of Michael West, too difficult. What she most wants, after all, is what all high school students ultimately want: to fit in, even if that is at the expense of their true selves.

In direct contrast to model-Charlotte, she moves from determinedly gripping onto reality and actively pursuing authenticity, to embracing shallow artifice.  Like Charlotte, though, the vehicle for her transformation is her face, in this case the adoption of a false one which allows her to sink easily into the contrived homogeneity of a high school crowd.

The various storylines of this book eventually collide and we are left with a scathing view of modern society, and a dire prediction for the near future, a future which has, to a large extent, already come to pass since the publication of the book in 2001. With the advent of Facebook, the rise and growth of reality TV, the obsession with sharing our lives with the world through Twitter, Instagram and so on - much of what Egan seems to be warning against in Look at Me has already happened. I wonder whether she now feels that it is too late for the world.

Overall assessment: 4 out of 5. I really enjoyed this book, but somehow it hasn't touched me as deeply as I think it should, given the subject matter. One reason for this may be the ending, which for me didn't quite come together with the emotional impact it could have, or should have. The project may have been overly ambitious. Many clever parallels are drawn between the two Charlottes that don't quite add up - model-Charlotte's obsession with 'Z' and young-Charlotte's obsession with Michael West, for example, mark a mid-point in both of their journeys where they were in the same place, emotionally, though moving in opposite directions on their journeys to/from authenticity. But this doesn't hit home for readers in any significant sense because the story is too big.

Pros / favourite part(s): Egan's writing is beautiful; I highlighted large sections of text simply to remind myself later how extraordinarily apt were her metaphors, how unusual her capacity to describe ordinary things in a way that made them somehow extraordinary. Her writing reminds me in some ways of Jonathan Franzen's, or perhaps it is the other way around - they certainly share some similarities. Her story-telling is for the most part gripping, and reminds me in places of Anne Patchett's. It is safe to say that Egan does now hold a position in my library as one of my favourite female writers.

There were scenes in this book that gave me chills. For example, soon after returning to New York post-accident, model-Charlotte thinks she still has a chance to succeed in the modelling industry when she is offered a photo shoot with Italian Vogue.  Paparazzo turned fashion photographer Spiro is at the helm, having become an instant sensation after a shoot replicating gang violence, which has spawned a trend in fashion photography for photographing 'real' people 'from the news', rather than mere models. All seems to be going well until the make-up artist takes out a razor blade and it becomes clear that, in this shoot, authenticity is to be won through actually cutting the models and recording their fresh blood. Charlotte, with her fragile, newly recovered face, a face put back together with 80 titanium screws, refuses to go through with it - only to be told that she 'doesn't get it', she's not real enough. She is replaced on set by a real refugee of North Korea, a girl so empty of power that she cries silently as the razor blade slides across her cheek.

As Egan writes towards the end of the book, reality, or truth, is something that burrows further inside a dark, coiled privacy when the light of publicity is shone on it - "it dies the instant it is touched by light" because "life can't be sustained under the pressure of so many eyes". Moments like these were deeply touching.

Cons: The ending is disappointing. I feel as though Egan had wanted to write a climax in which all of the strands of her story came together powerfully, in one momentous scene (like the ending of John Irving's A Prayer from Owen Meany, one of my favourite books), but it didn't quite work. For one thing, the life of model-Charlotte somewhat outshone that of young Charlotte, and so it was difficult to see them or treat them as two sides of a coin, which I think they were meant to be. Young Charlotte's transformation did not seem nearly as meaningful as the transformation of model-Charlotte, which was perhaps a result of the fact that Moose and Michael West to some extent took over as minor protagonists of their own in her story.

I still finished the book feeling it had been a very good read, and a fascinating one at that - but I was also left thinking that at the time of publication, Egan's potential as a story-teller was yet to reach its zenith. Perhaps the Pulitzer-prize winning A Visit from the Goon Squad is that zenith, or perhaps it is still to come. I hope for the latter.

Note: Egan suffered upon release of this book because it came a few short months after 9/11, though she had finished the writing of it well before that tragedy. The terrorist character of 'Z' in this book is therefore sometimes seen as outdated, and she has written a note at the end of the book to explain the reason for this. For my part, I wasn't irked by my awareness of intervening events in America, although it does date the book. American readers might feel differently.