Ian McEwan - The Children Act

If I had to compare Ian McEwan’s new book to his other work (and we all do this, don’t we, once we’ve read a few books by the same writer, whether or not it’s fair), I would say it’s a little On Chesil Beach and a little Enduring Love. I have always particularly enjoyed those books of McEwan’s in which story hangs together with a philosophical tension of some sort. This is certainly the case in The Children Act, in which McEwan explores the tension between religion and modern medical science, whilst simultaneously composing a story about family, the law, and marital love.

Fiona Maye is a High Court judge in London, in the Family Law Division. Perhaps as a consequence of her job, she is aloof and can come across – even to her husband – as cold and removed. The novel opens on Fiona at home, left in shock after her husband Jack informs her that he wishes to have an affair. He is entitled to this, Jack says, after seven weeks and one day with no sex, and after a long and committed monogamous relationship with Fiona. He even has someone lined up - a 28 year-old Fiona has met. He does not wish to change their marital status, he simply wants a holiday from it. Fiona watches from the window as he leaves their house with a suitcase. She is in her 50s, childless partly by choice, partly because her focus on career took priority until it was too late for children. The state of her childlessness, in the mire of marital upset that threatens to leave her forever alone, is a central concern of Fiona’s during the weeks that follow.

The drama at home is, of course, mirrored by drama at work. A new, urgent case comes before Fiona, of a 17 year old boy suffering from leukemia, one month shy of reaching the age of majority, whose parents are refusing a life-saving blood transfusion to him that would save his life. Their refusal is on religious grounds, and Fiona must decide whether the rationale of modern medicine trumps their staunch faith in circumstances where that faith would almost certainly lead to the death of their son. Complicating her decision is the son himself, an intelligent, charming soul who shares his parents’ faith but can’t help reveal to Fiona the potential living inside of him for a fulfilled future life. He is poetic and unusually innocent and Fiona finds herself drawn to him in a way she might not be were her personal circumstances not currently in chaos.

McEwan brilliantly weaves a story about the inconsistency of emotion and law in a division of the court where these two must by necessity coexist. He illustrates the difficulty for judges of making decisions that are right according to the law and, as far as possible, morally right for the people concerned. It left me wondering how on earth anyone in that position could possibly live a normal emotional life outside of court – because in order to do what they must at work, these judges have to shut off standard emotional responses to heart-breaking problems, and live with the very real, sometimes dramatic, consequences of their decisions.

Simultaneously moving and fascinating, this is a book I found hard to put down – not least because, as a lawyer myself, I appreciated the details of the legal cases that Fiona deals with throughout the book (reference to many cases is made, although just one stands at the core of the story). And as with many McEwan novels, music too plays an important role, so that one feels that the text and the marital relationship within it ebb and flow to the strains of classical music.

McEwan is back in top form here. I very much recommend this one to his fans, as well as to those of you who are new to his work.

Overall assessment: 4 out of 5 stars. I'm not sure why I hesitate to award it a higher rating. I enjoyed this immensely, but it somehow hasn't resonated for me as deeply as Amsterdam, for example. For me, a 5 star rating is really reserved for those books that stay with me long after I put them down, books that I would consider "favourites", to be read again and again. Getting caught up in McEwan's sparse language and razor-sharp observations, however, was, as always, a real joy.

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.'

Sunday Salon - do female writers get the short end of the stick?

Apologies to those of you who have read versions of this discussion on other blogs or have followed a similar debate in the newspapers - this will likely be a watered-down re-hash of the arguments made in those forums. In which case, why am I choosing to raise the subject as a Sunday Salon topic?

I mentioned a week or so ago that I had noticed recently that my list of favourite writers was significantly skewed towards the male end of the spectrum. As a female writer myself, this worries me, especially because there is no easy answer as to why this should be the case.

Recent research, though, has shown that I am not alone in my gender bias. Although women buy the majority of novels, and whilst approximately the same number of men and women are published each year, it seems that women are vastly underrepresented in award-wins and reviews.

Here are some statistics, gathered by Bookseller & Publisher in 2012 and published that year in Crikey, which demonstrate a decided gender bias towards male authors having their books reviewed in influential newspapers, magazines and literary journals. In Australia, 70% of the authors reviewed in the Weekend Australian in 2011 were male, and of the authors reviewed in the now defunct Australian Literary Review in 2011, 81% were male. In the same year, The London Review of Books reviewed 504 males to only 117 female writers, whilst The New York Review of Books reviewed 627 men to only 143 women.

This pattern stands for other years, too. And those numbers should shock all of us.

From a personal perspective, it makes me wonder whether I am more inclined towards male writers because I read more of them, or because I read more about them in the literary pages. I don't think the former is true. I tend to read a fair spectrum of literature including relatively equal numbers of male and female writers. But it is certainly true that I am probably influenced by reviews I read, and if it were the case that, say, The Guardian online over-represented male writers in its positive reviews, that might subconsciously influence my preferences. And of course most of us are probably influenced to some extent by the short-lists of writers chosen for annual literary prizes. When writers receive such prestigious public accolades it is hardly surprising that the rest of us therefore assume their literary worth must be higher than that of other writers.

But none of this explains why prizes are awarded more often to male writers, or why male writers are more frequently reviewed. The statistics are particularly puzzling given that women make up the majority of the readers, unless it is also true that more men than women sit on the judging panels of literary prizes, and more men than women write the reviews. I have yet to see those numbers.

My guess is that all of this comes back to the invisible standards that still form the backbone of our society, much as we like to pretend things have changed. As a whole, society still elevates certain subject matters above others, and art that concerns itself with the preferred subject matters is considered to be 'high-brow'. Broadly speaking, these subject matters are what we might also call 'public' issues, and they include politics, war, philosophy, religion, sport, education. In contrast, art that concerns itself with the private sphere is classified as low-brow, or 'popular'. The subject matters that fall under the rubric of the private sphere include romance, sex, sexuality, childbirth and child-rearing, relationships. Laundry. Traditionally,  the private sphere is seen as a female space, whilst the public sphere is assumed to be inhabited largely by men.

When was the last time you can remember a romance novel winning one of the major literary prizes?

Tara Moss, who has written eloquently on this subject, quotes Dr. Kerryn Goldsworthy, a former editor of Australian Book Review and a former member of the Literature Board of the Australia Council, as saying: ‘Most of the unconscious bias I have seen in the literary world, and I have seen a great deal, has been to do with the male-centered values of a dominant culture whose values most people wrongly think are universal and gender-neutral.’

I am going to go out on a limb here and suggest that literary prizes are still generally handed out to writers who deal eloquently with traditionally male-centred values, even if this is not a conscious bias by the judging panel, and that prominent reviews, in turn, are given to those books which critics believe may stand a chance of winning a prize.

The last two winners of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction were Jennifer Egan, for a disjointed novel on the abstract theme of time, and Paul Harding, for a novel about death and dying and time.

The last two winners of the Man Booker Prize were Hilary Mantel, for a novel about the political world of Thomas Cromwell, and Julian Barnes, for a story concerned with how our notion of selfhood changes over time.

The philosophical discussion of time is clearly a winning subject matter these days, ding ding ding! Take note, novelists! (And don't think it has escaped my notice that three out of four winning writers cited above are female...)

Of course, it is no longer the case (if it ever was) that the private sphere is female and the public is male, but the vestigal belief that these distinctions still exist appears to hover prominently in our subconscious. Jonathan Franzen deals with relationships and love and romance; but he does so in the context of political discourse, and in a voice that is less overtly emotional than the voice which dominates genre novels that are classified as 'romance'. Margaret Atwood also writes about relationships and love and romance, but she frequently does so (these days) in the context of philosophical discourse about the future. Both writers grapple with the intersection of private and public values, and I would argue that this is largely the case with most good writers. Certainly Egan, Harding, Mantel and Barnes all deal intimately with the minutiae of people's private lives at the same time as they tackle big picture philosophical and political themes. To assert that there was ever really a strict divide between the public and the private in art is to take a limited view of it; and to put any weight whatsoever on 'high-brow' versus 'low-brow' classifications is, these days, to miss out on a wealth of good reads.

Furthermore, there is no reason why a discussion about motherhood could not in and of itself also be considered inherently political. Or why men would or should be less interested, these days, in that discussion than they are in other political topics. The traditional roles and identifiers of men and women in society these days are themselves dissolving into one another.

But it is true, for example, that I read a book by Marian Keyes on holiday recently and it didn't occur to me to review it here. Why? Because I viewed it as indulgent holiday reading, something a bit lighter, a bit frivolous. How unfair to Keyes, who is in fact a very good writer. Although had I read a crime novel by a male writer I think my instinct would have been the same.

So what to do about all of this?

Inspired by recent discussions of this topic, some female bloggers have banded together to establish the 

Australian Women’s Writers Challenge.  I am too fickle with my reading to be able to stick to a geographically limited challenge such as this, unfortunately, but I am personally going to make a conscious effort to read a wider variety of female writers this year and to try to ensure that I assess them fairly alongside the male writers I read.

I promise to keep you updated as the year progresses, but in the meantime I would be interested in your views: DO female writers get the short end of the stick, or is all of this just a lot of hullabaloo about nothing?

Jennifer Egan - a visit from the goon squad

I put off reading this book for almost a year, due to a series of misconceptions I had formed about it. First, the cover of the paperback I ordered from Amazon is, in my opinion, poorly chosen - the graphic looks like a montage of photos taken at a performance of a children's entertainment group, which is neither appealing nor indicative of content (yes, yes, I know, never judge a book by its cover - but we all do, a little bit, don't we?). Second, the title - goon squad? It sounds like a book about old-time gangsters arriving at someone's door to rough them up a little - not my 'thang', as it were. Of course, having read the book I now get the title and appreciate it. Finally, I had formed an impression, somewhere along the way, that Egan's tour de force belonged alongside popular modern-day books such as Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story - books that are thematically linked by their dystopian outlook on life in the near future. I do like the occasional dystopian novel - l Iove Margaret Atwood's futuristic take, for example, in many of her books, from The Handmaid's Tale to Oryx and Crake and The Year of the Flood. But I get a bit tired of dire futuristic outlooks when they are paired with a cynical and ostensibly humorous narrator's voice that is really a weak pastiche of John Kennedy Toole's dark wit. Often the result is a dismal portrayal of a future just ten or twenty years hence in which nobody cares any longer about things we now care deeply about - in which it is in fact fundamentally uncool to care deeply about anything (hipsterdom on steroids?), but which we are for some reason supposed to find amusing. I had understood that Egan was a Shteyngart-esque writer, and this assumption, combined with the reference to goons, put me off in spite of the fact that a number of people had recommended her to me, and in spite of the knowledge that this book has won so many prestigious book awards (notably the 2011 Pulitzer and the (US) National Book Critics Circle Award ).

In fact, there are no goons in this book, not in the original sense of the word anyway. Instead time itself is referred to by one of the characters as a goon - coming as it does to roughen us up, to steal away our youth. And only one chapter - the last - takes place in the future.

After reading just a few pages of this book, I turned to Bibliohubby and told him I might have found a new female writer I adored, who - if the book continued as it started - I might end up listing in my top ten. This is significant because I realised recently, after reading a number of blogs on the topic and having a think, that I have a slight tendency to prefer male writers to female - not because of gender, of course, or not consciously anyway. The apparent preference is disconcerting. It worries me.

But more on that some other day.

The rest of the book did not unfold quite as I had expected. Indeed, to call this a 'novel' is to reinvent the term, something which critics and readers alike appear to have done with surprising ease, welcoming Egan's story-based form as an innovative and inventive post-postmodern way of telling a bigger story. Egan herself, though admitting that the format of the book makes it hard to classify, has said that she leans towards considering it a novel. Were one to categorise the book along more traditional lines, however, one would have to conclude that it is a book of independent short stories featuring characters who are all loosely interconnected. We meet some of the characters repeatedly throughout the book, sometimes through stories focused on their lives, sometimes through stories in which they play only a peripheral part. The stories hop around in time, from the 1960s to the near future, creating a vivid portrayal of the characters' lives as they unfold over a lifetime. We see them both young and energetic and old and rough - once the goon of time has ravaged them. The result is a vaguely cohesive tale centring largely on Bennie Salazar, a music producer, and his assistant Sasha. The cast of characters making up the meat of the book are all linked to Bennie and/or Sacha at some point in their lives, and most have something to do with the music industry and its profound changes over time.

In addition to the unusual structure of the novel - if one wants to call it that - Egan plays with form and structure within the stories themselves. The story / chapter that has received the most publicity is the one which is told entirely in the form of a Powerpoint presentation - something that the young narrator-protagonist of that story calls a 'slide journal', and which is indicative of the future Egan sees unfolding - one in which technology has taken over to such an extent that Powerpoint is writing, and where words like 'friend' and 'identity' have ceased to have any real world meaning outside of technology. I knew this chapter was coming and I was as curious about it as I was resistant to it. But in fact, in the context, it works beautifully. It's surprising how much can be told about character and meaning and story in just a few words on a Powerpoint slide.

In many of the other stories, Egan will pause in her narration to suddenly take us forward 40 odd years in a character's life and tell us where they ended up, or what happened to them - all within the space of a paragraph. Similarly we are sometimes thrown backwards to learn of a character's early, formative years. In this way time is constantly interrupted and warped, disturbing the usual linear coherence we expect from storytelling. One reviewer has pointed out that the originality here - because of course many authors use flashbacks and flash-forwards - stems from the absence of a narrative present. We can't pinpoint what the 'present' is, here, so even the use of terms such as 'flashback' and 'flash-forward' seems inappropriate.

One is left, after finishing the book, with a strong attachment to some of the characters, and with a sense of sadness about the inevitable changes brought about by the ravages of time. It is a book that will stay with me, I think.

My personal preference is usually for a novel that has some continuity of story. I rarely finish books of short stories, although I know the form is difficult to master and can be even more powerful than longer form writing.  As much as I admire Egan for her obvious electrifying ability to write in a variety of ways about such a cacophony of characters, I think I would have enjoyed this more if it had been written as a more traditional novel. Call me a stick-in-the-mud. One of the complications of the structure Egan has chosen is that one never knows which character will feature in the next story, or which character we will have the pleasure of revisiting later in the book. Some of the stories focused on characters I would otherwise have thought of as 'minor', and I was disappointed, then, at the end, to find that other characters who I would have considered to be significant in the overall plot never re-occurred. For example (spoiler alert!), whatever happened to Alice, the girl Bennie so loved who Scotty ended up marrying? And they were never tipped to be major characters, but the point of time was so powerful that I really wanted to know whether those two delinquent musicians to whom Scotty handed Bennie's card on the pier ever followed up and called Bennie, whether the dude ended up being the great musician his girlfriend claimed he was, whether they made it big. And I was sad to hear Bennie, late in life, talk about Sasha as having 'sticky fingers', something for which he ended up having to fire her. I never anticipated that ending to their friendship, which at times seemed like so much more than mere friendship, and it was strange having that unlikely fact handed to me as an aside in an unrelated conversation that took place years after the event.

However, I do understand that Egan's challenge was to write about time and its effect on people and their lives. This was very successfully achieved through the structure she chose, and would have been difficult to pull off had goon squad been written in customary novel-form.

Overall assessment: 4.5 out of 5. As much as I enjoyed a visit from the goon squad, I am left with a keen desire to know whether that strong voice I loved at the beginning of the book is able to be sustained through a proper novel - goon squad didn't provide me with the answer. I want to read Egan's earlier books, three of which are actual novels, to find out whether my suspicion that she belongs in my basket of favourites is justified.

Pros: Wonderful writing, intriguing characters, thoughtful themes.

Cons: As discussed above, I simply prefer a novel to a collection of short stories, and the fact that this was written in such an unusual way meant that I felt I missed out on some material that might otherwise have been included. Also, to be truly cynical, there is a touch of self-conscious try-hardedness (not a word!) here - it's a good way to win a prize, isn't it? To sit down and show you can write successfully in many different voices, to show off one's skills  by convincingly writing from both male and female perspectives, as a youth as well as a senior, in traditional formats as well as in the form of a Powerpoint presentation. I don't like feeling played, and there is a little bit of that going on here, even though Egan pulls this all off effortlessly.

Madeleine Wickham aka Sophie Kinsella

Go on, how many of you will 'fess up to reading the Shopoholic series? C'mon... I'm not talking about the god-awful movie that was produced starring Isla Fisher (who can be so very funny, but like all actors requires a half-reasonable script to get her part of the way there). I'm talking about Sophie Kinsella's laugh-out-loud books about Rebecca Bloomwood, the financial journalist incapable of managing her own finances due to her out-of-control spending.

Sure, it's not high-brow, but as far as chick lit goes this is some of the best in the genre. Few books have made me actually laugh until I have tears running down my face, but Kinsella consistently get this reaction from me. I have read the entire Shopoholic series as well as her other books (her new one, I've Got Your Number, is a true return to form, I highly recommend it if you're looking for a light comic read).

So imagine my delight when, during an Amazon browse (I do so love an Amazon browse when I can't physically get to a bookstore) I stumbled across the unexpected information that she has written many more books than I realised, and under a different name. Sophie Kinsella is a pseudonym!

As Madeleine Wickham (her real name), and whilst working as a financial journalist, she published her first book aged 24. After it received both critical and public acclaim, she wrote 6 more novels under that name before writing the first Shopaholic book and submitting the manuscript unsolicited to her existing publisher as Sophie Kinsella, without informing them that she was the same person they had been publishing for years. The novel was immediately accepted for publication and there you have it. It wasn't until ten years later, in 2005, that she revealed her true identity.

This story impresses me because it shows what a naturally talented writer she is: she has been twice accepted as an unsolicited first-time author by a big publishing house. That is extremely unusual, these days - and I know the industry was probably different ten or fifteen years ago, but not so different as to make this an easy feat, even back then. There have been experiments done, as most have you have probably read, where the famous works of classic writers have been submitted to unsuspecting modern-day publishing houses and rejected across the board.

Anyway; as soon as I found out about Madeleine Wickham I went on an e-book binge. I downloaded her first novel, The Tennis Party (also published as 40-Love) and loved it, and then immediately downloaded and read all of the others in quick succession.

A scan of online reviews reveals that most Kinsella fans are disappointed by Wickham's writing, largely because it is not what they are used to. Wickham's books are darker. Unlike Kinsella's characters, Wickham's are real and, therefore, inherently flawed. As Madeleine Wickham, she writes contemporary women's fiction that is also a social critique of British society and its class striations. None of the characters are entirely likeable, but the storylines are sufficiently diverting that it doesn't matter.

In Swimming Pool Sunday, the separated parents of a girl who suffers a head injury in a neighbour's pool need to decide whether to carry through with a damaging lawsuit against their neighbours, even though their daughter seems to be recovering well. In The Tennis Party, a group of friends who, many years ago, used to live on the same London street, meet at one family's new country mansion for a leisurely weekend during which the current differences in their economic status and the individual greed of some members of the group threaten to ruin any prospects of ongoing friendship. In The Gatecrasher a funeral-crasher cum con-woman toys with the possibility of redemption when her latest target provides a domestic stability she has never before experienced.

I would give each of her books a solid 3 out of five. Don't pick them up if you are hoping for more Sophie Kinsella; but if you like British social commentary and contemporary women's fiction, you will enjoy Wickham's writing. And isn't it fun to find a hidden store of novels written by an author you like, even if they are somewhat different to what you've come to expect? A little hidden treasure trove.