TIGER’S CLAWS TOO BLUNT FOR SOME

This month we discussed TIGERS IN RED WEATHER by Liza Klaussmann
The Amazon description reads: ’Nick and her cousin Helena have grown up together, sharing long hot summers at Tiger House. With husbands and children of their own, they keep returning. But against a background of parties, cocktails, moonlight and jazz, how long can perfection last? There is always the summer that changes everything.’
This best-seller set in Martha’s Vineyard, and covering the two decades after the end of World War II, has received rapturous reviews but the Berwick Book Group members are a hard bunch to please. There was a distinct tone of ‘meh’ in the feedback from the majority.
Martin was the most anti- , writing: ‘yet again a book which fails to raise a scintilla of interest. I couldn’t even skim read as by using a man’s name for the woman I kept tripping over it. Having finally become aware that Nick was female I found her a total waste of space and consigned the book to the scrap heap. I tried looking deeper into the book to see if anything happened. If it did I never noticed. Execrable. Merde. Rubbish.’
Jill felt that there was too much of the ‘soap opera’ about it, and Helen, who did not finish the book, thought that far too little happened.
Paula and Glynis both found it a more enjoyable read – Paula particularly liked the descriptive style and the examination of how a whole class would rally round to protect one of its own – but they both felt that the ending was ‘over-the-top’ and not in keeping with the tone of the rest of the book
I also enjoyed the book. I liked the writing, which was full of nuance and sub-text and currents moving beneath the surface. The characters were each distinct and complex and the sensual detail of the descriptive passages was beautifully done. I wondered why the author had opened with Nick in her time away from the hub of the plot, Martha’s Vineyard. This was a risky strategy, which lost some of our group. However, I enjoyed the five different narrators, and the way their views of the other protagonists influenced my own feelings. I agreed with Paula and Glynis about the ending – it was a false note on which to end a compelling narrative.

Next month, in June, we will be discussing ‘The Sense of an Ending’ by Julian Barnes. Meanwhile, here are some other reading recommendations from the group:
Hilary Mantel’s ‘Beyond Black’.
‘Play it Again’ by Alan Rusbridger.
Any of the crime fiction novels of Alexander McCall Smith, Andrew Taylor or Susan Hill
Kathy Reich’s novel for young adults, ‘Virals’.
‘The Life of Pi’ by Yann Martel
Chris Beckett’s prize-winning ‘Dark Eden’
‘The English Patient’ by Michael Ondaatje

Ann Coburn

‘Gone Girl’ by Gillian Flynn

Amazon describes our April book as a ‘taut thriller’ and continues: ‘What are you thinking, Amy?’ The question I’ve asked most often during our marriage, if not out loud, if not to the person who could answer. I suppose these questions stormcloud over every marriage: ‘What are you thinking? How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?’ Just how well can you ever know the person you love? This is the question that Nick Dunne must ask himself on the morning of his fifth wedding anniversary when his wife Amy suddenly disappears. The police immediately suspect Nick. Amy’s friends reveal that she was afraid of him, that she kept secrets from him. He swears it isn’t true. A police examination of his computer shows strange searches. He says they aren’t his. And then there are the persistent calls on his mobile phone. So what really did happen to Nick’s beautiful wife? And what was in that half-wrapped box left so casually on their marital bed? In this novel, marriage truly is the art of war…’

 

After finding ourselves in complete agreement last month, the members of Berwick book group were back on familiar ground this month.  Some of us, Martin for instance, were not at all ‘gone’ on Gone Girl. He writes:

‘Oh Dear, another disappointment. Is it me? I loved my journey with Harold Fry, but these people, Nick and Amy? I realy struggled to care what was happening to them but they were so shallow, their lives and values so alien I couldn’t be bothered so after about page 70 (I told you I tried) I skipped to the end to find Amy frames Nick for her non-murder, then unframes him. It is so daft I’m inventing words to describe it. Nick and Amy would fit right in with the crew from January’s book about the City. I found the clues to her treasure hunts particularly annoying and impenetrable, her habbit of emphasising things 3 times annoying and I resented having to put off Jennifer Worth’s sequel to “Call the Midwife” which I enjoyed hugely both as a book and a TV show. I love reading but not stuff like Gone Girl.’

 

Barbara, on the other hand, gave it a thumbs-up.

‘Given the genre, I didn’t expect or demand anything deep or meaningful from Gone Girl and I think it is unfair for readers to place either literary or moral expectations upon this kind of novel. I think, when a novel has had a great deal of hype, some readers are determined to take against it, however unreasonable their stance.  I thoroughly enjoyed the read and very much admired the expertise of the author. I found the characters convincingly written, particularly Amy, and the plot was compelling. I loved the way the author played with the reader throughout the first half, leading them up a very wrong path, and I thought the twist at that point was breathtaking.  After that, I continued to admire it although my only criticism is that the ending was, for me, a twist too far and stretched credibility somewhat.  Some readers seemed to think Flynn should have written an entirely different book, but I was more than happy with this one and in fact I have already started to read another by this author.’    

Janet has a different opinion about the ending.  Here’s her review:

‘I was looking forward to reading Gone Girl: it’s in my favourite genre (crime) and there’s been a real buzz on Twitter about it for months. And while I was reading it I was swept along by the story, wanting to know how on earth the situation between Nick and Amy was going to be resolved. The plot is clever –  although I saw the big twist coming –  as is the narrative technique of having not one but two unreliable narrators. However, the best way I can sum up my response to this book is I ‘admired’ it.

 My main criticism is that none of the characters is at all sympathetic. Amy and Nick are well-drawn and have strong voices, although this does diminish as the book progresses. However, I didn’t care what happened to them and at the end I felt they deserved each other. The police weren’t very bright or original and none of the peripheral characters stood out, bar Nick’s sister ‘Go’ for the simple reason that her name irritated me.

[spoiler alert!] Looking back, the plot had several inconsistencies and was just too convoluted (how do you collect a pregnant woman’s urine without her knowing?). If Amy was clever enough to plan such an audacious deception, it seemed unlikely that she could so easily be parted from her cash by a pair of drifters. And Desi’s death felt tacked on, as though because this is a crime novel it had to feature at least one murder. All that being said, I found the ironic ending very satisfying and can’t think how that could have been bettered. If I was reviewing this book on Amazon I’d give it 4 out of 5 stars.’

 

 

 

‘The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry’ by Rachel Joyce

Apologies for the late appearance of this blog entry – I forgot to post. What can I say? March was a very busy month!

When Harold Fry nips out one morning to post a letter, leaving his wife hoovering upstairs, he has no idea that he is about to walk from one end of the country to the other. He has no hiking boots or map, let alone a compass, waterproof or mobile phone. All he knows is that he must keep walking. To save someone else’s life.

‘The odyssey of a simple man, original, subtle and touching’. – Claire Tomalin

‘From the moment I met Harold Fry, I didn’t want to leave him. Impossible to put down.’ – Erica Wagner, The Times

Our March read produced a rare response from the Berwick book group: everyone liked it!  We found it moving, evocative and a compelling read.  We all loved the complexity of the characters, and we appreciated the parallel journeys of Harold and his wife Maureen. For some of us, it edged towards saccharine at times – and the Berwick upon Tweed portrayed at the end of the novel is not the Berwick-upon-Tweed we know! – but those were the only criticisms in a sea of praise. 

After his complaint about the quality of recent book choices, Martin wrote: ‘I shall rant more often. After doubting the quality of our chosen books along comes one I absolutely love. A rivetting tale, stimulating, thought provoking, resonances with my experience of life and characters who I can actually like.

A brilliant exposition on how we allow our relationships to sour, how we lash out at those we love when we are hurt, how we hide our feelings and allow hurts to fester. None of these failings are sudden but incremental until they are overwhelming.

I was saddening but credible how Harold’s very individual efforts were hijacked by the self-serving and the media but heart warming how his wife and Rex were allowed to support each other and Harold without forming a sexual relationship. Friendship and human concern remained untainted. There was no mystical resolution, Harold was as tongue tied as the rest of us when confronted with Queenie in extremis but there was hope that no matter how deep or long an estrangement a relationship can be mended. More books of this quality please. ’

 

 

‘This Bleeding City’ by Alex Preston: a bad investment for Berwick readers?

Amazon describes our February book about City Traders as follows:
‘Charlie Wales is a young man who wants everything. Fresh from University, he’s seduced by the excitement of a new life in London and all that it promises. There’s Vero, the beautiful French girl who might finally fall for him. There’s the lure of art, but also the promise of fast money in the City. And his friends, who are spiralling into a world of non-stop parties and unchecked greed. But as the choices begin to tear him apart, there’s also the danger that all the things he desires are on the brink of crashing around him …
This debut novel, written by a 30-year-old trader, does not merely pick over the carcass of the financial markets in the wake of the recent crash. It is also a heartbreaking love story, a withering study of the years of excess, and a timely reminder of how good people end up doing terrible things.’

It seems that February is a busy month; although we had all read the book, the majority of us (me included) could not make it to this month’s book group meeting. Luckily Martin did, and kindly wrote a report of the discussion for our blog.
‘It was a very select foursome who convened at the Barrels on Tuesday. I expected us all to lambast This Bleeding City and go home but Jill started off by saying she quite liked it and Rose concurred, particularly the parts which explained the shenanigans city traders get up to and why we are all now so poor. Even Glynis thought the descriptions of the workings of the city were the best part. Alas I was so dispirited by the start of the book I never got that far. We all agreed that the writing was poor and the characters pointless and inexplicable with Glynis finding his metaphors especially annoying considering the man was a literature graduate.
Glynis suspected a huge misogynistic streak in the author after his depiction of the lone woman worker who was the only one with any sense.
Martin expressed some dissatisfaction with the quality of the books we have chosen to read. This one was by far the worst. To compensate the ladies suggested some alternative reading:-
The Inspector Fox novels of Ian Rankin
22-11-63 by Steven King, and
Heartburn by Nora Ephram’

Barbara could not attend the meeting but sent her thoughts about the book.
‘What a shockingly poor piece of writing it was. The only thing I can say in its favour was that given the writer’s background, the setting and info about the financial world are probably accurate. But it is impossible either to believe in, or care about, the principal characters. There also seemed little point to the novel, as it was neither a good story nor did it ‘say’ anything interesting or original. Although I sort of made it to the end, I skimmed it so fast that I don’t feel able to make any further comments.’

As for me, I have to agree with everyone else: I really disliked this novel! Charlie, Vero, Henry et al, irritated me so much; beautiful, privileged posers the lot of them – self-aggrandising, with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement and a very poor grasp of reality (I suppose it could be argued that this was the point, but I suspect that the author was writing without any sense of irony or distance from his characters). Alex Preston is always romanticising them (for example the first meeting between Charlie and Vero when the barman is stunned by Vero’s beauty and says to Charlie, ‘You have to go after her, the beer’s on me’). I found them unsympathetic, selfish and crass.
And the dialogue is often awful!
‘Do you… Do you still love her Charlie?’
I looked across at him, sighed out a stream of smoke.
‘Of course I do. I think I might always love her.’
Brief Encounter anyone? Or maybe Eastenders (they use one another’s names all the time in conversation)? In places the dialogue is so over-expositional it could be used in a creative writing class on how NOT to write dialogue. I really don’t think people voice their innermost thoughts and feelings so exactly and openly, and analyse themselves all the while like this lot do. I mean, who actually talks like Charlie and Henry on p14-15?
‘You’re a strange chap, Charlie, so worried about the future. I try not to think about the future at all. I’m.. to be honest, Charlie, I’m absolutely terrified of growing old. There’s the problem with having a gilded childhood. You never want to leave it. I think that’s maybe why I take photographs. They give me the sense that I can pause time. I’m only twenty three and already so much seems to have passed..’
I fell asleep with him still talking.’
I’m not surprised.
The only effective sections for me were those which followed Charlie as he moved up through the ranks in the City firm, Silverbirch, with very little knowledge or talent, fuelled by drugs and testosterone, while Madison (the only voice of reason) is derided, passed over for promotion and generally treated in an unforgivably sexist manner. Yannis, Christos etcetera are a chilling group, gambling with huge sums of money as though they are playing for smarties or matchsticks.
‘We were superheroes of the Market. We were invincible.’
However, even more chilling is the new, grey City man Charlie becomes at the end of the novel, with no personal effects or connections to anchor him to the real world.
I didn’t like the writing style either. I found it overwritten, with a tendency to overuse metaphor and simile, which occasionally worked (scorn perched on her nose like pince-nez) but more often didn’t (his eyes were blue and darting, like fish in a rock pool).

Maybe next month’s book, ‘The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry’ by Rachel Joyce, will receive a better reception…

Ann Coburn

‘The Dinner’ leaves readers less than satisfied

When only six of our hardy reading group turn out for our meeting in early January, it’s hard to guess whether it’s because of the choice of book or the time of year. Probably, there’s an element of both.
But, as usual, we sustained an interesting debate on Herman Koch’s The Dinner, translated from the Dutch by Sam Garrett. The novel has been likened to similar highly successful novels such as The Slap and We Need to Talk about Kevin.
The anxiety I always have about these kind of novels – which seem to be typical book group fare – is the danger of lapsing into a rather redundant debate about the moral issues, rather than concentrating on the literary merits (or otherwise). We did fall into that trap for some of the discussion.
Glynis did enjoy the novel and found it funny. She also found the accounts of upper middle-class over-protective parenting and the behaviour of the families when on holiday in France particularly credible and amusing. Paula, who read the book on holiday, also found it an easy read and that it raised some interesting issues.
But almost all of us found the overall work dissatisfying, particularly in comparison to other works that follow a rather similar plot. For Mike, Lionel Shriver and Christos Tsiolkas did a better job of examining the issues. We also felt that a recent film, Carnage, covered similar ground.
Certainly we agreed that we were pulled into the plot and read to the end to find out what happened. But for me, that was the novel’s only saving grace. I found the language flat and clunky, and at times annoyingly repetitive, although I accept this may have been a problem with the translation rather than the original Dutch.
I also felt the notion of ghastly middle-class parents stopping at nothing to protect their offspring is becoming something of a tired old trope and this felt rather derivative of those other works.

The nature-versus-nurture debate was tackled much more originally in Lionel Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin and at least she examined it from a partly-feminist point of view. Here, I felt that Koch excused the father by dint of his ‘illness’ and that the real dark, controlling heart of the family was the mother – yawn. (The mystery illness was a particular cop-out, I thought, and like the rest of the group I was unconvinced by it).
For me the characters were caricatures, almost entirely unpleasant with barely a saving grace between them, except a misguided urge to protect each other. Koch left the reader with no choice as to who to ‘hate’ and with a black-and-white moral issue. It would have been much more interesting if the boys had done something where their culpability was more debatable. And some suggestion that the urge to protect or defend one’s child is universal, not just a middle-class sin, would have been welcome.
I’m not sure if the societal comment felt more relevant to a Dutch reader. For an English readership I felt it pressed some very ‘easy’ buttons.

I will leave the last word to Martin, who e-mailed this comment: “I found the book unreadable. The narrator was so consumed with angst and envy I wanted to perform extreme violence against him. He was so annoying I couldn’t care what his grouse was and could not bring myself to spend any more time in his company to see what happened. I got to chapter 3 after several attempts then gave up. I hope the next book is better.”
Barbara

“Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.” Voltaire

For a brief time on Tuesday night the cosy side-room of the Barrels Alehouse – a real ale pub on the banks of the River Tweed – rang with the exotic rhythms of Tango. Kapka Kassabova, the author of our December book choice, ‘Twelve Minutes of Love: A Tango Story’, had come to our meeting. Perched at one end of the room like a delicate-boned migratory bird, she played Tango music on her lap-top and spoke, with great honesty and charm, about her journey to the heart of this tangled, troubled form of dance. There were fourteen of us in attendance, plus Olivia Chapman from New Writing North, and most of us had questions for Kapka, so the ninety minutes flew by. Our thanks go to Kapka and Olivia, for travelling to Berwick to see us, and to Kapka for staying to sign books afterwards.

The Amazon description provides an excellent summary of the content and flavour of Kapka’s book:
‘Kapka Kassabova first set foot in a tango studio ten years ago and, from that moment, she was hooked. With the beat of tango driving her on and the music filling her head, she’s danced across the world, from Auckland to Edinburgh, from Berlin to Buenos Aires, putting in hours of practice for fleeting moments of dance-floor ecstasy, suffering blisters and heart-break along the way. Here, in sparkling, spring-heeled prose, Kapka takes us inside the esoteric world of tango to tell the story of the dance, from its Afro roots to its sequined stars and back. Twelve Minutes of Love is a timeless tale of exile and longing, death and desire, love and belonging.’

Judging by the questions and comments on the night, the majority of our group enjoyed the book. Subsequently, two members sent in very contrasting critiques for the blog.

Barbara writes:
‘I found the subject matter fascinating, as before I read this I had no idea that tango was such a cult and that so many were obsessed by it. I found Kapka Kassabova’s structure and writing style highly creative in dealing with such an abstract subject. I was reminded of Yeats’ poem Among Schoolchildren and the famous line ‘How can we know the dancer from the dance?’ It was an absolute pleasure to hear Kapka talk about the way she came to write the book and her views on memoir writing in general. Her comments on the differences between writing fiction and nonfiction seemed particularly perceptive. If I had one slight reservation about the work, it was that the sections about the relationships lacked a little passion – and it was interesting to hear Kapka explain how her editor had persuaded her to rewrite these parts in a less emotional way, and that she felt it was a better work for it. I will definitely be looking out for more writing by this author.’

Martin writes:
‘Kapka describes Tango with reference to the Mandala, a pattern with nothing or everything at its core. Unfortunately, so is her book and I found almost nothing. It was difficult to start, I had at least 3 attempts. I ususally devour books at one sitting, I had to drive myself back to this again and again. Kapka’s obsession with Tango promised something meaningful or at least interesting at the core but I never found it. I suspect that part of the reason was the difficulty in translating an intense physical and emotional experience into words and even though I am A Strictly Come Dancing enthusiast, Kapka did not reach me in the way Vincent and Flavia do when I watch them Tango. All that was left was a list of people she encountered. Most barely expanded beyond a name check and the rest in vignettes which gave me no insight to their characters. The revealed history of Tango from its African roots was the most interesting part of the book and I am always jealous of people with a facility for language.’

As for me, I loved the emotive, evocative style of Kapka’s writing and, like Barbara, appreciated the way the book was structured to reflect the Milonga (an evening of Tango dancing). I felt that I was being taken on the same journey of discovery as Kapka, which meant that I found the first quarter of the book – with new faces appearing on nearly every page, and new Tango terms and techniques to understand – a challenging read. I’m glad I persisted. I found myself sharing Kapka’s delight when earlier acquaintances resurfaced in the most unlikely places – and I became increasingly invested in her journey. I suspect that many people head out in search of their nearest Milonga after finishing this book but – although I was fascinated by the origins, traditions and variations of the dance – I was more interested in the way that Tango symbolised – well – life, the universe and everything! Kapka’s quest was about more than becoming the best dancer she could be – and her superbly written account of her ‘final’ tango left me both uplifted and tearful.
Ann Coburn

‘It was a dark and stormy night…’

Ten of us gathered around the fire at The Barrels Alehouse on a suitably chilly November evening to discuss ‘Dark Matter: a Ghost Story’ by Michelle Paver.

The book description tells us that it is: ‘January 1937. Clouds of war are gathering over a fogbound London. Twenty-eight year old Jack is poor, lonely and desperate to change his life. So when he’s offered the chance to join an Arctic expedition, he jumps at it. Spirits are high as the ship leaves Norway: five men and eight huskies, crossing the Barents Sea by the light of the midnight sun. At last they reach the remote, uninhabited bay where they will camp for the next year. Gruhuken. But the Arctic summer is brief. As night returns to claim the land, Jack feels a creeping unease. One by one, his companions are forced to leave. He faces a stark choice. Stay or go. Soon he will see the last of the sun, as the polar night engulfs the camp in months of darkness. Soon he will reach the point of no return – when the sea will freeze, making escape impossible. And Gruhuken is not uninhabited. Jack is not alone. Something walks there in the dark…’

Most of us enjoyed the book.  Jill loved it.  She thought the characters were believable, the descriptions of the snow and the dark were convincing, and the tension built nicely.  She also loved the dogs.  New member Suzanne also enjoyed the book, but found Jack an irritatingly whiney character and was not convinced by the theme of class.  Paula was interested in the exploration of how a person copes with isolation, inhospitable surroundings and constant dark for weeks.  Rose, Anne and Josie also found it a page-turning if undemanding read.  Glynis was unconvinced by the ending and thought it felt engineered and tacked on.

Martin and Dave have both sent their thoughts.  Dave gives a qualified thumbs-up:

‘This book was an enjoyable read and held my attention well. I had some nitpicking pedantic points about the protagonist’s life in the 1930s. £3 was a decent salary, a UCL Physics graduate would have easily got an industrial job, the solitary life described seemed off the wall – compare with Orwell’s Coming up For Air and Keep the Aspidestra Flying set in the same period where people with smaller incomes had more of a life. Once they got on the ship things became more convincing and resonated with non-fiction accounts of expeditions and life in high North. I actually fond the Norwegian characters the most interesting – especially the trapper. The point about him being poor was particularly sharp – Spitzbergen as a wilderness was somewhere a poor man could have a life on his own terms but the poor devil who haunted the expedition site had not been allowed to have that life. Suspense relatively well maintained. Comparisons are odious and although I liked the book I thought the theme of evil in that world is better done in Jack London’s The Sea Wolf but I can see how the Dark matters as it were. So the reference to theoretical physics works very well as a title.  This issue of permanent night comes over in lots of real life accounts of polar winters. I was interested that such a boy’s book, no real female characters at all, appealed to the women members of the group and did feel that the female author can write men. Ann’s point in discussion about archetype fear of the dark as the time of the predator was very well made.’

Martin, on the other hand, gives a definite thumbs-down!

‘One of my pet hates is stories which rely on things which go bump in the night and being frightened of them just because they go bump.

I hoped a jolly little trip to Spitzbergen may have broken the mould. Rgretably we had the frightened captain and crew who refused to say why they were frightened, thereby saving the writer the bother of coming up with a reason. This was leavened with a truly obnoxious character who wanted to shoot or maim everything in sight and 3 little boys who would rather nanny left the nursery light on at night. (So why go to Spitzbergen?) Around page 100 or so Jack sees a vague wet shape come out of the sea, Even though he KNOWS there will be no trace of it’s passing he goes to look and “lo and behold” there is no trace but Jack KNOWS this is the mysterious thing only he saw earlier, after which I threw the book across the room and started another you have all recomended, Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. (Apologies those those who dislike capitalisation for emphasis).’

As for me, I’m a sucker for ghost stories set in frozen wastes  (I also recently read and enjoyed The Terror by Dan Simmonds and Cold Earth by Sarah Moss) so I was looking forward to this, and Michelle Paver did not let me down. From the opening ‘teaser’ letter, giving dark hints of what happened on Gruhuken, I knew I was in safe hands and settled down for a good read.  I loved the repeating imagery of the ‘round, wet head’ throughout, from the moment when the drowned man is pulled from the Thames, to the truly horrifying reveal  – I’m saying no more! I expected – and got – impeccably researched evocations of 1930’s expeditions, and of life in the frozen North after the sun has tipped over the horizon for the last time for months (the ‘first dark’), but I was pleasantly surprised by the psychological ‘added extras.  Jack is of a different class to the others – and there is also an exploration of his ‘hero worship’ of, and love for, Gus, another expedition member.  The three men on Gruhuken are, to some extent, engineers of their own fate; the ghostly presence or dark matter is a very frightening fourth hand.

We ended with a fascinating discussion about ghost stories: the archetypes they represent, why they require suspension of disbelief, and why we need them.

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