Keep The Giraffe Burning - John Sladek

Surrealism is hard to do well. As it is a movement/philosophy expressed principally through visual art and effects, surrealist writing is even harder to do well. Yet it does lend itself to writing as an expression, always provided the writer is someone who keeps tight control over their work. John Sladek is one such writer.

This collection is usually classified as ‘science fiction’, and whilst it does deal with science in fictional settings, it transcends what, for many, is a very specific genre. Indeed, one could accuse Sladek of having produced literature. He is careful, however, to point in the introduction the book that the pieces collected there are intended to amuse.

As works of a surreal nature they succeed admirably, exposing psychological truths by stripping the everyday of normal significance, making awkward and sometimes painful juxtapositions, to create images and trains of thought that might not otherwise occur. As an exercise in amusement, they also work, because Sladek is a paramount satirist. Indeed, it is the surrealism of the pieces that allows him to make acute observations about the sheer stupidity of much that we humans do.

Prescient, as well. Although it does seem as if a number of writers in the mid-1970s considered the possibility of Ronald Reagan as president of the USA. Yet the prescience extends beyond that. One story has finance ministers from around the world trying to sort out their economies whilst the world comes apart around them.

It is clear that pieces of fiction such as these are not going to appeal to everyone. They are ‘experimental’, peopled in part by the characters you find in mathematical problems (of the: if A gets on train travelling at x mph and B boards a plane… type – A and B discuss these events and their unhappy childhoods sharing apples with C, and so on), and they often seem to go nowhere (although those that do are sketches for what might have been powerful novels). However, it is also clear that Sladek has taken a great deal of care over them and they are fine examples of work that deserve a far wider readership.

The Moving Toyshop - Edmund Crispin

First published in 1946, this belongs to what many consider the golden age of crime writing in the UK. The book certainly has a great deal to recommend it. Literate in an unfussy way, it has a great story and an intriguing plot, and some wonderful characters set against the lovingly realised backdrop of Oxford.

The central character of this and Crispin’s other books is Gervase Fen, a Professor of English Language and Literature at Oxford. By turns eccentric, exasperating, and madcap, he has a penchant for detecting and plunges into the adventure with gusto. An old acquaintance arrives in Oxford in the early hours of the morning and stumbles into a toyshop that is unlocked, where he finds a corpse. On reporting this to the police, he is taken back to the scene only to find that not only is there no corpse, but also there is no toyshop.

And so begins a convoluted tale replete with literary allusions, car chases, kidnap, and scenes of high comedy. This won’t suit everyone’s taste. Whilst it is undoubtedly worthy of inclusion amongst the great crime writers of that era, it errs to the anarchic fringe. That is, whilst it respects the literary form, it has a great deal of fun with it as well. The story, whilst not impossible is highly improbable. Some of the characters border on caricature. What is more, the author is not above playing games with the reader that break the fourth wall. At one point the main character passes the time ‘making up titles for Crispin’, at another he decides to go left at a fork in the road because the book is published by Gollancz. These games do not detract from the book and are very much in keeping with the overall tone. So, if you like your crime novels to have a relaxed and humorous air, this (and Crispin’s others) will be for you.

An Ungodly Child - Rachel Green

It is possible to measure a book by how engaging it is, by how much it takes you out of yourself. And there is no greater competition for this than grief. I have, to put it bluntly, had a bastard few months, capped off with the death of a much loved companion cat. This book provided respite from all that turmoil – and for that alone it gets my praise.

But its strengths are far greater and more universal than being a convenient distraction. From the very beginning, you know you are going to be in for fun. The blend of homely everyday life and a cast of demons, imps, and angels of all grades and colour works extremely well (and the image of a demon enjoying a nice cup of tea and a biscuit won me over straight away). The characters are subtly drawn and develop in realistic fashion (with scope for future appearances) and despite the supernatural setting are preoccupied with small creature comforts just as one would expect.

The story moves along at a great pace without stops on the way for pages of explanatory text (as many writers of supernatural subjects are wont to do). This is refreshing, to say the least. All too often, the likes of demons and angels are simply used as forces to push an angsty character about a shaky plot like some manic pinball. Here, they are integral to the plot.

The style is light. By which I mean, the book is written with a light touch. It is a clever book without flaunting its cleverness. It is funny without trying. It is engaging because it contains sympathetic characters and has an intriguing storyline. And it stays true to itself throughout – for whilst it is a tale of demons and angels, it never steps beyond the slightly down at heel world in which it the story takes place.

I sincerely hope that Harold has more adventures and that Rachel Green goes on to write many more books. She clearly has a great talent for this sort of work (and for art work as well, as the superb cover is one of her watercolours). Indeed, the only thing that bemuses me is why this was not put out by a major publisher and why studios are not falling over themselves to buy the film rights.

Something Wicked This Way Comes - Ray Bradbury

It is difficult reading a book in adult life that you remember from childhood (although not very accurately in my case a – I clearly have it confused with another book as there were events I thought belonged to this story that did not occur). It is especially difficult when, as an adult, you wonder what the fuss and plaudits were all about. I remember this book seeming alien to me when I read it, but that was part of the appeal. It spoke of a place and of a way of life of which I knew nothing – it could just as easily have been another planet (albeit with a funfair). It still could, but for a whole different set of reasons.

Bradbury’s use of language is florid in places to the point of meaninglessness. It may aspire to the poetic, but poetry has to work for a living, not flap about sounding pretty. Whole chapters (admittedly short) went by and I had no idea what he was talking about or how they advanced the story or developed character or ideas. Some of the misogyny and the use of darkness and deformity as metaphors for evil left me uncomfortable – other than which, I was left emotionally unengaged.

The whole idea of a carnival (travelling fun fair) moving into a small community and acting as a catalyst for a whole host of events could have been richly developed. Instead, it felt hammed up, as if it was beyond Bradbury’s technical range. Indeed, it felt like a gaudy poster, promising wonders that failed to appear.

There is no doubt it has contributed in its own way to the mythologizing of small town USA, and of childhood; but it seems to me that like many books of this nature, it has refused to tackle the reality. It has simply taken what is already a deeply rose-tinted nostalgia and painted another version, this time with gothic overtones. As light entertainment (ignoring those rambling discourses) it was fine. Beyond that it had nothing to say to me.

The Case Of The General's Thumb - Andrey Kurkov

When the corpse of a general is found dangling from the ropes of a large advertising balloon, it sets of a chain of events that are at one and the same time bizarre and completely believable. A confusion and profusion of police and security officials from Russia and Ukraine chase each other’s tails through Europe; a tortoise is rescued; and some, at least, find a semblance of happiness.

In a plot that could have been a straight and highly plausible thriller, we are introduced to a cast of characters who make the best of the situation in which they find themselves. They are a bit closer to reality than some of Kurkov’s other books, although it is often hard to tell when the whole world is mad whether individuals are themselves unusual or just reacting to the unusual world around them.

The writing, as ever, is tight and evocative. We are constantly treated to scenes deftly described with a few phrases, dialogue that is believable, and a growing sense of tension. And, as with all the best thrillers, our expectations are overturned.

I know the slightly surreal take on life that Kurkov has is not to everyone’s taste, but it has to be admitted it is perfectly suited to his subject matter. I relish his work – not just for the subject matter and his view of the world, but also because he produces literary work without literary affectations and pretensions.

Night And Day - Virginia Woolf

Delicate and extremely subtle - the conventional story line of Night And Day (a couple edged into an engagement that their social position expects find they each love other people) acts as a counterpoint to Woolf's exploration of the complexities of the inner life, especially during emotional turmoil.

Often dismissed as the 'least' of her novels, and talked down by Woolf (in public, at least) this is an important step on the way to her later work. The Voyage Out ably proved her capabilities as a novelist and as someone prepared to over turn the expectations of a novel. In Night And Day, she has proven she can write a seemingly conventional novel, yet with virtually all the action taking place in the inner lives of the characters. As such it is an intriguing exploration of the very nature of experience, of how people in relationships see each other and work round the different visions they have.

Scenes are set in exquisite detail and characters allowed to blossom like orchids – precious, rare, beautiful, and almost always out of the ordinary. The evocation of London seen through the eyes of Katharine (the central character and, thus, Woolf herself) is restrained but honest. There is little in the way of social comment, despite the work undertaken by some of the characters and there is no mention of the First World War which raged as Woolf wrote.

Yet there is a picture here of anguish, of looking at the world and not understanding, of trying to keep passions under control – all of which Woolf was experiencing at the time. There is also a portrait of innocence; of a class so wrapped up in itself that it is oblivious of the darker world beyond the warm sunshine in which it bathes. Woolf makes gentle fun of this world (her own) whilst also questioning the role of women in this society.

Because it is the most conventional of Woolf’s novels, Night And Day is often overlooked. But it is a solid and highly accomplished foundation for the work that follows; work that may not have been so dazzlingly experimental and successful had she not this solid platform from which to take flight.

Hopjoy Was Here - Colin Watson

And here it is.

This third outing into Flaxborough is every bit as humorous and complex as its predecessors. In fact, the plot is much more complex, which rather suits the basic premiss. For in this book, the mundane world of policing in a provincial town bumps up against the shady world of espionage.

This is no slick Bond thriller. Indeed, Watson gently lampoons the Bond character and books whilst paying homage to the grittier and more realistic kind of spy fiction produced by the likes of Len Deighton. There is also more than a nod in the direction of Graham Greene, but to say more would be to give too much away.

Convoluted, as I have said, the whole plot derives quite naturally from the events and the situation in which the characters find themselves. Whilst we see the funny side, and Watson adds a slight element of farce that is in keeping with the story, we are never left in any doubt that actions have consequences, and lies have a habit of biting back.

There is an uncanny prescience about the book (unless Watson changed the names in later editions) for it contains mention of a character called Sir Harry Palmer, thus elevating Len Deighton’s character (named in the 1965 film of The Ipcress File although anonymous in the books) above the mere major Ross (who is Palmer’s boss in Deighton’s books).

Altogether a thoroughly satisfying read and I cannot wait to get my hands on the rest of Watson’s books so that I can read them all again as well.