The thing which charmed me, very early on, is that the ‘survivors’ of one chapter heading turn out to be a man and his cooking pot. Brilliant. Why? Well, it says something about the character and the situation he’s in, as well as entertaining the reader. It’s original. It’s an unexpected, perfect little moment.

I also loved the introduction of one of the major characters: again originality was the key. You begin by hearing the thoughts of a crippled man attempting to go down a flight of stairs, and a few pages later you’re surprisingly enlightened about who he is and how he thinks. I’m also a sucker for morally dubious characters with whom you can sympathise, which is fiendishly hard to do. By making him enter the book when he’s at one of his weakest moments, and by letting us straight inside his head, Abercrombie jumps us over several hurdles, so that when we then find out his occupation we already rather like him and it’s too late for him to be a plain and simple villain.

(Yes, that’s intended to be tantalising. Read the book.)

The rest of the book is never dull, though perhaps the virtuoso beginning was a bit much to live up to. Unlike ‘The Adamantine Palace‘ (which apparently Joe Abercrombie enjoyed: wonder why?) ‘The Blade Itself’ manages to show a world which is corrupt, dark and violent, but still compelling because of the life breathed into every detail of character and surroundings. The story-telling is brisk, often humorous and never predictable.

The only problem with this book comes from the nature of trilogies. This is in no sense a stand-alone novel: it only makes sense as the first part of a larger story. It’s more common for fantasy writers to construct the overall work so that each published volume has its own internal shape of beginning, middle and end. This felt more like one long beginning, setting up both the war and the journey, the stories of which will presumably be told in the next book. It might not matter in the context of the trilogy as a whole, but it does mean the experience of reading this first volume is a little frustrating. I’ll wait till the whole work’s out before going back. Hopefully shouldn’t be too long now, as we seem to be at the large paperback stage for vol. 3.

Oh, one more thing: it needs a map. Any story which involves international relations and strategic military manoevuring needs to show us where all these places are in relation to each other. Fingers crossed.　

(PC: A)

I’m going to moan about the decline of standards. In order to give this context, I’ll add that I’m 36.

I keep coming across books whose authors can’t punctuate a sentence, and whose editors and proof-readers don’t seem to have spotted this. It’s driving me barmy.  

I don’t mind when people who know what they’re doing choose to break the rules for reasons of style or impact. I’m just driven to swearing when it’s obvious that an author doesn’t know what he’s doing (pronoun chosen because all the worst offenders so far have been men, coincidence though this may be) and that therefore his prose is jerking and flopping about like a freshly-caught halibut.

You may be asking how on earth I can tell the difference? I’m omniscient. No, maybe not. But I do know that punctuation gives a rhythm to text, and that incorrect punctuation makes it ‘sound’ wrong in my head. I was ranting about Peter F. Hamilton (whom I otherwise think is really talented) to my husband, who was bemused because he hadn’t noticed the problem and possibly wouldn’t care as much if he had. Well, he’s lucky. For me, reading a book where full stops should be commas and commas should be (semi-)colons (and even, in one recent dire case, full stops should be question marks) is like watching television where the picture keeps flickering, or listening to the radio with the buzz of interference. You just don’t want to.

I can’t remember learning much about punctuation at school. I remember the odd spelling test, but I don’t think they usually gave me words to learn that I couldn’t spell already. I soaked up nearly all of what I know about both punctuation and spelling without much effort simply because I read a lot. If published books get it wrong…

I don’t want to repeat this rant, and I have a feeling I’m going to be tempted, so I think from now on books I mention will get a punctuation code.

A: No problems

B: One or two things I noticed, but hey, everyone makes mistakes

C: Oh God, not again

This is anything but lifeless (wonder how many reviewers jumped on that one?).  What I like most is that there’s no sense of reverence about anything. People are messy, imperfect, annoying, funny, forgetful, pathetic and surprising. It’s a page-turner. I normally prefer whodunnits to slow reveals, but this one keeps moving and is full of nice small details, both in dialogue and description. I don’t know that it will stick in my head as a novel to remember, but it was a good one while it lasted.

I haven’t read any of the other books in Martin O’Brien‘s series, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they all featured the food and landscape of the South of France as heavily as this one does. There are times when the author seems to be part crime novelist, part travel guide and part food enthusiast. But it’s none the worse for that (after all, Donna Leon‘s Venetian crime novels not only give me the sense that I can explore the Venice behind the tourist trail but also taught me how to peel garlic).

I found the hero’s relationship with his gorgeous new girlfriend to be a little cloying and it clogged up the plot a bit occasionally. I also found the denouement less satisfying than I’d hoped. But overall, not a bad read.

Having said that, I’m prodded back in this direction by the flaws in my latest library book (a pity that I’m always more motivated by irritation than admiration, but I suspect that can’t be helped) and so this will be more than an ‘I’ve read this’ entry.

‘The Adamantine Palace’ by Stephen Deas is another take on a world where people ride dragons. This time, it’s a world where the only way people can stop the dragons descending in fury and incinerating the population is to feed them a potion which numbs their brains and makes them biddable. There are two focuses to the plot: one is the awakening of a dragon and its destructive reaction, and the other is ruthless intrigue among the rulers of the region to see who’s going to be the next top dog.

The dragon thing is a nice idea, no question about that, and the plot is well-shaped and does the requisite number of twists and turns. But if you’re looking for an exploration of the ethics of the question of taming the dragons, or evocation of the parallels between the destructive nature of the dragons and the viciousness of the humans, this isn’t your book. We’re told that dragons are violent and want revenge (and food), and that humans are ruthless and want power (and sex), and that’s about it. The parallels are, I suppose, obvious, but could be made more interesting.

There are no nice guys in this book, the characters mostly differing from each other only in terms of social position, motivation, and degree of nastiness. One character, Princess Jaslyn, does come off the page as a person, but since her chief characteristic appears to be her inability to interact with anyone who isn’t a dragon, and her function in the plot seems to be to be ordered about by her mother, this spark is largely wasted. The chief villain of the piece (i.e., the one who’s even nastier than everyone else) does have a certain cheerful glee to his villainy which is welcome, but it’s not enough to lift the tone. It’s not that the thoughts and actions of the characters aren’t believable, merely that they’re all depressingly similar. The narrative point of view shifts a great deal, so that you’re rarely in doubt of what the characters are feeling, but it’s often hard to care. Deaths are treated matter-of-factly, unless they form a part of someone else’s motivation, and even then there’s not a lot of depth to anyone’s reaction.

I had a few more quibbles:

1. The book starts with four genealogical tables showing various royal families. I should have known that this was not a good sign. I spent the first several chapters flicking back and forth trying to work out who was being discussed and why, and eventually began to find that I stopped caring. It’s a complex world that Deas has envisaged, but it’s only ever sketched, not drawn. This makes it a lot harder to remember the names and roles particularly of the more minor characters being mentioned, as they have no real context.

2. There’s one very odd story-telling decision which bugged me. Two of the characters are mercenaries who are friends and cousins. We see certain episodes in the first half of the story through the eyes of one of them, and the second is shown only from the other’s viewpoint. Yet when the author kills off one of them, it’s the one he’s previously been using as a viewpoint character, meaning that for the second and more important half of the story we’re suddenly in the company of someone we don’t know as well. Why do this?

3. You can’t seize someone gently.

I suspect a sequel is on the horizon, but I don’t want to spend any more time in the company of these characters. I’ve no objection to ruthless intrigue, but some genuine humanity and for preference a spark of leavening humour, however dark, are necessary for me to get involved (mercenaries making crude jokes because that’s what mercenaries do doesn’t count). It’s a pity, because the world Deas creates is potentially an interesting one (and hallelujah, he can construct a sentence).

When an author creates an alternative reality, of whatever kind, then the people in that reality have values which they may or may not be assumed to share with the reader. This is something the author can decide. You could create a dogmatic fundamentalist society which worships zebras and bans mushy food, for example, with the assumption that the majority of your readers are not going to be of that mindset. If you do that, then that assumption of a difference will affect how you think readers will react to characters and events, and the way you choose to describe them. It’ll limit some of your options, and expand others. If, on the other hand, the society you create seems to be more or less a mirror of the one your readers live in, that gives you a different set of options and it gives your readers a different set of expectations.

The ‘Vatta’s War’ series is an engaging space opera in which the heroine overcomes dangers, discovers her own potential and saves the galaxy (more or less). It’s good stuff, simply but well written, with three-dimensional characters and enough science to seem convincing and consistent (at least to me) without being overwhelming. It’s part action story, part political thriller, but with enough emotional content to make the fighting have a point.

The one problem I have with it (after a re-read) is that I’m not sure of the extent to which the author and I disagree about execution as punishment and legal trials.

There are several planets and systems in the series, and they are distinguished by a range of political and cultural variables. An important factor here is the existence of genetically modified ‘humods’, which are the norm in some systems, occasionally found in others, and anathema in some (those whose cultural and religious values stress the importance of preserving a ‘pure’ humanity). This gives a nice easy parallel to racism, which is useful in demonstrating the heroine’s humanitarian, non-discriminatory values. No problem there: the author and I seem to be on the same wavelength, as we do over the issue of avoiding civilian casualties in war.

The point at which I paused and became detached from the story was the point at which a ‘bad guy’ character was sentenced to summary execution. This took place on a system in which courtesy is essential, to the point where an insult is a legal matter. The bad guy in question was challenging the heroine in court, and when he lost started raving and insulted the judge, which on that particular world carried the death sentence. There was some debate about an alternative punishment consisting of a personality alteration, but he decided he’d rather be dead.

The reason I paused was that I realised I shared only some of the heroine’s reaction. She was shocked by the fact that an insult could result in a death sentence, because it seemed to her to be an excessive punishment, but she wasn’t disturbed by the existence of the death sentence per se. Once I realised that, I looked back over the rest of the story so far, and realised that there were other points when my reaction as a reader might not have been what the author intended. There’s a key theme of revenge running through the story, and several points where direct vengeance seems to be preferred to legal trial and punishment. Since the whole scenario of the series is what happens when pirates get organised and pose a major threat to a number of worlds, and how you combat them without a central organised ‘police’, I’d been assuming the ‘at war’ situation the characters find themselves in explained their mindset when it came to action against their enemies. As the story went on, however, I began to think that the difference that exists in my mind between killing someone who’s shooting at you and killing someone as a revenge execution ought to be demonstrated more strongly. Towards the end, I was really hoping at least one of the bad guys would be arrested, tried and sentenced. Preferably not to death.

So is this a result of non-shared assumptions? Or was I thinking precisely what the author intended me to think?

I’ve just read an interview with Craig Revel Horwood where he is quoted as saying:

“I think the point of life is to follow your heart and follow your dreams, and if you love something so much then you should do that, because you’ll be good at it. If you really have a passion for something I think you should follow that and not stifle it and not listen to everyone else; listen to yourself and your inner voice.”

This is the same doctrine which provokes hundreds of people into queuing up for X-Factor auditions and making themselves nationwide objects of derision.

It does not follow that if you love something you will be good at it. I’m sorry to all those wannabes out there who seem to believe that all they have to do is break down on television and sob about how becoming a pop star or musical theatre performer is their life’s ambition because they love it so much and they know they’ve got to follow their dream, yada yada yada, but it really doesn’t work like that. You have to have talent. If you can’t sing, no amount of dedication and anguish is going to make you a star. Yes, if you have a passion for it you can work your socks off and become a better performer, but being better is not necessarily the same as being good. Oh, and no, life isn’t fair.

I’m presuming Craig Revel Horwood does actually know this. I’d be flabbergasted if he didn’t. I’m going to be charitable and assume this is bad editing.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not a big fan of autobiographies, and I think I’ve worked out why. If the author has spent his or her life doing something in which I have no interest at all (eg being married to a footballer), then I’m bored silly. If, on the other hand, the author seems to have been living in a whirl of Doing Interesting Things then I sit there in a haze of wistful envy and get demoralised.

Katherine Whitehorn comes across as a woman I would very much like to polish off a bottle or two of wine with one summer’s evening, as she has wit, common sense, and a lifetime of Doing Interesting Things to talk about. I also very much hope that if I ever go through a bereavement I have even half her self-awareness and practicality. But after some time spent perusing her life I feel rather depressed, becuase I have achieved very little in comparison. This would be fine if it motivated me to go out into the world and find Interesting Things to do, but I don’t really know where to start. Though she does seem to have been on a hell of a lot of committees, which might lead to other things but presumably only if you find the right ones to be on. For which you probably have to be reasonably high-powered to start with.

You can tell it’s a columnist’s autobiography, as it has a tendency to fall into article-sized chunks which get a bit irritating. The other problem is the one it shares with ever other autobiography I can ever remember having come across, which is that it’s a lot more vividly-painted and interesting when it talks about childhood than most of the rest of the time. It’s as if everyone who embarks on the task of writing their life dives more enthusiastically into recreating that part of the past, even if the years in question weren’t particularly happy. I have a theory about this, which is that it’s more socially acceptable to discuss one’s childhood in company than it is to discuss the first five years of one’s marriage, or the decade where your job was going really well. This is possibly because we all had a childhood, whereas we can’t necessarily connect to other life experiences.

It’s been interesting to spend time with her, but I think I need to go back to some fiction for a while.

I happened to read ‘Case Histories’ not long after finishing Alice Sebold’s ‘The Lovely Bones’. Richard and Judy notwithstanding, I really didn’t like ‘The Lovely Bones’. The premise of a murdered girl narrating the story sounded intriguing, but what you get is sentimental rather than moving, with characters who relapse into bleakness every time you think they’re about to do something interesting, all watched over by the girl in her saccharine heaven.

‘Case Histories’ is everything ‘The Lovely Bones’ is not, largely because Kate Atkinson’s characters are complex people in a complex world. Both books look at loss, and the hole that’s left in people’s lives when a family member dies violently. Kate Atkinson, however, has a sense of humour, and a sharp awareness that the ridiculous is always with us, as well as the mundane and the tragic. She’s also a genius at combining dialogue with a narration of one character’s thoughts, bringing out the contrasts between what people say, what they mean, and what other people think they mean, all in prose that zips past you so fast you don’t notice how good it is. And unlike ‘The Lovely Bones’, ‘Case Histories’ is a true detective story, in the best page-turning style.

My ‘Books I wish I’d written’ list is now longer.