it's difficult grouping books together (and harder still to find snappy titles for the categories) - these are all modern "serious" writers from britain.
the last volume in this trilogy won the booker prize - it's a typical booker prize book with a strong storyline and some interesting ideas.
however, these books are even more interesting as a trilogy:
i feel self-conscious writing the above - i'm no literary scholar - but the development through the books is fascinating. and they're a good read too.
from a less analytic point of view, it's refreshing that each book takes a different slant on the war, although there's a pretty strong (and justified, in my humble opinion - but then i may be simply reading my own views into the text) anti-war message in each (maybe more an anti-mass-movement-suppression-of-free-speech-kind-of-thing).
one criticism - you know you're reading. there's a lot of "said"s in this book and a slightly intrusive, omniscient narrator. after reading underworld the style is a little heavy-handed.
this is a mixed book. i enjoyed reading it and i'd recommend it to anyone - especially if you're interested in how people cope with involvement in south american politics.
my best guess is that the author has tried to mix politics that interest him (and me!) with a plot and storyline that appeals to the nick hornby ("lads" playing football and having girlfriend problems) generation.
so the narrative switches between two different viewpoints - a uruguayan exile and an investigative journalist. the writing style, and the relative importance of the different threads of the plot switch with character.
it is difficult to disentangle my own prejudices, but i found the uruguayan viewpoint and style much more interesting. the journalist covers the action - a thriller based on drugs and violence - but the style seemed rough, and i was never completely gripped.
but i kept reading.
france during the second world war was a confused and dangerous place. part of the country was collaborating with the occupying army. jews were being shipped from france to poland.
i've never read a book, before this, that discussed this time (ok, some of sartre's books, but they were more concerned with personal problems - maybe i need to go back and re-read them). it is fascinating how people slip, via small fears and lapses, to open evil (i suspect the book still exaggerates the significance of "bad" people - there are enough good people who don't act to explain any crime against humanity).
furthermore, the story is also a gripping yarn. nothing fancy or sophisticated, just good old fashioned storytelling that grips and doesn't let go.
apparently it's the last in a series of three - next time you have a long journey, get one.
i'm halfway round the world, alone in a dusty town. i've been away long enough to need to ask the day of the week. i miss my culture. i'm walking down the street in a t-shirt and shorts, black sandals on my feet and a silly sun hat on my head, surrounded by people who, in age group, dress the same. i have white hairy legs and a red face, they have brown faces and jeans.
every second head turns to look my way. people nudge each other as i pass. groups fall silent. a clutch of young girls in the cab of a pick-up giggle. one exclaims "que feo!".
after visiting the mine and the museum, and having a gordita and a frijole for lunch, i go back to my room, running the gauntlet of faces again. some look amused, others angry. a young woman driving a car pips her horn and waves at me: the local entertainment.
back in the hotel i can't write. i'm trying to complete an article for a magazine. instead i retreat to my room and read unsworth's stone virgin.
when i finish the book i am crying. partly i miss my partner; this is a sexy book. mainly i am overwhelmed with empathy for the book's characters treated as objects, and characters redeemed by creating objects.
but i don't believe it. of course, i condemn anyone who uses another person. but there is no immortality. the best i can do - and will do - is walk down the street tomorrow, dressed just the same, looking them in the eye. i am not an object, open to your interpretation; i am me; fuck you, people of zacatecas.
this is a book review i wrote while in mexico. the book is not about mexico, but the review is. apologies for the aggression - it was written in the heat of the moment, and i don't want to change it now, as i type it into my computer, because i think it is a good piece of writing.
i enjoyed my holiday - despite the staring. at some point i hope to write some more about the holiday, especially the art we bought in oaxaca (i redeem mexico through shopping :-).