Eleanor Rigby

Eleanor Rigby, by Douglas Coupland, jumps straight into the life of middle-aged, single Vancouverite Liz Dunn in a whirling tail of loneliness, breakdown, and the Human Condition. Unsugar coated, blunt and open, Coupland never shies away from the bigger issues of life hitting the reader with cases of MS - depicting quite honestly the crippling loss of self that chips away inexplicably at those effected. It is a blunt and therefore all the more effective look at sickness, human frailty and perseverance whilst incorporating the overarching themes of life, death, life after death, and inevitability of mortality.

Between the charming Jeremy who dreams of a simple working life on a farm to the office working Liz trapped in the cage of her own loneliness, the two begin to build a life together two halves thoroughly dependant on the other for more than happiness, but in many ways, survival. Coupland depicts perfectly the relations between the two as well as other characters, building a frighteningly real life wrought with the trials and small triumphs of Liz's life at 40. While seeing glimpses of her early years, it is the slow passing of her life up until the point she meets Jeremy that builds the foundation for the novel, constructing a crippling sense of self-inflicted isolation and lonely a condition mirror in a physical sense by the symptoms and complications of Multiple Sclerosis and their effect on one's body.

Coupland so easily paints the picture with such finite believability and detail that characters immediately become real, and true, a connection forming between them and the reader as you follow through their daily and (often monotonous) lives, all the while growing to love them more and more with each stumble, mistake or moment of happiness. Raw and rule, Eleanor Rigby is a true reminder of the importance of real connections, relationships, within the context of the both limited and fragile human life.

And the Mountains Echoed

Khaled Hosseini is superb, and continues to wow in this, his third novel. An expert at weaving a multitude of stories and characters into one cross-continental tale, Hosseini grabs his readers immediately and doesn't let go. Raising hopes,and leaving the reader crushed under the weight of tragic life - a reality he carefully avoids glorifying - Hosseini once again opens a window into characters lives, bit by bit, and makes you, inevitably and despite their flaws, love them. As the reader watches the slow decay of life unfurl before their eyes they are gripped by the tale of familial bonds, and deep rooted kinship that is not defined by local - be it Afghanistan, America, Paris, or Tinos. Human frailty, its capacity for love, and inevitably, fail those we love runs deep within the pages of ANd the Mountains Echoed.

The story opens upon a simple scene of storytelling, a glimpse at the relationship between the father (the speaker) and son, (the listener) while widening the ideas of family relations and obligations in the very theme of the story told. From there we are given a window into the lives of two young children - brother and sister - and the solidifying of a central them throughout the novel to come: bonds and ties of family and friendship that endure despite time or place. It is a story about finding a piece of one's self in another, and the inexplicable connections of love that tie us together.

Through heartache, trial triumph and testing, Hosseini explores relationships between parents and their children - touching on the loved, the difficult, biological families and adopted ones, in order to explore the depth of affection and loyalty inherent in such relations. There is a sense, too, for the characters of And the Mountains Echoed, that it is never too late. Whether it is Pari the young girl removed from her family at such a very young age, who - unable to remember anything but her adopted mother - lives her life with a vague, uncertain, but ever present ache; a hole undefinable of the place where something is missing from her soul, or Markos - ever running from the confines of his life, so rigid and void of tenderness, on the secluded island of Tinos, Hosseini weaves them each in turn, and the generations of family members and friends they connect with, into realistically jumbled, but ever connected tapestry.

It is a testament, also, that Hosseini is able to create such a balance - such reality. Never one to wrap everything up all nice and neat in perfect triumph or resolution, he also manages to avoid the opposite mistae of over glorifying the hardships and tragedies of poverty and circumstances. Each character is flawed, and each is redeemable, but only within the realities and confines of their lives and character. It is a masterpiece of a could-be reality. Like the works of Hosseini that came before, And the Mountains Echoed will grip your heart, and leave its resonating sound within you well after the final page has been read.

Everything Remains Dark

Browse Tumblr for more than 30 seconds, and I'll beat you'll come across some reference to Jonathan Safran Foer - most likely, a non-creative posting of cover photos of Everything is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close scrawled in bright vibrant letters. See cover here And, I must admit, the poppy type-art simplicity, was a good seller for me. While both novels continue to circle the Literary cult cultures with quotes and trendy 'likes' I'd be lying if I said I actually knew much of anything about this novel aside from the time I was ready to watch anything Elijah Wood was in and came across his smiling sunflower-glassed visage at Blockbuster. I never did watch the movie though, so it was blindly that I dove into the pages of Everything Is Illuminated this September with no frame of reference for plot, style or literary context.
Long story short - I had no idea what the book was really about, except that Lit-hips loved it.

Taking place in the Ukraine - which might explain the bright blue and yellow, at any rate, the novel follows two or three timelines that weave their way (occasionally connecting) through the rural Ukrainian villages. The first, most 'present-day' story is that of Sasha, a small town Ukrainian young man longing for America, and a life bigger than that which he leads. Manufacturing tales and encounters that boost his image, he rattles off depictions of his daily grand life with poignant humour and charmingly broken english. Capturing that fluent but not North American style of speaking and writing, Safran immediately gains the readers trust through the voice of Sasha, and establishes a relationship where the reader is firmly on his side, and rooting for his success and happiness.

Shortly into this we meet Jonathan Safran Foer the character - an American travelling through the Ukraine in search of one woman from an old photograph, and a connection to his past: the one who saved his father's life during the second world war.

And that's about where my comprehensive overview ends.

Weaving in and out of this present day story - which itself is told partly in the moment, and in part through recounting letters from Sasha to Jonathan after the fact - are tales of the past. The relatives Jonathan is seeking to gain knowledge of have their own chance to tell a story - a stumbling and halting history of their village, and the individuals and encounters which occurred there.

Though in theory the reader is able to keep histories separate, the manner in which each is introduced and revealed leaves much to the imagination, and tends toward simple confusion. I often found myself trying to decipher who was who and related in what way, what time period/frame of the novel I was in, and just what the heck was actually going on.

Because of this, the novel quickly became muddled, confusing, and frustrating. Though there were certainly moments where the reader could sympathize with the characters of the novel, the disconnect of the stories and the narrative style prevented continuity or emotional attachment at the level which the story needed. Without it, the weight of character's emotional baggage, war trauma, and inner turmoils fall flat, missing the reader all together on their downward spiral into muddled reality and confused plot lines.

Rather as though bits an pieces of the novel were left out, revelations and conversations would occur in the novel without explanation or backstory to provide either context or relevancy. As such, I often found myself frustrated with entire sections of the novel, unable to connect to one character or another, or piece together the significance of one story in relation to another.

While I could grasp at the thought that the miss-mash of stories is a commentary or depiction of the way in which history circles, or memories blur in the minds of both individuals and nations - pulling this all together in the collective frame of reference of Jewish life in the Second World War - I'd have to say that's the type of stretch more commonly found in the pages of a second year English Major's dashed together analytic essay. It's time to face the music. Parts of the novel held merit, but as a collective book, it fell short.

I'm not saying each and every aspect needs to be explained in full detail, or that backstories need be outlined for every anecdote, but when the reader is left with an overwhelming feeling of 'so what' or, 'how does this relate to anything again?' you know that something's missing. Finishing the novel with an overwhelming sense of frustration, I have to admit I was disappointed. Sure, Safran illuminates some honest, blunt truths here and there, but generally speaking, I found the very title of the novel a wild irony (the one thing I can say just may have been deliberate) and the resounding conclusion lingering darkness.
And I'm not really sure what to do in the dark.

Pigeon English

Stephen Kelman's debut novel Pigeon English is a raw and real look into inner-city London's dark daily life. Narrated by the profound Harrison Opoku - an eleven year old boy recently emigrated from Ghana, Pigeon English reveals the depth of violence and twisted justice which so quickly becomes apparent in the London youth. 

Following the death of a fellow youth and student - a bloody and seemingly meaningless stabbing - Harrison and his friend Derek take on a vague sense of duty an begin investigative reports on the scene. In their simplified childish way, they set up watch, interrogate suspects and look for clues and evidence. 

Though the novel holds aspects of crime scene investigation, it is in no means a Murder Mystery by genre. Instead, through these investigations, Kelman reveals the beauty of a young boys mind, and the simple honesty with which he lives his life. Both gentle and loving in his displays of caring for the pigeon which lands on his balcony one day, Harrison is an expressly loveable character whose affection and protective nature for his little sister Agnes (residing in Ghana with their father) is both inspiring and heart warming. 
"I pretended like all the oranges rolling everywhere were her happy memories and they were looking for a new person to stick to so they didn't get wasted.”

 In contrast,  the youth's desire for destruction, brutality and violence, and Harri's own fascination with the local gang, reveal the intensity of youth and the ease with which they as a society can slip into such immense horror and destruction: "Killa got a screwdriver out of his pant. I saw it with my own two eyes... I could even see the killing thoughts in the air, they were sticking to us like crazy moths after thunder. They wanted to kill us, you could tell." Through these dichotomous emotions Kelman weaves the intricate tapestry of emotions which drive youth culture. 

The voice through which the story is told - most predominantly that of Harri, is honest and real, and often times simple - childish excitability certainly comes though - but with a profound depth and beauty which transcends all age and circumstance. 
His analysis of people, is so childishly simple that it reveals truth so often missed by adult mindsets. In his observation of Mr Frimpong, Harrison reveals the pureness of his heart: 

“Mr. Frimpong is the oldest person from church. That's when I knew why he sings louder than anybody else: it's because he's been waiting the longest for God to answer. He thinks God has forgotten him. I only knew it then. Then I loved him but it was too late to go back.” 

This passage also reveals a reoccurring theme within the novel and specifically within Harrison of a fascination with death. The memory and 'spirit' of "The Dead Boy" permeates and presides over the story, weaving its way in and out of day to day chores, guilty looks, and moments of personal triumph. Harrison is fixated on his memory - a boy he wasn't particularly close with - and continually dedicates his moments of happiness to the boy's memory or spirit. 

In the same way, gang members and bully figures are forever fixed on death and revenge, carving death threats in apartment doors and chanting for blood during street fights. There is an animalistic quality alive in each youth and each person which Kelman carefully explores within the confines of brutal gang culture, forcing it to collide with innocent hearts and pure minds in a violent clash of interaction and emotion.

A turbulent and reflective novel, Pigeon English uses the simplicity of style and heart to pierce the heart of the reader even as it drags them into a world of shockingly hardened young criminals perpetuating the dark inner-city life of London. 
Funny, sickening and triumphant, Stephen Kelman's debut is a fine example of voice and heart in a plot-driven, increasingly sic-fi literary world.  

Starter For Ten

"All young people worry about things, it's a natural and inevitable part of growing up, and at the age of sixteen my greatest anxiety in life was that I'd never again achieve anything as good, or pure, or noble, or true, as my O-level results."

A poignant and raw look into the inner workings of the eighteen year old Brian Jackson, upon his entry into University, Starter For Ten by David Nicholls is not so much a straight forward coming of age as it is an uncovering of what University life really is about - what knowledge means, and the lessons school cannot teach you. Inherantly smart and hard working, Brian is a rather typical book-smart student lacking the comfort and ease of social structure and easy friendships. But behind the simple structure of his character is the burning desire to bring pride to his mother and deceased father, and clinging to knowledge - specifically University Challenge which he connects inadvertently to memory of his dad, and  longing for love and acceptance from the University sweetheart "beautiful and knows it" Alice.


Brian has big dreams for University - and high expectations. Ever focused on school work above all else, it is his sole belief that hard work and dedication will bring him the future he desires. This humorous and ironic passage depicts not only Brian's hopes for the future, but more poignantly, his sheer lack of understanding of how the world really does work.

“I want to be able to listen to recording of piano sonatas and know who's playing. I want to go to classical concerts and know when you're meant to clap. I want to be able to 'get' modern jazz without it all sounding like this terrible mistake, and I want to know who the Velvet Underground are exactly. I want to be fully engaged in the World of Ideas, I want to understand complex economics, and what people see in Bob Dylan. I want to possess radical but humane and well-informed political ideals, and I want to hold passionate but reasoned debates round wooden kitchen tables, saying things like 'define your terms!' and 'your premise is patently specious!' and then suddenly to discover that the sun's come up and we've been talking all night. I want to use words like 'eponymous' and 'solipsistic' and 'utilitarian' with confidence. I want to learn to appreciate fine wines, and exotic liquers, and fine single malts, and learn how to drink them without turning into a complete div, and to eat strange and exotic foods, plovers' eggs and lobster thermidor, things that sound barely edible, or that I can't pronounce...Most of all I want to read books; books thick as brick, leather-bound books with incredibly thin paper and those purple ribbons to mark where you left off; cheap, dusty, second-hand books of collected verse, incredibly expensive, imported books of incomprehensible essays from foregin universities.

At some point I'd like to have an original idea...And all of these are the things that a university education's going to give me.”

Set from 1985-86, the novel is a commentary on social class and societal structure, often addressing Brian's understandings of money and privilege (shown in both the character of the seemingly perfect Alice and various boarding-school types) in contrast to his own working-class single parent upbringing (his father having died when Brian was 12). No where is anti-classism more evident, though than in the brash, passionate character of Rebecca who through a chance meeting at a party becomes in an awkward, Brian way, one of Brian's closest (and indeed one of few real) friends. Relying heavily on Brian's self deprecating wit and humour, manifested primarily in his narrative (first person) voice, and Rebecca's hard edged honesty and banter, Nicholls adds a light and admittedly very funny tone to the would-be heavy novel. There is an obliviousness, and an extremely narrow sighted optimism in Brian which drives not only his actions but the manner in which he sees - and therefore narrates - the world around him.


Despite a keen interest in his studies and efforts otherwise, Brian very quickly finds himself an outsider, marking this down to class difference and upbringing more than anything else. Reflecting on his own lack of personal connections, he contrasts his way of life with that of Alice's, as she states she enjoys her independence, realizing in doing so, just how alone he has become:


"Independence is the luxury of all those people who are too confident, and busy, and popular, and attractive to be just plain old lonely. And make no mistake, lonely is absolutely the worst thing to be. Tell someone that you've got a drink problem, or an eating disorder, or your dad died when you were a kid even, and you can almost see their eyes light up with the sheer fascinating drama and pathos of it all, because you've got an issue, something for them to get involved in, to talk about and analyse and discuss and maybe even cure. But tell someone you’re lonely and of course they’ll seem sympathetic, but look very carefully and you'll see one hand snaking behind their back, groping for the door handle, ready to make a run for it, as if loneliness itself were contagious. Because being lonely is just so banal, so shaming, so plain and dull and ugly."


Brian has lived the majority of his life with people grasping for the door handle, but for so long has not been able to see it. As his paper-perfect University career begins to spin around him, odd friendships, failed relations, let downs and confrontations lead Brian to discover that though he might be full of knowledge worthy of quiz shows, he is, inevitably, ignorant to the world in a manner far beyond his comprehension, and, indeed, doesn't even know who he is. 


“I contemplate the idea that maybe I'm an alcoholic. I get this occassionally, the need to define myself as something-or-the-other, and at various times in my life have wondered if I'm a Goth, a homosexul, a Jew, a Catholic or a manic depressive, whether I am adopted, or have a hole in my heart, or possess the ability to move objects with the power of my mind, and have always, most regretfully, come to the conclusion that I'm none of the above. The fact is I'm actually not ANYTHING.”


A realist often sarcastic and extremely humorous novel, Starter for Ten outlines not only the base lines of lasting grief and inherent loneliness, but the meanings of friendship, the awkwardness of young adult relations, and ultimately, the true value of knowledge (and whether or not knowledge is really the same thing as intelligence). 

The Book Thief

The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak appeared mysteriously on my bookshelf one day. I believe it's been sitting there for a while, sorted into the pile of 'novels that do not belong to me' (which primarily hosts books borrowed from my big sister). This, however, appeared on its own.

Rather fitting really, now having read the tale of book thievery, that it should have ended up in my procession as a gift I recently took it down off the shelf to read. I read The Book Thief without knowing anything at all about it. I enjoy reading books that way, it adds to the story without predetermined context or assumptions about the content, and the Book Thief was for me, then, a complete surprise.

A powerful, sorrowful tale of death, destruction, and inevitable dismay, the Book Thief is a curious tale of a unique young girl, and an even more intriguing speaker. Though the narrator is never literally named, it becomes quickly apparent to the reader that the speaker is indeed, the voice of Death - a personification that is both supernatural, but of seemingly human-like form, "You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue." Death is both expressly inhuman, and yet very much a part of who we are, in it's own perspective, becoming both beyond ourselves, beyond human, and inherently sympathetic as it feels and comprehends hope, sadness, defeat, and most often, fatigue. 

Set in Germany in the second World War, Death is not only a fitting, but a challenging narrator which provides not only insight into the depth of destruction obviously apparent at the time, but a level of individuality as the voice touches on single stories within the ever present context of death. 

Though it could technically be categorize as War literature, or even historical fiction, the Book Thief was unlike any other wartime or holocaust themed novel I had previously read, the focus of the novel so very much on the girl, Leisel, rather than the war itself. Of course, the thoughts and consequences of war were ever present throughout the novel, but they arose as just that - consequences - which moved and shaped the daily activities and lives of the characters within. Leisel felt the sting of war every day, and the reign of Nazi Germany, the omnipresent ruling, was a foreboding darkness over the city and nation. It was through her story that the pain of the war years is made real to the reader, not as a statistic, or a horror story of holocaust victim, but rather through the tale of a loss of innocence and privilege, a loss of comfort and home, and eventually, the simple loss of life. Because Leisel's tale is such a simple one, such a basic one, in essence, it allows the reader to connect and latch their emotions to that of the young girl all the more strongly as she stumbles her way through life and onto Himmel St. 

Death, itself, takes care of the bigger picture. Through simple tales of mass murders and bombings, concentration camps and executions, told from the other side, Death is able to turn the stories from unfathomably horrific, to poignantly tragic - a subtle change which allows readers who have in all likelihood been bombarded with History texts books in school years, to view the deadly acts of world War Two in a new, more personal light. A calm, but sorrowful one. Death does not talk of the bloodlust in the killer's eyes, or the long nights of suffering, but of gently scooping up the souls of the dying humans, whether one by one and slowly, as the victims starve in their beds, mercifully and lightly, as escaping Jews fall to their death over rocky cliffs - dying mid fall, or  of collecting them all at once and in large batches, sifting the souls out of the deadly smoke that rose out of the killing showers of concentration camps. All horrific, all deaths, but all told from a caring, but calm voice who lifts them each out of their bodies, and carries them skyward.  

Using the voice of death provides a unique perspective not only on dying, but on loss and being left behind: "I witness the ones that are left behind, crumbled among the jigsaw puzzles of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs". For death, the dying brings relief, whether the dead realize it immediately or not, and it is those left that become the victims, broken by the incomprehension of separation.

The novel, then, centres around not only the inevitable sense of loss and destruction, but on friendship, and the bonds of those fated to live through such times. Introducing the childhood best friend connection with Rudy, Leisel is able to experience, in many ways, a normal relation with her neighbour and soon best friend. It is this bond, the ever growing friendship that exists both despite and because of the environment within which the characters live, that allows the reader a sense of hope and a connection to the story, as the reader invests in the child antics and relations. The friendship, like all those in the novel, is complicated by circumstance, and though street soccer games and playground fights are central, bonds are formed through the stealing of apples - a necessity for the near-starving children, rather than a game of fun - and bonds of mutual longing, as both children experience what it is to have their father figures sent to war. 

Likewise, Leisel's relationship with her Papa and Mama both mirrors that of a child with their parent, but is given further depth by the sheer fact that neither are Leisel's biological parent. Learning to form a connection of extreme love and devotion, the three characters quickly become a bonded family, their love extending past factual family and becoming one knit together by love, loss and circumstance, just as Max is integrated into their hearts in much the same way. 

Providing a window into the life of a Jew in Nazi Germany, Max becomes not only a friend but a liability. A constant balance between a fugitive and a brother, the threads of Max's friendship with Leisel are woven through not only a sense of family and justice, but over an attendance to Hitler Youth, around the loss of her own brother, and through the not only impractical but the forbidden nature of such a bond. It is not only love that holds these characters together, but the reoccurring theme throughout the novel of Words. 

Words, as any reader will know, are an extremely powerful tool. Both a weapon and a form of reconciliation, or comfort, words can connect and severe ties, and infiltrate minds. Words are the birthplace of so many actions, and so much of the movements of Nazi Germany. And Leisel herself writes after reflecting upon both her habit of book stealing and of writing, "I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right."

The Book Thief itself uses words in much the same way, highlighting and pushing them, contorting them to depict both the good and the bad, as well as highlighting the consequences of words, both said and unsaid, and their effect on those on which who's ears they fall. From simple spelling lessons, to a book which Death itself carries in its pocket, literature and language (spoken and written) is shown for what it truly is - a power and weapon beyond understanding which can shape the minds of followers, and a hope on which to cling to, when all else falls. 

It is with a unique voice and brilliantly executed perspective - that of the character and narrator of Death - that Zuszak sheds light on the dark times of Germany in war, and reawakens an emotional connection between reader and characters, refreshing what has become numb and desensitized in a violence-based society.