Books that don’t make the cut

Probably not for book club

Here are some books that I have recently read and enjoyed to some degree. Others will have loved them. They miss the cut of my recommended books because something is lacking: elegant writing, spirit, a character to love or simply they don’t add up. Or they may be just too weird for your regular group of bookies. If you see a book you love here, please tell me what I missed.


The told me Mantel had sorted out the pronoun problem that killed Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies. She hasn’t. I got to page seven, got lost trying to work out who was speaking seven times and thought: the book is 882 pages long. Not this time, Hilary.

Mars Room

Recommended by a good friend who knows I love a well-written yarn but obviously doesn’t know my absolute belief that every book need to be uplifting in some way. Even Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, which is the most miserable stretch of dismal apocalyptic reading, was more hopeful than this story.

Here we have the surprisingly articulate Romy Hall telling her life story. I say surprisingly because although she apparently did OK at school, in early teens she headed for a life of drugs and prostitution and abuse. If she was as clever and insightful as her character appears, maybe she would have had the smarts to see some of this shit coming. She fights back and ends up in jail with no hope of being reunited with her young son. Still, she tells a good yarn with lots of interesting characters, also tragically fallen and nothing much good happens to any of them. The future is bleak. End of story.


Once again, I fine myself applauding Martha Jane Kelly for her research and her passion and railing against a poorly edited book (can’t believe I just said that. Who am I to criticise Penguin? And yet, here I go.) This could have been a great read. It has all the elements: a fascinating period in history with the Bolsheviks being bolshy and the White Russians fleeing their palaces. A cliffhanger at every chapter end. There are interesting characters with some power to change their lives and a workable plot line. But there are easily fixed flaws that spoilt the read for me. Just me, perhaps, so don’t worry, Penguin. You’ve got a million other readers for this.

The story is of three young women. Two are friends: a New York socialite, her Russian friend who is a cousin of the Tsar, and her child’s nanny. War comes, the Russians are too slow to leave, there are the inevitable heads on spikes and the nanny steals the Russian’s child. The action moves to Paris where all three women regroup with their various crises, and the resolution ends up back in upstate New York.

So what’s wrong with it? The child is stolen. I’m a mother. They may be in the middle of a revolution but if your child is stolen there is nothing else in your life until you get your child back. But the woman’s not frantic. Her first thought is to pray her captor wont find the rucksack. Hang on (an editor should have said), what about the baby?

And there is this seedy relationship with the Russian nanny and her guardian. It’s sexually threatening and she’s kind of complicit in a detached way but ‘knows’ he can’t go too far. Why not, is he her brother or something? Turns out he is. Sorry, that’s a spoiler, but what difference does it make? Just as creepy either way and withholding this information doesn’t work. The girl is telling the story—we are in her head and hear her thoughts, but she teases us with this information. Nope. Editor, where are you?

Three women tell the story in first person, plus a fourth at the close. Often I returned to the chapter heading to remember who “I” was this time. The three very different characters all had very similar voices. It’s a hard trick to pull off and Kelly doesn’t manage it.

Last grumble, and Penguin I’m talking to you, is the line editing. We have ‘outfitted’ twice in one sentence. Cook sent a glance, and a couple of lines on he sends a glance again. Lots of these repetitions. And plenty of contradictions. ‘The crowd stood stunned, holding gentle conversation.’ Surely one or the other? ‘Though I had seen Merrill about town at social events, it had been twelve years since he and I had briefly seen each other socially.’ A countess ‘makes her way’ across a tiny hut and then ‘forges ahead’ —that’s quite a description for a couple of steps. Hello, editor? It’s enough to put you off the book. Sadly it did. I say sadly because I read the author’s note at the end and I think I really like Matha Hall Kelly. I love her obsession for her characters and the way research is at the heart of what she writes.


In the Clearing Pomare

In the Clearing by J P Pomare

J P Pomare is a lovely bloke. Call Me Evie was skillful—it had the look of a clichéd vulnerable woman story so I was reluctant to read it.  But I met JP (hence I know he’s a lovely bloke) and thought he was too smart to write some cookie-cutter story, and I was right. Evie was uncomfortable, but a very clever psychological thriller. I should have stopped there. In the Clearing has lots of adroit twists, but the emotional tension depends entirely on the horror of child abuse. A clever story finds that intensity of emotion without needing to hit those buttons. Maybe it is loosely based on a true story, but such a terrific author can do better than pedal this stuff for entertainment.


Warlight

Warlight by Michael Ondaatje

What right have I ever to criticise Ondaatje? The man who brought us such wonderful and complex stories like The English Patient and (one of my go-to books if ever I am trying to explain atmosphere in writing) The Skin of a Lion, that remarkable telling of immigrants in early Toronto who build the city with their souls.

Warlight is a boy’s coming of age story in post-war Britain except we learn, for some people, the war didn’t end with the armistice and agents mopped up afterwards. They behaved horribly and despicably, though the details are only hinted at with the shadows that come after, the hunting down of the boy and his sister for their mother’s crimes and the generation who followed and claimed revenge. When he starts to realise the patterns on the wallpaper of his childhood the young man goes searching for answers, but in a shadowy way, hoping to fall across some clue, sometimes making huge leaps of assumption.

It’s a really interesting, hidden period of history and a great story, but I wish Ondaatje had written it through a different character, someone with a bit more oomph in the world. It’s a gripping narrative told through the eyes of an uninspiring boy.



A Ladder to the Sky, by John Boyne

This latest John Boyne doesn’t make the cut of wonderful books (though I know many will disagree), because there is no character to like. Not one, in the entire book. It’s kind of clever, the way there are various people telling their stories about the one man to show how his psychopathic behaviour repeats until it forms a improbably nasty pattern. The opening narrator is weak and bleak and takes a whole chapter, with no indication that there is any relief to follow. The twist at the end of this (too long) chapter sets up the book as the opening narrator is cut away and passes on the baton. There follow more characters telling their stories about our man. Some of the other characters are marginally more interesting. Gore Vidal has a role which is plausible. Our man gives his narcissistic point of view.

But the big hiccough with this story is that there is no need for the baddie to be quite so bad. He’s a real cold-hearted monster, one of the worst, but with no real motive. We’re repeatedly reminded of his splendid looks and charm and his undeniable talent. He seems to need a co-worker. Not sure why he doesn’t just ask someone?

Feel a bit bad dissing this book as John Boyne ‘s The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas is a favourite of mine. But not this one. Too clever by half.


Nutshell

Author: cristinasandersblog

Novelist, trail runner, book reviewer and blogger.

2 thoughts on “Books that don’t make the cut”

  1. COMPLETELY agree with you regarding McEwan. I want to love him. I sort of do love him, or bits of him, as you say. Reading Enduring Love’s opening was one of the most amazing reading experiences of my life. I love how he explores depravity and extremes one minutes, then hones in on the private details inside people’s heads the next … But I also struggle, as you do, with how inconsistent his imagined worlds feel. I did like Nutshell but it also bothered me in places. The foetus narrator device felt like McEwan doing a clever writing exercise for his own enjoyment and it got in the way of the book I felt he wanted to write. I will probably always buy his stuff and relish the reading but, a bit like when I listen to experimental music, I have to be ready appreciate his work without it always being a comfortable or pleasing experience…

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