Cashing in on the free-publicity generated by the unpleasantness at UC Davis, Defense Technology Pepper Spray is getting great reviews at amazon.com.
Minae Mizumura: The Fall of Language in the Age of English
Minae Mizumura's The Fall of Language in the Age of English is a long and winding lament for the national languages—Japanese being one of them—that have been, or almost inevitably will be, displaced by the English juggernaut. To make her case that this is happening, and that it is a bad thing, she leads us through some linguistic history, and her take is interesting because she comes to her topic as a novelist and a lover of literature rather than as a linguist or a nationalist (though one begins to suspect that she is a bit of the latter). "What was once a national language may be reduced to nothing more than a local language that no discriminating person takes seriously."
Christopher Smart: My Cat Jeoffry: A Poem by Christopher Smart
Christopher Smart, it can be assumed, did not have many visitors or much to do while a resident of Bedlam between 1758 and 1763. He was, however, or so it appears, visited by a cat called Jeoffry, and he made it his business to observe Jeoffry as he went about his daily business, and this daily business entered into the long religious poem Smart was writing, "Jubilate Agno," unknown to the public until 1939. Smart sees that Jeoffry is blessed and beloved of God in each of his small actions, from the the cat's first act of worship in the morning (and if you've observed cats you'll know what Smart is writing about here) to the cat's nocturnal duties: "For when his day's work is done his business more properly begins For he keeps the Lord's watch in the night against the adversary. For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes. For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life." It seems entirely apt that a Polish literary theorist met in Delhi introduced me to this odd poem by a mad English poet.
Robert Galbraith: The Cuckoo's Calling (Cormoran Strike)
I've gone and done it. I've finally read a book by J.K. Rowling. Not, I hasten to add, a Harry Potter novel, but rather one that she wrote under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith, a more or less contemporary crime novel set in London and featuring a very large one-legged private eye with the unlikely name Cormoran Strike, and readers, it was good. The characters Strike encounters in the course of his investigation veer close to caricature at times--gay fashion designer, druggie pop star--but Rowling reliably veers off the well-trodden path and makes them more complex than we expect them to be. Strike himself is well done, too, with a back-story--father a rock star, mother a "super groupie," Oxford drop-out, Afghanistan war vet--rich in possibilities for future books in what will be, in fact already is, a series. (But somehow I still can't get interested in her childre . . . I mean "young adult" novels.)
Chris Kraus: I Love Dick (Semiotext(e) / Native Agents)
Dick, I should probably begin by saying, is cultural theorist Dick Hebdige, a real person. He's slightly fictionalized in Chris Kraus's book, but still, like the other characters: Kraus's real-life husband, the critic and theorist, Sylvère Lotringer, and Chris Kraus herself, he is, in the pages of I Love Dick, close enough to his flesh-and-bone analog. That the book includes real people, and that it includes essays on artists like R.B. Kitaj and conditions like schizophrenia, along with fiction that seems much more fictionalized than the book as a whole, makes it difficult to slot into a generic category--and that is exactly what makes it so interesting. It is made up of letters, phone messages, conversations, stories, essays, memoir, and fiction, and each of those components is well done, and each form illuminates the other forms that surround it. The always adventurous publisher Semiotext(e) seems to have made a specialty of publishing this sort of generically promiscuous work, and women seem to have made a specialty of writing it. It's exciting stuff, and has made Semiotext(e) a publisher whose offerings always get my attention.
Pankaj Mishra: An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World
I'm a Pankaj Mishra fan, and there is much for a Pankaj Mishra fan to enjoy in this book. It is a mix of memoir, philosophy, and history and each of those components is well done. It probably says a lot about me that I enjoyed most the bits about Mishra himself, a young writer from a village on the Indian plain holing up in a cabin in the Himalaya to turn himself into a writer, an endeavor that includes making the first tentative stabs at this book, and that I enjoyed least the (well-thought-out, highly informed) forays into Buddhist philosophy. Reading those sections I invariably found myself hoping for the return of the first-person. I believe, though, that those more sympathetic to metaphysical / ethical philosophy will enjoy these sections as much as I did the bits of autobiography.
Jeet Thayil: Narcopolis: A Novel
Jeet Thayil's Narcopolis is Mumbai through the seductive smoke of an opium pipe. He gives us the city, mostly in the seventies, when there were, apparently, still dens where addicts (along with slumming hippies) could retreat to chase the dragon. In these smoky dens stories were lived, told, and dreamed, stories that feature Muslims and Hindus, transsexuals and thugs, along with well-brought up young Indian men. It is far from being a paradise, but it is a zone where a kind of freedom is available, freedom we see slip away as opium is displaced by heroin, and usually heroin badly adulterated with poisons. Thayil tells the stories of the individuals who pass through the smoke and on to the powder, and also of the city in which they live with poetic aplomb. His prose traps one in the dream he writes.
Rani Sircar: Dancing Round the Maypole: Growing Out of British India
This is a memoir, published in 2003, by Rani Sircar, an Indian woman who was born during the Raj (a term, I learned from this book, that Indians don't use), and came into adulthood at about the time India gained its independence. She is mostly concerned to let us know how life was in the old days, to share with us what she calls her "sepia photographs" from her life mostly up until about the 1970s. If one started reading from the book's last chapter, where the author mostly complains about modern India, one might suspect that this is an exercise in rose-tinted everything-was-better-when-I-was-young nostalgia. Sircar is, as the earlier chapters reveal, nostalgic for some aspects of her youth, and some aspects of India in her youth, but her nostalgia is not simple, and she is under no illusions about Indian life under the (sometimes artfully camouflaged, sometimes not) colonial boot. Her experience of India, like any Indian's, is unique to her, and certainly colored by an Anglo-Indian education--she was taught Anglo-pagan rituals such as dancing around maypoles--and that she grew up in a comfortably middle-class Christian family. One might, for example, get the impression from her book that hunger and illiteracy were not problems in the India she has grown old in--they certainly weren't much in evidence in her set--but Sircar is a sharp and self-aware author: she calls herself on this in the book's final pages. All in all this is a fascinating and sophisticated look at a lost world.
William Gibson: The Peripheral
I loved William Gibson's Bigend trilogy, though it sagged a bit in the third volume. I'm happy to see that, with The Peripheral, the first novel to appear since the Bigend trilogy, he's back on his game. It's science fiction, but as is the case with most of Gibson's work, it's grounded in a noir sensibility and a feel for the grittiness of how people--in this case poor American Southerners--live, and especially how they talk. Time travel is one of the components of the novel, and it, and the paradoxes time travel brings with it, are artfully handled. The book is rich with the intriguing characters, good talk, and clever speculation we have come to expect from Gibson, who really is one of the more interesting American (though long based in Canada) novelists now working.
Paul Wilkinson: International Relations: A Very Short Introduction
As the title says. I read it with a student who needed, well, a very short introduction. Not bad for what it is, but the book could do with an update.
Walter Scott: The Antiquary (Oxford World's Classics)
In her introduction to Walter Scott's The Antiquary, Nicola J. Watson notes that this novel has "perhaps been the most underestimated work of (since the end of the nineteenth century) our most persistently underestimated major writer." Since I had bought into the underestimation, I had never read Scott until picking up The Antiquary, and though I enjoyed this novel a great deal, because it is apparently atypical, I can't say for sure that Scott's underestimation is undeserved. What is, according to Watson, atypical about The Antiquary, is the lack of action, the absence for most of the novel of its hero, and the mishmash of genre, which she's right to say are just the sort of thing that certain modern readers (me included) find attractive. That one can, all within the space of a few hundred pages, get a bit of not terribly fustian history, a bit of gothic, a bit of social comedy, and some lovely landscapes seems recommendation enough for readers in our time. Now, to decide whether I want to read any or the other, perhaps more typical novels, in Scott's Waverly series.
Helen Macdonald: H is for Hawk
From the rawest of material—grief, depression, blood sport--Macdonald fashions an intelligent, vivid, vital portrait of countryside and wildlife in southern England that transcends its nature book genre. To add to the fascination, she mirrors her story in the tale of related experiences that author T.H. White, wounded in his own way, had had 80 years earlier. It is a thrilling, extraordinary book. (****)
David Mitchell: The Bone Clocks
I haven’t enjoyed a book so much in I don’t know how long. David Mitchell is still getting better. His forte is multiple stories that weave into each other. This is a massive, magnificent entertainment with a barbed sting in the tail. OK, yes, it includes a genre that I’m not ordinarily interested in, but I went along with it and it worked. It was Booker longlisted. Did the judges not shortlist it because of genre prejudice? (*****)
Richard Flanagan: The Narrow Road to the Deep North
It’s a tribute to our growing emotional maturity as a species that a novel like this 2014 Booker Prize winner could be written: an even-handed account of Australian and Japanese soldiers in World War II, focusing on the horrific POW camps in Burma. It opened the door to my perhaps one day comprehending the minds of those who venerate the spirits of the war dead at Yasukuni Shrine, even when they know it upsets their former adversaries. The harrowing descriptions of the camps were very powerful, but overall I found the book padded, repetitive, emotionally overwrought, and artlessly constructed. (**)
The Lyttelton-Hart-Davis Letters 1955-1962: A Selection
It was Blockhead’s David who suggested letter and diaries as excellent reading in bed before sleep, so it’s to him I owe the pleasure I’ve had doing that ever since. He’d previously lent me the six volumes of this correspondence which I enjoyed immensely. This is a one-volume digest. At first I missed the leisurely give-and-take, with each letter answering the previous one, but I soon settled into the treat of these exceptional passages that carry the story of their lives forward apace. Many thanks to George Lyttelton, Rupert Hart-Davis and editor Roger Hudson. (****)
Ian McEwan: The Children Act
A hugely enjoyable read, the more so for its brevity. This is a classic McEwan: clear, meticulous, a deep stab at an authentic view of a profession we depend on but do not know, compassionate drawing of flawed characters, preternaturally intelligent conversations; queasy suspense and fear of, or actual, violence, “we do not know what is going to happen” plotting. Magnificent, educational, satisfying. (*****)