Scribble, Scribble, Scribble

Last week, in honour of a new work by Alan Ayckbourn and an old (republished) novel by Barbara Cartland, I was asked to write a piece about prolific authors for the Telegraph. I worked out that Cartland must have written a novel every forty days: which is the same time Jesus was in the wilderness. I wonder if the two are connected? Anyway, here is a link to the article: click HERE.

The picture, by the way, is of Edward Gibbon. The Duke of Gloucester, on being presented with a pristine volume of Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, is said to have uttered the immortal words: 'Scribble, scribble, scribble, eh Mr Gibbon?' Which, as a reviewer, I slightly feel quite a lot of the time; though, of course, this is an entirely contrary sentiment to my feelings as a writer.

Mysteries of Auster

Auster means the south wind in Latin; it's also the surname of a very popular author. I was asked to review his new novel, Sunset Park, for The Daily Telegraph: click HERE to read it to find out which way the wind is blowing.

The Liberators Makes it to Vienna

A friend of mine has sent me this photograph, taken in a bookshop in Vienna. The other authors you probably won't have heard of: some chap called Dan Brown, and another called Terry Pratchett, and a book about a woman who goes on some sort of mystical life-trip called Eat, Pray Love.

The Booker Prize: An Omission

I'd been meaning to write about the Booker (or the Man Booker as one is meant to call it), but other things have slipped in the way: miners, the onset of winter, bills, and a children's round-up that I am in the thick of, (and Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came, which I am currently obsessing about.) This year's Booker choice, Howard Jacobson, was a solid decision from an otherwise slightly odd shortlist: Galgut's In A Strange Room, a marvellous piece of work, being rather too slight; I don't think, however, that Jacobson's book has the broader appeal or heft of something like Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall. It seems that this year the judges have based their opinions entirely on enjoyment of a novel: which all seems a bit book club to me. And the one book which should have been on the short list, and a strong contender for the title, was Paul Murray's enchanting, weird, brilliant Skippy Dies. Its omission was a huge mistake.

I went to the Booker party for Andrea Levy for about five minutes: it was in the Century club, and there were mounds and mounds of toothsome canapes; after a long chat with an editor about a misery memoir I ought to write about psychic pandas who can see angels, we slipped off quite soon to the Cape party. There I spent many an hour deep in conversation with an up and coming novelist, Leo Benedictus, about the pros and cons of electronic books; Tom McCarthy made an appearance, as did the elegant Chloe Aridjis, and Adam Foulds, whose beautiful book The Quickening Maze was shortlisted last year. The canape quality was excellent, I might add.

The Stray Sod Country by Patrick McCabe: review

Here too is a link to my review in The Daily Telegraph, of Patrick McCabe's new novel, The Stray Sod Country
. It reminded me, in a weird, intertextual way, of Browning's 'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came': that sense of being in a place unknown, heading to a destination equally mysterious. In a way, I suppose, James A Reilly, a maddened teacher in the novel, could be a type of Poor Tom in King Lear, or even of Lear himself: raving and alone on the blasted heath. Click HERE

Gaudeamus Igitur: Oriel Gaudy

Having attended Oriel College, Oxford, between the years of 2000 and 2003, I was asked back to a Gaudy dinner a couple of weekends ago. The College asked me to write a short piece about it: click HERE to read it.

Luka and the Fire of Life by Salman Rushdie: review

Here is a link to my review in the Financial Times of Salman Rushdie's new children's book, Luka and the Fire of Life. I think it fails on almost every level as a children's book. Click HERE