A Game of Thrones is the first of a series of a seven volume series called “A Song of Ice and Fire” (which you might or might not know has been adapted into an HBO series called Game of Thrones, the second season of which has just ended), and it’s about as far from “Tolkein-derivative drivel” as you can get. Loosely based on the real-life events of the War of the Roses, where 15th century England was divided by civil war), A Game of Thrones tells the story of the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms, a fictional land where winter can last for years at a time and where power and politics go hand-in-hand with adultery, incest, assassination, and infanticide. This isn’t your parents’ Middle Earth: there are no elves, and while there is a dwarf, he’s a wisecracking nobleman with a taste for wine and whores. A Game of Thrones follows the struggles for power of a wonderful and diverse cast of men and women, including the noble Starks, who travel from their northern holdings to the decadent south to uncover a plot to corrupt and usurp the throne; the rich and manipulative Lannisters, whose beautiful faces hide terrible secrets, and whose lust for power knows no bounds; and the exiled Targaryens, the last survivors of the old dynasty wiped out by a civil war, striving to reclaim the stolen crown.

Magic and otherworldliness is significantly downplayed in Martin’s world, giving the novel a refreshingly human quality; characters who at first seem like nothing more than one-dimensional villains take up the story, and getting the chance to read from their perspectives shows that Martin has developed them as fully (and can make us identify with them) as much as the story’s “heroes.” Nothing is black and white in A Game of Thrones, and that lends it a depth and complexity (and realism) that is often sorely lacking in fantasy novels.

I don’t want to spoil anything, but don’t get too attached to any of Martin’s characters; if there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading the five published volumes of this series, it’s that they’re all fair game, and any could die when you least expect it!

Antigonick, a translation of Sophokles’ Antigone, is worth a trek to your local bookstore just to see in person. Bianca Stone’s illustrations are set on translucent vellum stock, creating intruiging effects when overlapped with the hand-lettered text below.

Carson’s work is entrenched with a sense of play and wonder that seems almost childlike at times, and the sarcastic tone of the chorus feels wonderfully adolescent and indulgent. “You’re late to learn what’s what aren’t you” they tell Theban king Kreon, in a moment of “I told you so” that had me laughing out loud. The playfulness of Carson’s work almost tricks you into having fun with Antigone the way she does, and in Antigonick Carson brings you into a world that feels current, even though the story dates back nearly three thousand years. Her playful energy is not limited to the comic, as she easily captures moments that seem to luxuriate in cynicism — “Look here comes hope/wandering in/to tickle your feet/then you notice the soles are on fire”. These tonal peaks and valleys are what gives Antigonick its unsettling resonance.

As Carson writes of Aphrodite “you play with us, you play deeply”, I’d suggest that, Anne Carson, so do you — you play deeply. And your readers thank you!

As a reader who’s been in this relationship with thrillers for a while, I want what the wife wants: I want a book to take me somewhere I’ve never been before; I want to have no clue where I’m going; and I want to be surprised by what I find when I get there.

That’s why I loved William Landay’s Defending Jacob. It succeeds on all fronts. Andy Barber is a respected district attorney in suburban Massachusetts, but his world is shattered when his own teenage son becomes the main suspect in the murder of a local kid. From that starting point, nothing goes where you think it will. What results is a sophisticated, deeply disturbing and morally challenging novel that pits a father’s loyalty to his son against his core beliefs in justice and the rule of law.

Not every writer prompts the literary community to offer up praise on a platter, but Landay’s novel has, eliciting advance quotes from Lee Child, Nicholas Sparks, Chevy Stevens and Linwood Barclay (from whom I first heard a rave about this book).

That’s all I’m going to say about it. Pick it up. I can promise that you’ll be led somewhere different, that you’ll never know where you’re heading, and that in the end, you’ll be surprised. What could be more thrilling than that?

Charles Maddox was an up-and-coming officer for the Metropolitan police until a charge of insubordination abruptly ended his career. Now he works alone, struggling to eke out a living by tracking down criminals. Whenever he needs it, he has the help of his great-uncle Maddox, a legendary “thief taker,” a detective as brilliant and intuitive as they come.

He’s approached by Edward Tulkinghorn, the shadowy and feared attorney, who offers him a handsome price to do some sleuthing for a client. Powerful financier Sir Julius Cremorne has been receiving threatening letters, and Tulkinghorn wants Charles to—discreetly—find and stop whoever is responsible. What starts as a relatively straight forward case soon spirals out of control, and is further complicated when uncle Maddox shows signs of forgetfulness and anger, symptoms of an age-related ailment that has yet to be named. (To further confuse matters, this book is published in UK under another title – Tom-All-Alone’s.)

Musical composition. Comet-shaped birthmarks. Rebellion. Nuclear power. Vanity publishing.

David Mitchell masterfully weaves together a novel that defies the very bounds of itself. To say much more would be against the spirit of the book. So, just this: I loved it.

Cloud Atlas will soon be released as a film starring Tom Hanks, Hugh Grant, Susan Sarandon, Hugo Weaving, Halle Berry, Ben Whishaw, Jim Sturgess and Jim Broadbent.

Imagine: You have wronged someone (it does not matter who or why) and have neither the time, words, nor inclination to apologize for yourself.

Enter, four bright but drifting friends, plagued by boredom and haunted both by past demons and ghosts. The quartet turn what started as a lark into a very profitable business, apologizing – on a contract basis – to injured parties on behalf of people and businesses. Business is soon booming and life is good.

However, upon reaching their latest assignment, they discover a corpse nailed to a wall. They are to apologize to the victim on behalf of the murderer and dispose of the body, or suffer the consequences. Unfortunately for the young entrepreneurs, this is just the beginning of a deadly game of cat and mouse with the killer.

The story alternates between voices, past and present and totally unreliable narrators, making Sorry by Zoran Drvenkar, a deliciously complex read. But be warned: this clever novel is not for the squeamish, nor easily offended – but, if you like Mo Hayder, Stieg Larsson, flawed characters, and novels with plenty of twists and turns, then this book is for you.

]]> http://www.booklounge.ca/blogs/2012/04/staff-faves-sorry-by-zoran-drvenkar/feed/ 1 http://www.booklounge.ca/blogs/2012/04/staff-faves-in-one-person/ http://www.booklounge.ca/blogs/2012/04/staff-faves-in-one-person/#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 14:33:25 +0000 booklounge2 http://www.booklounge.ca/blogs/?p=12345
I’ll admit it: I’m a huge John Irving fan (you might have previously read my “Staff Fave” for A Son of the Circus). And I was thrilled to be one of the first internal readers of his newest novel, In One Person, when it was first submitted to Knopf Canada. And let me tell you, as an Irving fan, it does not disappoint. Everything you want is there: the expertly crafted yet easy-to-read language, the beautifully-wrought cast of unique characters (you’ll fall in love with Ms. Frost), and the beautiful blend of the immersive feel of a specific time and place with a kind of timeless relevance that I know will keep readers coming back to this novel for decades to come.

In One Person is also simultaneously a departure from Irving’s most recent novels and a return to some of his older material. The novel’s narrator and protagonist, Billy Abbott, grows up in a small Vermont town that so wonderfully mirrors the setting of A Prayer for Owen Meany that Irving fans will feel right at home, and new readers will get a brand-new taste of Irving at his finest. But In One Person is also Irving’s most politically charged book since The Cider House Rules: whereas the latter took on the abortion debate, Irving’s new novel tackles the issue of sexual diversity by telling the story of a bisexual man’s coming-of-age in the second half of the twentieth century, culminating in the 1980s and the AIDs epidemic.

This novel is personal and panoramic; it’s quirky and witty and funny and deadly serious; it will make you laugh and it will make you cry; and you won’t be able to put it down. (I sure didn’t: I read it non-stop over two evenings!)

Calico Joe is actually two stories. One is the story of the narrator Paul Tracey and his father Warren, who was a so-so major league pitcher in the 1970s and an absolutely terrible father. They’ve grown so far apart over the years that they only finally speak decades later when the father calls with terrible news. The novel also tells the legend of a baseball phenom from the 1970s named Joe Castle or “Calico Joe” who in one summer back in 1973 set records that have still not been matched to this day. As a young boy, the narrator Paul was the biggest fan of Calico Joe and so these two stories play out over the decades leading to a final and powerful ending.

Grisham’s prose is always a pleasure as his easy style of story-telling (a craft not recognized enough) always keeps the story moving in terms of both plot and emotion. As a baseball fan, the most enjoyable part was the interaction of the fictional Calico Joe with the real players of the day. I highly recommend this read for fans of not only John Grisham but anyone looking for a moving tale of redemption or just to relive the joy felt on a sunny day at a baseball park.

I know little more about rugby now than I did before I read The Book of Fame. But I do know more about human nature, camaraderie, and humility in the glare of the spotlight, than I ever thought possible. The novel, like Ondaatje’s Coming Through Slaughter or Baricco’s Silk, is art of the highest, most literary kind: ambitious, unique, utterly engaging, eloquent.

And, if such a thing were possible, better than Mister Pip.