bibliomani

This is a very powerful, thought-provoking book, as has been obvious from the massive media attention it has gotten even here in small Denmark. As a vegetarian, I often discuss food with people who are shocked, repelled or simply curious about my not eating animals. How do I get full? Isn’t it unhealthy? Expensive? Bothersome? Terribly boring? But the focus of Eating Animals is not to ask why some people don’t eat meat, but why so many people do. Being a vegetarian, and a vegan even more so, is healthy, it’s good for the environment and it doesn’t cause any animals to suffer and be killed.

More than an argument for vegetarianism (it is that as well) it is a fact-filled (with 60 pages of notes and references) exploration of our relation with the animals that most of us eat maybe several times a day. Of course, in my case Foer is preaching for the convert, but this book has made me even more interested in people’s reasons for eating meat. As a vegetarian, I’m constantly asked why. I now feel much better equipped to turn that question around and ask: Why do you eat animals?

Elegantly written novel about growing up in a town in the state of New York in the 50′es and 60′es. About expectations towards women, failing parents, race and (re)constructing your own story. It could have been by Margaret Atwood, and towards the end it echoed The Edible Woman in particular. Classical women’s litterature, if not ground breaking.  Tak for lån, Ellen.

Jeg har altid været vild med mad, men jeg er for nylig også blevet ret vild med kogebøger. Jeg har ikke skrevet om dem her før, men min seneste anskaffelse har så meget (og så inspirerende) tekst, at jeg slet ikke kan lade være.

Det kærlige køkken er en vegetarkogebog, som måske især henvender sig til kødspisere, der gerne vil spise mere vegetarisk, men som også fungerer fint for en vegetar-grænsende-til-veganer som mig. Det kærlige køkken er også en klima-kogebog, som undertitlen “grøn mad til en sårbar planet” slår fast. Læs resten af indlægget »

The full title of this book is The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Vegan Living, and what’s up with that?!  Someone’s calling me a complete idiot?! Why would I want to read their book, already?! Well, apparently it’s a part of a whole series of Complete Idiot’s Guides (which makes sense; complete idiots probably need lots of guides), and apart from the idiotic title (ha!) it was quite interesting.

I bought the book in New York because I wanted to learn more about veganism, and it does give a good overview of different aspects of veganism, ranging from nutrition, how to deal with family and friends and quite a few recipies. However, it is decidedly written for Americans, and some of the advice feels quite … unnecessary to a European who’s actually used to cooking my own food. For instance, I know how to buy food in a supermarket. I know that fresh vegetables are healthier than french fries, even though the fries are made out of potatoes. And so on on that level. Furthermore, the book mentions a lot of specific brands that I haven’t got access to over here, but it’s still interesting to know what’s out there.

The sections on animal welfare and “hidden” animal products in foods and other goods was maybe the most interesting part of the book. Did you know that gelatine (boiled pigs, basically) is used in the production of some wines and beers? Urgh.

This is exactly what it says on the title page: Little-known facts about various marine-dwelling animals such as the skate, the flounder, the herring and krill. Some of the facts are more little-known than others. For instance:

Seahorses mate for life, under a full moon, and sing while they’re doing it. Seahorses have the superpower of invisibility, in the sense of changing colour to blend in with the surroundings. Especially where waiters and bartenders are concerned.

We also learn about the krill, who tends to buy the wrong cable for its iPod, the grunion who came home one weekend to a burst pipe in the cellar and several other interesting facts. The book is beautifully bound by hand and my copy is number 6 out of 50.

This was by far the worst of the Hamilton-novels. I’m actually not sure that I’ll bother to read the rest of them. Several things were wrong with it:

1) It was far, far too long. I’m sure there’s a reason why crime novels aren’t usually 640 pages long. It was too long because:

1a) The language was positively rambling. Had Guillou become too successful at this point to edit at all?

1b) There were far, far too many plots, side plots, scene changes and loose ends. Plenty for two, maybe three books. Any author (or at least editor) knows that a side plot has to have some kind of relevance to the main plot. Just any relevance. And is there a rule about how many continents a crime novel can take place in?

2) The blurp was one of the worst I have ever read. It mentions things that happen within the last 50 of the 640 pages. That’s just not ok.

3) The characters were even more flat and nondescript than usual. The character of Göran Karlsson plays a significant role in this novel, and I have absolutely no idea what kind of person he is. None. Zip.

4) In the previous novels some Swedish politicians have played a role, but here it is not only “the prime minister”, but Carl Bildt, who was Sweden’s actual prime minister at the time. And Carl Bildt, in his multiple conversations with Hamilton, is a complete and utter ass. I think Guillou crosses a line there. Carl Bildt may have been a jerk, I have no idea, but to ridicule him over conversations that you make up yourself (because Hamilton is actually a ficticious person, remember?) isn’t at all fair play. Guillou abuses the novel as a medium to critisize a named politician, and he does it to the point of bashing. It has no relevance to the novel, and it belongs in a newspaper. Most unsympathetic.

It took me a long time, maybe six months, to read this, and that might have influenced my opinion. On the other hand, maybe it took me so long to read because it was bloomin’ boring.

Happy new year! Once again, slightly belated, it’s time to look back at my own personal year of reading. I’m not in the habit of counting how many books I read (and that’s really not the point of reading, is it?), but I know that I read significantly less boks in 2009 than I usually do. In 2009 I got myself a new hobby and I still haven’t managed to expand the day beyond 24 hours. So, less books read, but quite a few nice pieces of knitting under the belt.

Anyway. Best reads. Hm …

One that springs to mind was, oddly, not a novel, but a historical, political book about the “Blekingegadebanden”, a group of Danish left-wing activists that committed a string of complicated robberies during the 70′es to support PFLP, among others. Very untypically Danish, and the books were very well written - almost like a crime novel in two parts. Another great read that wasn’t exactly a novel was the Swedish graphic novel about Frk. Mærkværdig og karrieren (Miss Strange and the Career). Masterfully drawn, wise and funny. And, of course, Dawkins’ The God Delusion deserves to be mentioned.

The fantastic film Let the Right One In is based on a novel, and after seeing the film I read another novel by the same author; Hanteringen av odöda (translated into English as Handling the Undead). The only other novel read in 2009 that I remember as vividly is the one I found browsing the huge Borders on Columbus Circle in New York City. I spent a fantastic month there and, having had Joyce Carol Oates recommended to me a number of times, I bought My Sister, My Love on a whim and became an instant fan. I hope to read a few Oates’ in 2010. Other good novels read in 2009 includes Den som blinker er bange for døden, Alfred & Emily and Volvo Lastvagnar.

Bad reads of 2010? No, not really. The worst must be The Geographer’s Library, but it wasn’t really awful. So all in all a good year in reading, and the shelves are packed with promising novels for 2010.

I finally remembered to buy the rest of Dranger’s fabulous graphic novels about women. They would work well as an introduction to feminism. For instance, did you know why Cinderella’s stepsisters were so mean? Because she was so freakin’ beautiful and always rubbed it in her ugly stepsisters’ noses.

Dinosaurens Fjer blev mig anbefalet fra flere pålidelige sider, bl.a. af MarenParen i en kommentar her på bloggen, så til trods for mine seneste dårlige erfaringer med krimier skrevet af danske kvinder, min snobbede skepsis over for dansk litteratur og de latterligt høje danske bogpriser, investerede jeg i romanen.

Og selvom jeg måske ikke ville kalde den en krimi, var den en fornøjelse at læse, især fordi den er så velskrevet, i modsætning til så meget andet på det danske bogmarked, der kalder sig krimi. Gazan kan faktisk skrive. Hun kan bruge sproget godt og korrekt, og hun kan beskrive steder og stemninger. Det alene gør bogen værd at læse. Jeg kunne nok godt have ønsket mig enten et strammere krimiplot eller bare en roman om forholdet mellem forældre og børn uden en død forsker i kulissen. Men det er nok mere en genrekvababbelse og en smagssag end noget andet.

I may be a little bit in love with Erlend Loe. Definitely with his writing. Volvo Lastvagnar (meaning Volvo trucks - in Swedish, not Norwegian) is the sequel to Doppler, which I very much enjoyed reading.

But while Volvo Lastvagnar may be a bit less touching than Doppler was, it is even more wacky and over-the-top-meta. I’m actually not sure whether to call this a novel or notes on writing a novel - plus a few pages of film scrips and reminiscing about a sprained ankle. And stuff. And an old, dancing woman, high on pot. And a bird-watching scout with strange eating habits. And of course, Bongo the moose.

This book is a croos between an art book and a diy-crafts-book. I’ll let the pictures say the rest.

The first picture are in the book, the second is from the British yarnstormer-crew Knit the City, and the last one I took myself in Gothenburg last weekend. The text means “Catch the freedom”.

This is the second novel I’ve read by Stephen Fry, the first being The Hippopotamus, and The Liar very much comes across as the debut novel it is. The story is weak and the ending feels improvised, although it’s somewhat ingenious. But The Liar was a joy to read because of the sparkling, crazy, humouristic language and endless puns. Like this passage. Donald Trefusis mentions a chess-player.

‘No doubt you followed his excellent match against Bent Larsen?’ ‘No,’ said Adrian. ‘I missed his match against Bent Larsen and somehow his matches against Queer Kasparov and Faggotty Syslov and Poofy Petrisian also managed to pass me by.’ ‘Tish and hiccups. Bent is a perfectly common Danish Christian name … (p 326)

(And another layer is added as I, being a Dane, didn’t realise the pun until the mention of Queer Kasparov and his collegues.)

Jeg læste bibliotekets udgave af den her bog i laser som barn - den må have været helt nyudkommet - så da jeg fandt den på et loppemarked for nylig, slog jeg til. Og jeg kan godt forstå, at jeg var grebet af den dengang, og at den blev tildelt både den danske og den nordiske skolebibliotekarforenings børnebogpris.

Romanen er en mikro-makrohistorisk gennemgang af normannernes erobring af England i 1066, som afbilledet på Bayeux-tapetet. Mikro, fordi en stor del af historien handler om de fire kvinder, der sidder i et kloster i to år og broderer det 70 meter lange billedtæppe. Makro, fordi de har selskab af en viking, der var til stede ved flere af slagene, og meget levende fortæller både om krigens gru og taktiske overvejelser.

Da jeg læste bogen i 80′erne og igen nu måtte jeg tage mig i at blive overrasket over, hvor avancerede folk var for 1000 år siden. De var ikke bare nogle umælende barbarer, der plyndrede og voldtog for morskabs skyld. I hvert fald ikke mere, end vi er i dag, og den pointe står stærkt i romanen. Det her er virkelig god historieformidling.

Der er også mange tekniske detaljer om billedtæppet, fx. de tricks der er brugt med at fortælle nogle sekvenser bagfra, undlade at brodere alle hestenes og rytternes ben osv. Det er enormt interessant og vidner om en grundig research, ikke kun på det krigshistoriske plan.

Det er først lige nu gået op for mig, at Olsen faktisk skrev en fortsættelse af bogen, “En lang rejse”. Jeg har ellers altid godt kunnet lide den temmelig åbne slutning, men jeg er jo nok nødt til at støve den op også.

Yet another novel about dysfunctional families and parent-child-relationships gone terribly wrong. The Wasp Factory is another recent example, but the novel My Sister, my Love reminded me the most of was the grim and haunting We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver.

This is the first novel by Oates I’ve read, allthough she’s been recommended to me several times (thanks, Ellen). And my only regret now is that I didn’t read her long ago.

My Sister, my Love is postmodernist in a modernist way. Is that possible? Post-postmodernism? Anyway, very ironic and meta, but within the frame of the narrative, and aptly written. And the story itself is gripping. It mimics the murder of Jon Benét-Ramsey, the American six year old beauty queen whose murder has never been solved, and tells a sad tale of suburbian bliss,  where the children swap “meds” and beauty spells happiness. Highly recommendable.

An interesting novel about … love and translation, I guess. So that’s right up my alley.

This is a debut novel, but clearly written by a writer who knows his po-mo literature. The main story reminded me - probably intentionally - of Amos Oz’ A Tale of Love and Darkness in being an old jewish writer telling the story of his life. That is punctured by some very elaborate translator’s notes. And the scoop is of course that the novel isn’t a translation.

So an unreliable narrator telling the story about his progrom-ridden childhood and adulthood in New York, which turned out not to have streets paved with gold. And a translator trying to make sense of that story along with his own love life and the whole concept of translating. And it works really well, maybe even for non-translators.

This is the second novel I’ve read by Neil Gaiman, and I liked this immensely, too, although it was quite similar to the other, Americans Gods. And at times a bit rushed (how exactly did the Beast of London enter into the equation?). Only when I sat down to write this post I realised that it’s more than 10 years old, and five years previous to American Gods. I’ve got to read some of his newest. All in all a good read, but not exactly epic.

For some reason this blog is now in Danish only. Well, no more of that. Forthwith (!) I will review/muse upon/throw words at the novels that I read in English - in English. Those I read in Danish, Swedish and Norwegian I will still write about in Danish. Enjoy.

Jeg læste den første del af bogen ét rap og med en klump i halsen, og den var en ren genistreg. I novellen, som Lessing kalder den, beskriver hun sine forældres liv, som hun forestiller sig, det ville have formet sig, hvis første verdenskrig aldrig var sket. Det er en gribende historie, både fordi Lessing skriver så godt, som hun gør, men også fordi man læser den med bevidstheden om, at krigen jo faktisk fandt sted, og at den invaliderede begge hendes forældre, fysisk såvel som psykisk. Og det har selvfølgelig også påvirket Lessing selv i hendes barndom og opvækst.

Efter novellen følger en række … erindringsglimt? Og her stod jeg af. Jeg ved simpelthen ikke, hvad formålet var med de små beskrivelser af ting, steder og forhold i hendes barndom. Måske er det, fordi jeg har læst Lessings glimrende selvbiografi, og det her i en vis grad var en gentagelse. Men det virkede mest som løsrevet fyld på mig.

Jeg var temmelig begejstret for Iain Banks’ The Steep Approach to Garbadale, men var egentlig blevet advaret om, at denne, hans debutroman, måske ikke ville leve helt op til mine forventninger. Men en debatskabende, anmelderrost debutroman, som jeg endda fandt for en slik i en funky pladebutik i Glasgow? Nej, det kunne jeg selvfølgelig ikke stå for. Men, men, men.

Det er sådan en roman, der hele tiden peger et par skridt fremad. Så den nævner noget i forbifarten, fx. “the wasp factory”, og så bliver det forklaret 20-40 sider senere, hvad det er. Og det er sådan set en meget effektiv motor, men det kan også meget nemt resultere i en masse små antiklimakser. For nogle af de ting, der bliver hintet, er så bizarre, at man kan få den tanke, at Banks først senere har fundet på, hvordan i alverden han skal forklare dem, og det kan også nemt komme til at føles lidt mekanisk. Det gjorde det i hvert fald på mig. Og han var så opsat på at slutte med et brag (bogstavelig talt, faktisk), at det blev lidt for meget … fægten med armene og fandango i forsøget på at overgå resten af bogen.

Forstå mig ret, det var en velskrevet roman, men den lugtede af debutroman. Den var lidt for firkantet, lidt for eksplicit, lidt for ivrig efter at forklare alle symbolerne og hver og en af alle særhederne. Måske har der været en emsig redaktør indover, men jeg syntes, det blev for meget, allerallerværst her: “The Factory was my attempt to construct life, to replace the involvement which otherwise I did not want.” (s. 243) Godt, så. Hvis vi ikke har fattet dette helt grundliggende element på romanens næstsidste side, så er der noget galt med hele romanen. Og det er der faktisk ikke, så vi har fattet det. Så lad nu bare de syvtommersøm ligge. Da Banks skrev The Steep Approach to Garbadale 23 år senere, havde han heldigvis lært antydningens kunst. Jeg ser frem til at læse mere af ham. Men nok ikke hans tidligste.

Jeg ved ikke, om “krimi” er det bedste tag her. Et “humor”-tag ville i hvert fald også være på sin plads. Brookmyre står nok ikke forrest i Nobelpris-køen, men han er beslægtet med Jasper Fforde og Douglas Adams, og så kan man jo ikke andet end at være glad. Han er skarp, historien hænger sammen, og sproget spræller og sprudler, og det er i høj grad sådan noget som det her, der gjorde Quite Ugly One Morning værd at læse:

As oily creeps go, Clive Medway was deluxe multigrade. If he had been American, Parlabane [vores hovedperson] decided, he would have had a ponytail, even though he was losing it both at the front and on top.  He had the roundest head Parlabane had seen outside of Peanuts, above a shiny blue tie and a designer suit which conclusively proved that shelling out a fortune for your clothes doesn’t stop you looking like a complete tit. (s. 156)