Stephenie Meyer, Breaking Dawn (2008)

Twilight. Ten years ago, the word mostly alluded to the time of day when we begin to start craving dinner. Now, with over five hundred million google results, the phenomenon of Stephenie Meyer’s series is almost impossible to escape.

Part of my aim in reading and reviewing the book was to ascertain whether my bitter, cynical sixteen-year-old self had missed something. Maybe, I thought, there was a deeper beauty in the book, and the series as a whole that I, in my contempt, had failed to comprehend. After all, I was young, and no sparkly vampires had ever swept me off my feet (a fact that, I should point out, has not changed since.) Though tempted to review The Twilight Saga as whole, I realised this would mean subjecting myself to the entire series again, and I was not sure my brittle student mind could handle that much pressure. So, like many a modern reader, I opted to skip to the end and jump right in at Breaking Dawn. Thankfully, I do recall the details of the earlier books from a brighter age, when, in a frantic effort not to be the only one of my friends who wasn’t madly in love with either a vampire or a werewolf, I was forced to read this series. Never mind smoking or drinking, this was the kind of peer pressure my parents should have warned me about.

To sum up the plot of Breaking Dawn as swiftly as possible, the novel is about a teenage girl finding her one true love, marrying him and having a baby. There are complications, however: the man of her dreams is a vampire; she is still being perused by a lupine shape-shifter and her baby is slowly devouring her from the inside. And this is only the first part.

The second part of the novel is arguably the least deplorable. Meyer decides to be bold and approaches the middle section from the perspective of Jacob, the shape-shifter who, though fairly nauseating, is almost likeable. Moreover, this section contains rather less cliché and admittedly amusing chapter titles, such as Waiting For The Damn Fight To Start Already, a sentiment I shared throughout the novel. Though I have yet to see it, I believe the conclusion of this part is where the first Breaking Dawn film ends, as the baby Renesmee (an absurd portmanteau of the two mothers’ names, ‘Renee’ and ‘Esme’, proving once and for all that teenage parents should not be allowed to name their own children,) is born, and our favourite wolf “imprints” on her. This process means eventually Jacob and Renesmee are going to get married and have their own little puppies. Meyer decides it is a good idea to give the child accelerated aging so that Jacob does not have to wait as long, allowing him instead to be able to pursue her romantically when she is fully aged at six years old. This storyline extends further than the scope of the book, but I expect there is a sequel brewing.

Thus, we are brought to the conclusion of this novel, or for those watching the movies, the big fight scene. Unfortunately, we are earlier told that the antagonists of the series, The Volturi, are planning to kill Bella’s daughter, for several rather nonsensical reasons that would be easily solved with a nice chat over a cup of blood. Instead, our heroes decide to gather an army of their own to meet what we are led to believe is a group of the deadliest vampires you can imagine. This, you say, is where it is bound to pick up. Here we will finally have that epic battle that will make the novel worth reading. Not so. Instead, after all that effort, the enemies march up to the heroes, are repelled by Bella’s new power (a force field that makes little sense due to its shoddy explanation) and proceed to listen as the Good Guys explain the reasons behind the whole predicament. Naturally, being reasonable vampires, The Volturi ignore them, and decide to kill the child anyway, but thankfully another Good Guy swoops in and saves the day with a crucial piece of evidence that had not been hinted at even once throughout this 700 page novel. We are left awed by the lack of climax and wonder why exactly there could not have been a fight scene. Is Meyer simply inept at writing them? Or perhaps the moral lesson of this book, besides ‘don’t have sex before marriage’ and ‘don’t sleep with werewolves unless they were previously in love with your mother and are twenty years older than you,’ is that violence is simply not the only option. Of course, this all seems a little hypocritical coming from a group of people who hunt down and tear apart forest animals with their bare hands for food.

But this is all on a general note. It is very easy to mock Twilight as a whole on account of its film, fanbase and amusing plot holes. What I want to look at now is why this particular book fails to meet even the low standards I set out.

On a very basic level, it is the lack of conflict that makes the story mundane, which is perhaps ironic considering Meyer herself stated 'Stories need conflict.'^[1] Breaking Dawn is, if you will excuse the vulgarity, like very unsatisfying sex; all foreplay and no climax. There is the suggestion of conflict, but it is usually resolved before the reader gets a chance to fully emotionally react. Examples of this are scattered around the book, culminating most evidently in that “final battle,” which instead becomes an anticlimactic peace treaty. But here we look at the very first chapter, Engaged. Bella is faced with what she views as the most horrifying of situations, yet one so amusing that her father ‘busted into loud guffaws’: she has to tell her mother about her and Edward’s engagement (thus, the inventive chapter name.) The reader begins to have an emotional response of anxiety whilst we wonder what consequences will arise. Will Renee reject Edward as a suitor for Bella, or will she refuse to come to the wedding as an act of defiance? Unfortunately, no. Instead, the reader is shot down; Renee is happy for her teenager daughter and reassures both her and the reader that Bella is beyond the scope of age and most certainly not a teenager. Possibly this Meyer’s way of justifying Bella marrying a ninety year old to her young and impressionable audience. Like so many other instances in the book, Meyer gives herself the scope and premise for a believable conflict that amounts only to a painful, unrealistic anticlimax. Perhaps the people who keep reading are those who truly believe that Stephenie Meyer will, at some point, deliver. Those of you who have not actually read the book will be shocked to discover she doesn’t.

This brings me to the deduction that the whole of Breaking Dawn is no more than a very long, convoluted deus ex machina, only with sparkly vampires. As soon as a problem arises, the readers worry for several chapters, only for it to be solved with often illogical solutions. The heroine has an unwanted love interest? No worries, he will later magically imprint on someone else, despite earlier stating how uncommon this phenomenon is and how ridiculous it would be. The heroes are going to war with the most dangerous group of vampires in the world? It’s fine, because the heroine will develop powers that just so happen to be their only weakness. The bad guys want to kill the child anyway? No problem, that character we have not seen for a few chapters is going to appear with concrete proof that the child is not dangerous. In fact, the entire conflict of the first three books is that Bella did not want to become a vampire for two reasons: she would not be able to have children, and she would become a soulless, bloodthirsty monster. Conveniently, both of these problems are solved in Breaking Dawn.

Why then, are Breaking Dawn and its series so popular? In 2008 alone, the book sold over six-million copies, and the recently released film was trumped only by the final Harry Potter in box-office ratings. It seems that Twilight has excelled in the art of communication with its target audience. Whilst many a reader may be put off by the clunky prose and repetitive style, perhaps this is exactly what appeals to this audience. Take this passage as an example:

The story would be tragic – Bella lost in a horrible accident. Victim of a mugging gone wrong. Choking to death at dinner. A car accident, like my mom. So common. Happened all the time.

                                                                        Stephenie Meyer, Breaking Dawn

Here, Jacob contemplates how Bella and Edward plan to fake their deaths, so they can avoid telling Bella’s father the truth, thus leaving her minus any familial ties besides the Cullens. This, too is a conflict that is resolved without climax: upon Bella’s pregnancy, they decide to tell her father the whole story. Jacob’s narrative is both simple and repetitive, with short, snappy sentences and a catty sarcastic tone that, whilst possibly irritating to a lot of readers, appeals to the modern day teenager. The immediacy of the style offers instant gratification and effortless reading that is more akin to watching a film than reading.

On the other hand, perhaps I am being a little harsh. There are upsides to the phenomenon that is Twilight. Like Harry Potter (loath as I am to compare the two, since Stephen King already did that so wonderfully,) this series reaches out to a mass of pre-teens who are glued to their Nintendo DS or Wiis and encourages them to read. Much like cannabis, I suppose that Twilight could work as a gate-way book, and that after getting a glimpse into this edgy new concept of reading, said pre-teens may in fact pick up another novel. Hopefully, a better novel. Either way, if Stephenie Meyer can reduce the number of teenagers who cannot understand the difference between ‘you’re’ and ‘your’, then I am happy to give her due credit. Of course, teenagers could just attend their English lessons, but let’s be realistic here.

           - By Camilla Masterson

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^[1] Stephenie Meyer, Breaking Dawn FAQ at stepheniemeyer.com. Retrieved 03/11/11

The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami

    The Wind-up Bird Chronicle was written by Haruki Murakami in 1995 and was first translated and published in English by Jay Rubin in 1997.

    The Novel follows the story of Toru Okada, a man whose life epitomizes the word banal. A casually-lovable character, he spends his days cooking and eating, listening to music and ironing when he’s stressed. He left his job ‘because he wanted to’ and is happy to let his wife take over the role of breadwinner while he plays house-husband for the small period before he needs to find another job. In Okada, Murakami crafts the type of character whose steadiness and acceptance of the situations he finds himself in makes us part-envy and part-admire him.

    He is the readers’ point of access in an otherwise baffling (to both us and himself) world. The other characters that come and go are slightly bewildering, and their motives are often clouded, but rather than making the story inaccessible, it mirrors reality, where other’s actions and stories are mostly unknown to us. We recognise ourselves in Okada and invest in his character.

    As the story opens, Okada’s days are becoming increasingly disturbed; first when his cat, Noboru Wataya (named for Okada’s brother-in-law) goes missing and Okada has to abandon his commitment-free day to search for it, and later with mysterious and increasingly explicit phone calls. As the novel progresses, we see the threads of Okada’s blissfully-dull life weave themselves together and tie a knot around him from which he can’t escape. Many of the seemingly steady notes of his life slowly crescendo to become something dark and out of place. The juxtaposition of the disturbing secrets which are unearthed in the book with the casual attitude of the story makes them perhaps even more poignant than they would otherwise be, and Okada’s patient and resolute attitude to fixing what he can fills the reader with empathy and perhaps a small amount of second-hand pride.

    The craftsmanship of the story is highly elegant. Simple, beautiful and effective, Murakami plays Rumplestiltskin, spinning the straw of unadorned description into beautiful gold threads of the unexpected. Even in the title, we see the use of simple language that has been re-worked into description that gives a powerful and clear image of the writer’s intent.  This also is cause for the translator’s praise for not falling into habits of English clichés. Somehow the novel keeps a flavour of its original language, while still being accessible to us.

    For both the casual reader and one looking for a stimulating and engaging read alike, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle offers itself up completely to be consumed how and when the reader wishes. The narrative is light and engaging, the main character is accessible and it is impossible to not invest in and empathise with him, the story is full of mystery but we do not become frustrated by our unenlightened state, rather we are compelled to keep reading and discover the answers. In all, Murakami has created a novel which pays back every moment invested in reading both dextrously and engagingly.

By Briony Millman

Write Every Day

Here's an interesting article: it's from a blog written by a PhD candidate, but what it says translates pretty straightforwardly into writing fiction (or poetry, or plays).  The nub is: write every day.

£400,000 Book Deal

Following on from today's class, read this Guardian article to see which second-year English undergraduate from the London area has just been given a £400,000 advance for a one-book deal.  There are some other writers named in that article as having recently got big book-deal advances. See if you can see what they all have in common.

'House of Leaves' by Mark Danielewski

Part horror story, part love story, part academic paper, part erringly powerful rambling, part insanity, part unfathomable footnote labyrinth, part meta novel – and abundantly mysterious and magnificent, House of Leaves is one of the most thought provoking and spine-chilling books I’ve ever had the fortune to read.

House of Leaves is a thoroughly weird and unique attraction: bizarre layout; double narrative; streams of consciousness; unbelievable depth; interesting and complicated typography; codes; extensive footnotes, lots and lots of footnotes, footnotes that have footnotes, and then footnotes that have footnotes that have footnotes. It is very clever, and scary, in an eerie, calculated way; there are pages where there are only a few words on each page, slowly cranking up the tension, in a way that a good horror story should.

Perhaps the most memorable feature of House of Leaves, is that of the typography. The text is arranged on the pages in such a way that the method of reading the words often mimics the situations or feelings of the characters. At times the words are upside down, or position to be read up the page when the character is climbing a ladder, text that grows and shrinks in size mimicking the characters travel through different sized tunnels. The text is flipped upside-down when the character becomes disorientated, this creates an interesting situation for the reader when they are trying to read House of Leaves in a public location.

The core discourse is that of a house which changes and grows on the inside but remains unchanged on the outside. The seemingly alive house grows, shrinks, consumes, horrifies and psychologically devours its residents. The house's occupant, Navidson, makes a documentary about the house called The Navidson Record, this provides one of the main narratives of the book. The thrust of the narrative is a drawn out essay by the now-deceased viewer of Navidsons record, Zampanò. This essay, and narrative, is further edited and commentated on by its finder, Johnny Truant, who is seemingly attempting to piece together the stories of both Navidson and Zampano. However his editing also produces a third major narrative: that of the complex life and the deterioration Truant very messed up psyche. All of which is told in the footnotes.

The Navidson record provides a solid and interesting Narrative, exploring without subtlety but with a great deal of complexity, the characters and their relationships.

Danielewski does a noteworthy job in contrasting the careful academic writing of Zampano with the nonsensical, rambling of Truant. Truant, on multiple occasions admits to be dishonest and simply making stuff up. This makes him a much needed and light-hearted remedy to the formal academic lexis of his counterpart, Zampano. Nevertheless, the drug induced narrative of a compulsive liar is always destined to be an incoherent mess, bordering on annoyance. Whilst this adds powerful character development, its deviation and incoherence makes it unbelievably hard to read.

As a student, perhaps the most fearsome, horrific and unnerving inclusion, was that of footnotes. Aside from annihilating the last remaining segments of my psyche where self-belief – in regards to referencing – was still prevalent, it has the uncanny ability to make one question their own reality; faux-quotes from faux-interviews entwined with real quotes from real interviews (as is the life of a student).

House of Leaves is weird, and I mean David Lynch type of weird. The more one unravels the various narratives concealed throughout the novel, the more one can’t help but feel like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole yet somehow landing up in Twin Peaks; a Dali designed house of horrors ride, a nonsensical environment with an unsettling tone.

For all the discussion regarding the unconventional nature of this book, one can be excused for feeling that the main theme is being overlooked. The typography, various codes within the book, colouring of certain words, the intentionally incorrect index, the unusual elements of House of Leaves indisputably effects the story. However, whilst this may sound like a criticism, it isn’t a simple matter of ‘narrative vs. story?’ as the story could easily stand alone in its genre as a fine piece of literature. It will frighten you, corner you, and loiter in your mind without gimmicks or narrative tricks.

The underlying story is strong enough, that if House of Leaves had been written as a conventional novel it would've still done very well. It is both strange and superb. This book is unlike any other that I have ever read, it is also the most time consuming book I have ever read. The longer I read the further my mind became lost within the house, and perhaps most interestingly, the longer I read, the more I wanted to become lost, even though I was scared of its creepily addictive power; the sign of a successful novel.

No amount of simile or metaphor can give justice to the sheer depth of this book. Not only is the core plot an exciting one, Danielewski’s novel structurally mirrors the labyrinth of the house. Whilst the subsequent exploration is genuinely thrilling. the challenge it creates would even trouble Theseus, when you finally complete this book, you will most likely be as lost as those live in The House of Leaves.

 By Andrew Sperrin

My Sister's Keeper - Jodi Picoult (2004)

Do children have the legal right to determine their own destiny without parental consent? Jodi Picoult embraces this controversial question with boldness and grace as her novel examines the ethical and moral consequences that arise from genetic engineering, an unnatural process of genetic modification for creating babies.  Anna Fitzgerald, the most conflicting character, defines herself as a “designer baby”, conceived merely in order to provide a perfect donor match for her sister, Kate, to undergo a bone marrow transplant.  The ambiguous boundary between what is morally right and wrong is fiercely debated by each family member’s struggle with the tragedy of having to deal with Kate’s Acute Promyelocytic leukemia, a rare form of cancer.

In keeping with the pattern of the vast majority of Picoult’s works (The Pact, Perfect Match) a substantial portion of the novel is written from a single viewpoint, in this instance Sara Fitzgerald, the former attorney and present stay-at-home Mother. The first person narrative enables the reader to have an increased emotional appreciation of her obsessed focus on keeping Kate alive. However, the authoress’s extended use of flashbacks depicts varied viewpoints of each family member, which adds further dimensions to the novel.  Although the present day events, surrounding the trial for Anna’s medical emancipation from her parents, take place within two weeks, the flashbacks reveal the most pivotal moments of the last thirteen years, showing the deterioration of Kate’s health and its subsequent affects on family dynamics. The use of a legal dispute is another one of Picoult’s commonly used themes. Unfortunately, the pace of the novel is dramatically slowed by the implementation of the court scenes, which are necessary but dull at times. Nonetheless, Picoult’s unconventional writing style is a refreshing change because it adds a realistic tone to the novel.  This reality is enhanced by the knowledge that the authoress’ own child suffered from a tumour as a young boy and that she no doubt drew upon the emotions she felt during this period.  Consequently, her pain is reflected in the extreme actions that Sara takes.

Central to the novel is the debate between science and humanity; the perception of what is right and what is wrong, both morally and legally. I found it difficult to be entirely sympathetic towards Sara because I struggle to comprehend the situation in which she finds herself. It is conceivable to argue that without experiencing the bond between a Mother and her daughter from the converse viewpoint, it is unfathomable to appreciate why she places Anna’s quality of life at stake for the sake of Kate’s survival. Her lack of empathy towards the struggles of her youngest daughter for undergoing painful procedures and blood transfusions is harrowing. Picoult explores the respective rights of Anna’s appeal for medical emancipation in order to have control over her own body and the counter-arguments of Sara. The argument is made more complex by the fact that Anna is still a minor and that Kate has secretly asked her sister to claim emancipation to help end her suffering, as she is tired of waiting for her inevitable death. Picoult successfully attempts to discuss the rights of the terminally ill through the medium of the court case and the use of medical witnesses. This is best surmised by Judge DeSalvo’s following speech: ‘The answer is that there is no good answer. So as parents, as doctors, as judges, and as a society, we fumble through and make decisions that allow us to sleep at night—because morals are more important than ethics, and love is more important than law’. The court case further highlights the question of whether keeping Kate alive justifies the pain that Anna subsequently suffers.

The novel’s conclusion offers an unexpected twist that entitles the reader to feel almost betrayed. There is an upsetting irony that having won the lawsuit and thus been granted the medical emancipation she sought, Anna dies in a car crash before she is able to fulfil her sister’s wish. Ironically, Anna’s kidney is then given to Kate who begins to regain her health.   Although the majority of the novel’s conflict surrounds Kate’s terminal illness, she remains silent in the background until her prominent first-person narration of the epilogue, which is set six years in the future.  Overall, Picoult convincingly illustrates the delicate nature of human life whilst demonstrating the lack of control we have over our fates. 

Brittany Ray

Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey

‘Phèdre nó Delaunay was sold into servitude as a child. In the household of an enigmatic nobleman, she is trained in history, theology, politics, foreign languages and the arts of pleasure. Exquisite courtesan, yet talented spy, she may seem an unlikely heroine…but when Phèdre stumbles across a plot threatening her homeland, Terre D’Ange, she has no choice but to act.’

Oddly enough it wasn’t this blurb that compelled me to read this book, but rather the first sentence that Amazon so kindly provided. Written in first person, it gave, in a single sentence, everything I wanted in a heroine: ‘Lest anyone should suppose that I am a cuckoo's child, got on the wrong side of the blanket by lusty peasant stock and sold into indenture in a shortfallen season, I may say that I am House-born and reared in the Night Court proper, for all the good it did me.’ To me, this was no whimsical woman who, in the face of adversity, would tremble and lean on a hero’s arm, and neither was she a female who would unrealistically stalk around with a sword being aggressive. I was, to my delight, proved to be correct in this surmise. This is a heroine who uses her intelligence and her education, as well as her sexuality to achieve her aims. Phèdre is a truly remarkable creation who, rather than remaining inert on written pages, lodges herself, fully fleshed, into the frontal lobe of your brain, refusing to release you until you have heard her story. She is, without a doubt, my most favourite heroine to date.

Marked by the god Kushiel as an anguissette by the scarlet mote in her left eye, she forever feels pleasure and pain as one. It is not until political intriguer Anafiel Delaunay recognises her for what she is does she start being treated as anything but flawed. Taken into his household, she is groomed along with a slightly older boy in politics and rented out to the country’s most powerful political figures to glean their secrets and to learn who is in whose pocket.

It is when Phèdre learns too much from her patrons that the plot really thickens. To prevent her from alerting the Queen to an impending invasion she is sold into slavery to the Skaldi, a seemingly barbarous enemy of Terre D’Ange. With only her bodyguard Joscelin, a rather proud and disdainful warrior-priest, for company, we begin to see Phèdre’s true character shine through. While she may look it, she is no delicate flower and it is she who persuades, cajoles and bullies Joscelin into not giving up.

This brings me onto Joscelin. It’s rare that I take to a hero as soon as he opens his mouth. The arrogance he wore like armour was intriguing, especially when it became clear that he simply had no idea how to act around Phèdre. Not only does he disapprove of what she does and what she is, he actively lets her know how he feels about her. It’s also refreshing in fantasy to read about a hero who isn’t a trigger-happy idiot, but rather one who genuinely regrets taking life and who is horrified the first time he is forced to kill someone, despite it being in self-defence.

Disappointingly Joscelin peters out somewhat after his heroic rescue of Phèdre outside Troyes-le-Mont, meaning we lack further development on his and Phèdre’s relationship and insight into the resolution between the two of them. 

On the theme of sexuality it is a pleasure to read a novel in which women are realistically given equal opportunities as men; Ysandre inherits the throne of Terre D’Ange, Grainne is joint leader of the Dalraida and Phèdre herself ends up as Ysandre’s emissary. They stand as powerful figures whilst retaining their femininity, completely independent of male strength. They are women who are proud of their sexuality and enjoy it in a society in which heterosexuality and female homosexuality are participated in for their own enjoyment rather than for male gratification. Indeed the arch villain of the novel is in fact a villainess, and an unforgettable one at that. Melisande is no cardboard cut out evil queen figurine, but a character that lives and breathes seduction and intrigue. She moves other characters around on a chessboard of her own devising, using skill and cunning to outmanoeuvre even the political mastermind Delaunay to achieve her aims. All of which she claims she does for the love of the ‘game’. Her schemes are so carefully plotted they can leave you dizzy, but you respect her like few other villainesses.

This novel does, as you might have guessed, examine sex and power, presenting sexuality, and the influence that it has on all aspects of human interaction, in a candid yet non-exploitative way. Sex is not used merely for effect or to shock (even though at times you are), but rather used to reveal nuances and sides of characters that would otherwise have remained hidden. It is a way that Phèdre has advantage over her counterparts; she is not shy in using herself as a bargaining chip. All that being said Kushiel’s Dart is still not a novel for the faint-hearted or the prude.

The heart and overarching theme of the book however, is love. Love for your homeland, for your friends and for your family, and the extraordinary lengths we go to keep them safe. D’Angelines follow the precept love as thou wilt and they keep this to the letter. It is in this that the true warmth of this book lies. The small, intimate relationships between characters and the feeling of camaraderie shared with the allies draw the reader in, hungry to see how these intricate interactions play out. Phèdre herself embodies and embraces this in extremis. It takes some loving (and masochistic tendencies) to face being skinned alive for your country.

Kushiel’s Dart is, without doubt, the finest fantasy debut I’ve read (I’m not the only one who thinks so, or at least in 2002, the year it won the Locus award for best first novel). The skilfully layered plot, the brilliant cast of characters and the beautifully crafted world means it is only narrowly pipped to the post of my favourite fantasy novel to read. Personally - and I know this may be controversial - I liked it more than George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series, which seems to be the current yard stick for modern fantasy.

I would have liked to have seen more of the villain-turned-hero Isidore d’Aiglemort as he was such a fascinating character. Appearing briefly at the beginning to give evidence of treason against his friend Prince Baudoin, and for a somewhat longer section at the end, we mainly hear about him third hand. He was given little room to expand which I thought was a shame, especially as his motives as to why he aligned himself with Melisande and what sort of relationship he had with her were so unclear. Why, after how she betrayed his friend, would he trust her to hold to her word? Intriguing stuff, yet it never got explored.

The main problem that I’ve found with the novel however is that the first hundred pages or so are slow going, but in my opinion needed to be able to immerse yourself in D’Angeline culture and explain the intricate workings of the Night Court, as well as setting up Phèdre’s origins and background. However this slow beginning is more than made up for in the rattling pace in the rest of the novel.

After reading Kushiel’s Dart I was so overwhelmed by the sheer scale and colour of the novel (and the excitement of discovering Jacqueline Carey has written another two novels from Phèdre’s point of view) that I did have to think long and hard about what could have been improved. Unlike what seems to be an increasing number of fantasy authors, including the aforementioned George R.R. Martin, Ms Carey does not shovel out ‘grit’ and ‘characters so venomous they could eat the Borgias’ in an attempt to make it realistic and dark. I did not come away with a sense of despair at the human race and nor did I find any of the characters tedious or unnecessary. Importantly I wasn’t afraid to get attached to the characters as they weren’t going to be ruthlessly and cruelly murdered one by one every couple of chapters, a device I find both lazy and distressing.

At 923 pages it is a whopping big read (hence the enormous review), but I like to think of it as value for money, and trust me, £8.99 is nothing for this book. 

-Lauren Price

David Nicholls’ One Day (2009)

David Nicholls’ One Day (2009)

Emma and Dexter have just graduated from Edinburgh University. Emma has a double first and is determined to conquer the world. Dexter has a lower second and vague ideas of travelling. They seem like complete opposites. Yet on the night of their graduation they form an unwitting friendship which takes twenty years to settle into something more.

It is this premise that Nicholls bases the bulk of the story around; the twenty years it takes to develop this friendship into functional marriage. One Day explores the nature of a male/female relationship through time; its complications, implications and whether a friendship can ever really stay as just this. Emma finally achieves her ambition to become a writer, but must work move back home with her parents, work as a waitress in a degrading tex-mex restaurant, become a secondary school teacher, and move to Paris and back again before this happens. Dexter too finds happiness by the end of the novel; unexpectedly in owning a specialised foods café. He too goes through years of unhappiness before coming to this ending; travelling as a foreign language teacher, presenting a crude TV show named ‘Largin’ It’ and setting up a media production company that was doomed from the outset. What ultimately makes these characters happy however is finding each other, and consolidating it through marriage.

One Day is a novel that has experienced a great reception from its readers. It won the 2010 Galaxy Book of the Year award, has sold well over one million copies, and has been translated into thirty-one languages. As well as this it remained on the New York Times bestseller list for three months and was the highest selling British novel of 2010. It is fair to say that millions of readers have enjoyed Nicholls’ book, but what actually is it that appeals to the reader? Is it the plot, the structure, lexis or painful issues dealt with?

The actual plot itself is relatively unexciting. Nicholls simply follows the lives of two very-average people, struggling with everyday problems; failed relationships, parental arguments, missed opportunities and lacks of self-confidence. Nothing exceptionally dramatic happens until the end of the novel with Emma’s death. The novel centres more on the internal conflicts and struggles of the characters.

However the structure of the novel is something relatively unique. Nicholls gives us an insight into Emma and Dexter’s lives on the same day each year. The 15^th of July. The years span from 1988, when they have just graduated, through to 2007, with Dexter recovering from Emma’s death. Through this clever use of structure Nicholls manages to keep us involved in the characters lives for twenty years. A challenge any author would find hard to execute. To break up any monotony a reader might experience from flipping through these years Nicholls further splits the book into five parts: ‘Early Twenties’, ‘Late Twenties’, ‘Early Thirties’, ‘Late Thirties’, and ‘Three Anniversaries’. Not only does this break up the structured pattern, but further reinforces the characters ages; reminding the reader of the journey of maturity they are experiencing with Emma and Dexter. ‘Three Anniversaries’ ends the novel, and abruptly changes the chronological structure the rest of the novel methodically follows. It jumps around in time, relaying all the most important parts of the characters journeys; their meeting, the first year after Emma’s death, the first day they spent together, the second anniversary of Emma’s death, and the third. This part provides a nice summing up of the characters lives, and consequently helps to eliminate the morbidness of Emma’s death towards the end of the novel. The effect of setting the whole novel on a single day each year is interesting. It borders on the edge of an epistolary novel; some chapters are letters to Dexter and vice versa. However it is more like flicking through a photo album of their lives. We see snapshot after snapshot of their relationship. This structure creates an exciting effect on the pace of the novel. At the end of each chapter we are left dangling, desperate to know what will happen next. Yet at the start of the next chapter we are plunged into their lives a year later, and thus are left grappling for lost time, playing catch-up. For example at the end of chapter nine Emma storms out of restaurant saying to Dexter ‘I don’t think you’re the person I used to know. You’re not my friend anymore.’ The reader is left on a cliffhanger; will they reconcile, or never speak again? Yet chapter ten starts with Emma having an affair; ‘Emma Morely lies on her back on the floor of the headmaster’s office’. The reader is made to read on for the answer, thus playing a game of catch-up.

Nicholls style of writing is also an attribute to the novel. It is quick, fluent and unaffected. Nicholls never resorts to high-fluted language to explain the romantic or beautiful, but rather uses everyday verbal language. This language, whilst being very easy to read, also reflects Emma and Dexter’s situation. This is a novel about normal people, in everyday situations. By using a language readers can relate to Nicholls reinforces the relatable situations of the novel.

Nicholls characterisation of the protagonists is also admirable. Although Emma and Dexter are somewhat archetypal figures, (the strong female student campaigning for change, and the lazy student relying on his parents wealth) Nicholls still creates realistic figures. This believability seems to derive from the character’s flaws. Although Emma appears as an Elizabeth Bennett: strong and sturdy despite the odds, she does in fact end up in one affair, and a hopelessly unhappy relationship with a failing comedian. Dexter too, although seems to have a good lifestyle hosting a late-night TV programme, goes through multiples of failed relationships and seems to lose all self-worth for many years. The very flaws in these characters are what makes them three-dimensional and relatable. Throughout the book the reader’s attitude towards the characters can also change. For example, at the beginning of the book Dexter is a deplorable character, yet in the final chapters, with Emma gone, Dexter has been transformed into an adoring fatherly character.

However despite the success of the characters, structure and writing, I do have one major complaint; Emma’s death. My complaint is not with the way Nicholls handles her death. This, in fact seems faultless. Nicholls use of understatement is haunting in the way it reflects the disbelief felt after a sudden death; ‘Then Emma Mayhew dies, and everything she thought or felt vanishes and is gone forever’. This sentence is all Nicholls uses to describe the death. There is no description of dying moments, or the wailing of her family’s grief. My complaint is the very use of Emma’s death as a plot device. It seems like a cop-out on Nicholls part in a bid to add dramatic tension, or a dramatic finish. In a novel that deals so intrinsically with the inner struggles of these relatable characters, this sudden drama seems unbelievable. The character’s themselves have already experienced a great amount of grief in the novel (for example Emma’s failed relationship or Dexter’s mothers’ death.) that her death seems unnecessary if Nicholls was trying to emphasise the struggle we face in life.

Although the way Nicholls deals with Emma’s death is good, the very use of such a dramatic scene seems to take away from the believability and grittiness of the novel as a whole.

So what is it that appeals to the reader? Plot, structure, language or issues dealt with? I certainly found the structure and language of One day exceptional. And these two are what carried a relatively boring plot along. The death of a protagonist was questionable, however did add a drama to this plot, which some readers may find intriguing. One Day is an easy-read. It requires very little from its reader in effort and thus would be perfect for a holiday or bedtime read. Nicholls, unashamedly, writes a story simply about two people; their struggles, achievements and relationship together.

By Abigail Gascoyne

Vernon God Little (2003) - DBC Pierre

Vernon God Little is based around a school shooting, institutionalised abuse and the perversion of justice by media greed. A teenage, thoughtful, Mexican immigrant, named Jesus is bullied by his peers and molested by his teacher and therapist. After this is exposed and mocked by his classmates, he takes his Dad’s old rifle and massacres his peers. It’s surprising that this sober starting point lunges into a comedy.

Written from the perspective of Jesus’ best friend; Vernon Little: a fifteen year old, bitter and foul mouthed Texan, DBC Pierre creates a phenomenally well characterised first person narration. The writing style encapsulates the thoughts of a cynical, backwater Texan teenager; using equal parts colloquial phrasing such as, ‘His eyes crinkle like barbed wire snagged with horsehair’ and simple ‘cussing’. It’s not a subtle style and it may offend some readers (as would the frequent daydreams about girl’s ‘tangs’) but it’s not supposed to be; one wouldn’t expect a teenage boy’s mind to be so. Vernon’s narration is thoroughly entertaining, unique enough to be engaging whilst being genuine enough to keep the book grounded to its realistic setting.  

The ordinariness of the setting is a key element within the novel. Banal sub-plots such as Vernon’s Mother waiting for a fridge to be delivered or Vernon’s new Nikes juxtapose with the exceptional basis of the plot; a school shooting Vern is wrongly accused of aiding. It leads to an interesting dynamic where the main antagonists aren’t the police or the courts but the sleazy guy sleeping with his mum or his mum’s annoying friends. One would think this would rob the text of its dramatic potential but by keeping this realistic edge to his conflicts Vernon is further characterised as just some unlucky kid. For example, at one stage Vernon wants to hide some evidence which would falsely incriminate him. He can’t, however because, his mother and her new beau want him to work at a church cake stand, to bring in some money and show he can be responsible. This takes place whilst he’s on bail for sixteen counts of murder. It’s paradoxically totally absurd that they would make him do this and yet, as anyone who’s been badgered by their parents to get a job knows, it’s a recognisable problem.

There are two main effects of the realism in Vernon God Little. Firstly, it makes it very easy to empathise with Vernon. Few people know about the problems of being chased by the police, most can understand what it’s like to be embarrassed by their mum. Secondly, whilst school shootings and child abuse are considered rare, they’re certainly real issues and by ensuring that the book is realistic it proves to be sensitive towards these issues. The actual shooting for example is never described, it happened before the story starts and Vernon wasn’t even there to see it. By not exploiting these issues for shock value, but rather skirting around them, Pierre delivers an intelligent look at the potential causes and effects these acts can have in a way that isn’t didactic. 

However, whilst the narration, plot and underlying themes are all engaging the book isn’t flawless. The novel is divided into five acts. The first two are brilliant; grounded in his home town they give Pierre the best opportunities to develop Vernon as a character. The plot in these parts is firmly tied into Vernon’s actions. The third act breaks from this with an escape to Mexico which, whilst different, isn’t bad. Vernon stops being so bitter and mostly just enjoys being out of his town. In fact, if Vernon returned to being an angst-ridden cynic after this act it would function as an excellent break. However he does not. In acts four and five, he stops swearing, holds back on his more sordid imagery because he has ‘grown up’. It makes his narration less unique and less interesting. This isn’t good characterisation. He hasn’t developed during the narrative, he’s developed off page and we’re explicitly told when and why it’s happened. Vernon changing so much, so fast (for the reader, in the book it had been six months) cheapens him as a character. Explicitly being told that his character has changed reminds you that he is just a character. In addition in these two acts Vernon is relatively impotent, incapable of affecting the story. This is partly intentional, as it demonstrates how the paradigm of Vernon’s story has been shaped by people in positions of power, primarily by the media. Whilst an interesting way of dealing with this issue, it isn’t exciting, it’s just bleak. Finally, the actual ending is far too perfect. Every plotline is summed up consecutively. Again, it reminds you that you’re reading fiction. Strangely whilst the rest of book keeps so doggedly to being realistic, the finale reneges on everything that went before it by being too fanciful. 

These faults aside it is still a fascinating book written from a novel perspective. The issues it deals with are important and relatively fresh ground for a work of fiction. Vernon God Little is a brilliant novel, that’s certainly worth reading, especially to someone who wants to see first person narration done right. You may want to skip the last chapter though.  

-Matthew Christopher

Girl, Interrupted - Susanna Kaysen

Although I am an avid literature student and absolutely relish reading the written word, I also happen to be an absolute film junkie and one of my favourite films of all time is ‘Girl, Interrupted’ therefore as soon as I saw that the film was actually based upon a novel, I jumped right on to Amazon and ordered it without a second thought! And I was not disappointed that I did. I in fact ended up enjoying the novel far more than one of my favourite films. Girl, Interrupted is the first autobiographical novel by author Susanna Kaysen and it depicts her own experiences as an eighteen year old girl in the Mclean Hospital for the mentally ill. The provocative story takes you through an intense two year period of this young girl’s interrupted life, although heart-wrenching at times Kaysen is brilliant at almost softening the blow through her excellent use of humour but it never draws away from the poignant truth of what goes on behind the walls of a mental institution.

Kaysen begins her story after seeing a doctor for the first time and him recommending that she takes a “short stay”, originally thought to be a couple of days, in the Mclean hospital to be treated for having a borderline personality. Kaysen currently had no direction in life after a series of dramatic and dangerous events such as a suicide attempt, an affair with her English teacher along with another troubled relationship. We see her adjusting to life there, fighting against treatment and then eventually admitting that she does need help and accepting it. However the story is not as simple as a tale of a girl overcoming the monster that is her illness but it also analyses the way in which help is given to those suffering with mental illnesses and more complex psychological issues which are heart-breaking to read.

Whilst I absolutely adore the film adaptation and although it did stick accurately to Kaysen’s details it is not a scratch on the novel. Kaysen’s writing offers you an insight into the world of a young girl living with a borderline personality disorder, it draws you in almost uncomfortably close at times to her mind-set  and forces you into rethinking your preconceived ideas about mental illness. Personally I have never been around mental illness nor really thought in too much depth about it yet I was surprised when reading this how many ideas and beliefs I already had about it. This novel completely shattered any previous beliefs I had about mental illness; I am sure that it has broken many other people’s stigmatism towards it too. This is a fantastic thing for a novel to achieve. And how does she do this? I believe that it is the novels powerful truth behind it. This isn’t a fiction. Kaysen actually had all of these experiences and her writing emulates that, the whole piece has a reflective tone to it almost like a woman looking back at an old diary or journal.

It is not just about her story we learn about some of the friends she makes during her stay, we are exposed to young girls suffering with eating disorders, schizophrenia, depression along with even lying disorders. Kaysen however doesn’t portray them via their conditions however but just as the girls that they are, for brief moments throughout the book you sometimes even forget the bleak setting as you get so wrapped up in the girls just acting like eighteen year old girls do for  gossiping about boys in front of the TV.  However you are brought back to the harsh reality when one of the girls has a breakdown and you remember where these young girls are, in an environment that has absolutely no sense of privacy with nurses doing ‘checks’ every five minutes and being unable to even shave your legs without someone in the room keeping an eye on you.

I found this novel very moving but also educational and eye-opening. The non-linear plot line also keeps the story interesting and the reader on their toes as we do not know what Kaysen is going to divulge next. I definitely recommend reading Girl, Interrupted as it is not a difficult read with lots of Freudian terms but a relatable text that everyone can gain something from.

By Zakiyah Rawat

House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski

House of Leaves is a strange novel to try to summarise, it is a mixture of so many different stylistic strengths that coalesce in such a weirdly magnificent way that to try and explain why it works would blunt the sheer visceral effect that the novel has upon the reader.

The novel begins innocuously enough, introducing the different narrators that the story will focus upon; Will Navidson and the film he makes about his house, 'The Navidson Record', Zampanò's academic deconstruction of this film, and Johnny Truant who is transcribing the mess of notes that Zampanò left behind after he dies, which is the novel that we are reading. However it soon becomes clear that not all is right with this paper as the true horrors of 'The Navidson Record' begin to reveal themselves.

What begins as a fairly standard academic paper quickly devolves into a mess of footnotes, frequent interjections by Johnny Truant and a genius use of space and layout to convey a feeling of upset and disorientation. The reader is slowly taught how to read the novel, with the introduction of footnotes, these quickly become more and layered, ultimately leading onto other footnotes; which eventually culminates in the sheer genius of Chapter IX. A chapter structured around the idea of a labyrinth, with footnotes leading back to already read footnotes, causing the reader to quite literally become lost within the chapter. Danielewski continues to use this labyrinth motif throughout the novel, even going so far as to end Chapter XX with a footnote back to the very beginning of Chapter IX (almost 400 pages previously at this point).

The main narrative thread is that of Will Navidson trying to come to terms with the impossible house which he finds himself in possession of, and it is House of Leaves most interesting narrative through line. The exploration of this seemingly infinite house is conveyed on the page in a way to echo the events that are occurring on the page. Words will appear in a variety of angles, they will be compressed or stretched or sometimes there will only be a single letter on a page. This use of the visual brings an almost filmic attitude to the novel, creating far more vivid images of what is occurring than if the text had remained static.

However, the issues that do arise within House of Leave seem to centre upon the problematic characterisation of Johnny Truant . Whilst occasionally his descent into paranoia and insanity is a genuinely gripping and enthralling read in contrast to the calm and collected writings of the actual ‘Navidson Record’, there are other times where it feels needlessly obtuse. Occasionally Truant will interject at moments where the reader just wants to find out what is occurring within Navidson’s house rather than endure another 5 page discourse into the breakdown of a man’s psyche. Truant’s interjections do add to the feeling of paranoia that pervades the later portions of the novel, but they are nowhere near as effective in this as the examination Navidson’s house.

House of Leaves is an easy novel to get lost within. Even after the final chapter there is so much more to experience, hidden codes littered through the text, hundreds of pages of supplemental reading. It always feels that there is more to decode, more subtext to be found. To some the postmodern way in which this novel has been constructed may be a turn-off, however the way that the book is written is perhaps its greatest strength. Tales of haunted houses have been told thousands of times, but never in this way. Never has a haunted house felt so tangible and real, and all of this is thanks to the way that the layout quite literally draws the reader deeper and deeper into the novel.

Danielewksi shows real skill at being able to increase tension using little more than blank space on a page and House of Leaves is frequently a terrifying read. Whilst not every stylistic detour that he makes throughout the novel is effective, the moments where it does work, work so well that it is easy to forgive those where it feels lacking. The haunting labyrinthine footnote work of Chapter IX is as amazing as anything I have ever read that I can forgive the incoherence of some of Truant's interjections. House of Leaves is not a perfect novel but there are enough moments of insanely brilliant writing that make it a novel that needs to be experienced.

By Benjamin Phillips

Jane Puddicombe: Nevil Shute's On The Beach (1957)

On The Beach (1957) By Nevil Shute.
A nuclear war has ravaged the planet. A cloud of radioactive dust has killed everyone in the Northern Hemisphere and is now drifting south. Shute’s novel, On the Beach describes the last months of humanity through the experiences a small group of characters as they wait for a deadly cloud of radiation to arrive.

The story opens in December, roughly a year after the war has ended. Communications from The Northern Hemisphere have ceased and the population is presumed dead. Scientists have estimated that lethal levels of radiation will overwhelm Australia including the small town of Falmouth, by September. The story tells how a handful of Falmouth’s inhabitants cope, their changing view on what it means to be alive and their struggle to enjoy their remaining time in increasingly unfamiliar circumstances.

The pacing is slow, Shute emphasis the mundane. There is no panicking in the streets, no looting or violent gangs; the characters drift through much of the story in a domestic daze, jolted every now and then by the enormity of what they face. Peter Holms, a Lieutenant Commander in the Australian Navy continues going to work, and returns home to his wife Mary and baby girl, Jennifer. Dwight Towers, an American submarine Captain, pretends that his wife and children are still alive, that he is just on a mission and will be returning shortly. A young woman named Moira turns away from her heavy drinking lifestyle and enrols in secretarial school. There are barbeques and dinner parties and every so then somebody mentions a future endeavour such as planting a garden or the ministry decide to open the trout fishing season early and characters have to redefine their horizons.

Shute could be accused of understatement at times. For example, a scene when Peter Holmes discusses suicide provisions for his wife and daughter with the chemist. Peter is worried that his naval mission might not have him back in time to help his wife commit suicide and ‘see to the baby’. The chemist offers to explain the medical protocol to Mrs Holmes when the time comes but Peter asks to be shown now as he’d rather do it himself as “...she’ll be a bit upset.” The stoicism is on occasion stifling. But the idea that these characters are facing the end of civilisation with dignity, albeit, comforted by a thin blanket of denial, is heartening.

When reading the novel I didn’t dwell too much on the politics of the novel or warnings about the dangers of modern technology. Shute puts the blame for the war on the ‘little nations’ as ‘cobalt’ bombs became too cheap and assessable. Dwight Towers suggests that, “Maybe we’ve been too silly to deserve a world like this,” and a scientist, John Osborne replies “That’s absolutely and precisely right.”. Obviously the novel is anti-war, but what is Shute really advocating? A more sensible approach to progress? In the final pages Peter makes a comment that newspapers could have been used to stop the war, however, the arguments seem naive and unfinished.

The novel’s power lies for me in how we view death in general. For Mary, for example, death for herself and Jennifer is unthinkable and she chooses to ignore the inevitable almost to the last page. John Osborn chooses to fulfil his life’s ambition and race a Ferrari (dangerously) . But the two main characters in the novel, in my opion, represent a dualism within the human spirit -the ability to know the truth yet continue with seemingly pointless things without becoming a hypocrite.

Peter works right up till almost the last day then, despite feeling well decides to ‘go with’ Mary and baby Jennifer. Dwight stays faithful to his dead wife and chooses to follow navel protocol and die sinking his vessel, denying Moria the chance to die with him as ‘uncle Sam wouldn’t like it’. Both characters decide that the life they lived before the war was worth continuing despite the circumstances. I do not believe Shute had them do this through fear or denial of even boredom but a poignant reaffirmation of their lives as was. Shute chose not to have the characters descend into a nihilistic or Hobbsean existence. The habits and rituals of the pre-war life, of work and the family were not, I believe, written by Shute to be merely a veneer of society but instead the stuff of which characters are actually comprised.

The horror and misery of the last few days is played out, again in an almost absurd understatement. Very few details are offered, in fact in a scene where Mary is telling Peter about baby Jennifer’s illness Shute actually writes, “she added some details.”, rather than actually add details. However, the information Shute does offer creates many moving moments such as Mary being relieved that her husband daughter and herself have the sickness together and John Osborn’s mother leaving a selfless goodbye note to her son.

Compare this dignity to Cormack McCormack’s 2006 novel The Road. McCormack’s novel is far more graphic and violent. Another baby is killed in The Road, in very different circumstances, but, despite the heightened imagery and stark brutality one could argue that story lacks the poignancy and quiet power of Shute’s Novel. On the Beach is dated, and the stoicism could be a consequence of a different generation but I find reassuring the dignity and quiet of Shute’s post apocalyptic ‘hiatus’, that under duress mankind does not necessarily descend into violent anarchy but, given the option, dies quietly shrouded in the mundane of everyday living. The idea that rabbits will continue for a while after the humans are all gone is also strangely comforting.

The Sense of an Ending - Julian Barnes

       Whenever reading a book, as a writer yourself, you has to ask, is this original? Is the novel I have cradled in my gently sweating palms free from cliché, doing something original? You might think these questions would be especially at the forefront of the minds of those entrusted to judge this year’s Booker Prize list winner. Oh how terribly, terribly wrong you would be.

     This review is not a discussion of that prize, or the controversy surrounding its selection. It does however concern the winning novel, Julian Barnes’ ‘The Sense of an Ending’. And a novel with less fluidity and originality there is not. Thank god it was short because Barnes’ work had you reaching for the nearest light blue recycling box, ready to gleefully dispose of its hundred or so pages.

      ‘The Sense of an Ending’ begins with a fairly typical description of teenage insecurity, awkwardness and fumbling in the dark. Like a bawdy Martin Amis novel, it deals with the grit of youthful sexual vigour, the protagonist Tony ‘promptly wanking into the little basin’ at his girlfriend Veronica’s house once she has walked him coquettishly to his single bedded room. Sadly, Barnes doesn’t realise he’s writing a Martin Amis novel, and leaves out the humour and true to life qualities of Amis’ prose. Instead he is attempts to build to a more serious point about approbation, responsibility and blame in later life for the acts of one’s youth. But why then start with such spunking, corridor-creeping adventures?

         The subsequent chapters dealt with now sixty year old Tony Webster’s recollections of a grey, mediocre life. He has been once divorced, loves his child Susie the product of that marriage, and now lives an average life. But this second section really took the prize for melancholia- the first part of the novel at least had some colour; the discussions between Old Joe Hunt, the history master, and his teenage charges about philosophy and history were very Alan Bennett-esque and held a few seconds of delight for the reader. But the reminiscing of Webster just sucked the marrow out of the reader’s very bones. Such mediocrity, such grey matter, would have any reader reaching for a whisky and another cigarette. Yes people do have dull lives, of course, they go about them every day, and most people don’t follow up their dreams and visions. Like Webster’s characters they divorce, have children and let life get in the way. But where was any sense of escape or joy!? In his acceptance speech for the Booker Prize Julian Barnes praised his production team for creating a book that genuinely looked beautiful, an object to cherish and want to own in hardback non-electronic form, an aesthetic art object in other words. And art objects fascinate and enthral us, and take us to other worlds to enjoy. This took the reader to a rut, a crossroads of introspective stagnancy that took hours to budge. To his credit and this is a rare awarded plus in this review, the novel made you look introspectively. It failed to lend an escapism, a way out from life, and instead plunged you so far into life, into the corner of the room, the gritty eeking out of every day that one could do nothing but sit, trapped and mulling it over. This was a muted success then partly, because escapism and reflection are both equally praise-worthy features of a good novel.

         The final section dealt with atonement: Webster met up with the ‘flame’ of his youth, Veronica, after a large amount of email based bargaining. We discover she is holding on to the diary of one of Webster’s school friends who subsequently dated Veronica after Webster, before committing suicide. Throughout the novel, Barnes’ discusses memory, truth and recollection, and one feels there is a bubbling undercurrent being created which will lead to some monumental and incredibly well penned twist at the finale. Instead the final discoveries; of a mentally handicapped child’s existence who seems the product of either Webster or his friend’s affairs with Veronica but who ultimately turns out to be the child of her mother and his friend were second rate to say the least and not in the least bit surprising. Even the inclusion of this disabled child, now grown to adulthood, was less thought provoking, more perversely decorative, as if Barnes needed a twist and so reached into the great filing cabinet of clichéd plot endings and picked a mildly topical folder. This was disheartening, because, to Barnes’ credit he did create such undercurrent- ‘The Sense of an Ending’ had a strong sense of expectation, of crawling towards a twisty ending.

     Julian Barnes’ is a writer who can capture vivid, real moments; the throwing of a hot pan of eggs into a cold sink or a clumsy teenager satisfying his unconsummated lust alone. But these moments were not arranged carefully or effectively in ‘The Sense of an Ending’; instead the book was a hash of pre-influenced, samey prose. No wonder he had to wait so long for the Booker to be begrudgingly awarded to his long suffering self.

James Birkett