tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56642877900114161752023-06-20T23:09:34.403+10:00Sentus Libri - Overlooked Books100 word reviews of forgotten, neglected or just underappreciated books.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-29702368796963325552013-09-19T12:08:00.000+10:002014-01-26T10:52:57.013+11:00Concrete by Thomas Bernhard (1982)<span style="font-family: inherit;">Bernhard has a bit of a following but what a morose bunch they must be. <i>Concrete</i> is a novel in one unbroken paragraph - the anguished internal monologue of a m<span style="line-height: 19.984375px;">iserable, petty man who wastes years of his life unable to start his great work. </span></span><span style="line-height: 19.984375px;">It's set in the 1980s but the sour narrator living off old money makes it seem 50 or so years earlier.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.984375px;"> Amongst the repetitive rambling is much truth, but it's comprehensively subsumed by many a vehement diatribe. Those directed at Bernhard's native Austria are at times breathtaking.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 19.984375px;"> He finishes off the novel very neatly but I think, ultimately, it's the relentless hate I can't bear. </span>Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-9707262243858966902013-08-29T22:32:00.000+10:002014-02-03T19:09:39.315+11:00The Third Eye by T. Lobsang Rampa (1956)This excellent read was published as the autobiography of a Tibetan monk, covering his life from childhood to a high ranking, aura-seeing lama. There are some remarkable scenes in the narrative, including monks flying inside giant kites high above mountain ravines and an arduous journey to the high Himalaya where they visit a verdant geothermal oasis and encounter yetis. Written in a very accessible style, it inspired many of today's Tibetologists to become interested in the field. Only problem is, the story was actually written by a 46 year old plumber from Devon. But I still loved it.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-5431973862112746902013-07-21T22:24:00.004+10:002013-08-15T21:46:30.898+10:00My Love Had a Black Speed Stripe by Henry Williams (1973) A bloke, his missus and his Holden Monaro. I've not read anything that captures laconic Australian humour and idiom as well as this impossible to find book. The story is serviceable enough but it's the first person voice of Ron, a car factory line worker that steals the show - and it starts right from the opening line: "Love me, love my Holden. I laid that on the line with the missus before we were spliced." From what I can find, this was Williams' only novel and he wrote it after working in a car factory. It's a lovely ocker snapshot of the time and should be brought back into print.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-73951260296410290302013-06-23T12:26:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:57:46.023+10:00The Green Child by Herbert Read (1935)Based on a 12th century Suffolk legend about the appearance of two green-skinned children this, Read's only novel, is utterly unique. The three distinct sections of the story are so contrasting that the juxtaposition simply shouldn't work, but somehow it does. Read, a poet, anarchist and proponent of education through art, pens prose that can be serenely beautiful. Indeed, <em>The Green Child</em> is such a singular work, its meaning so slippery - seemingly eternal yet fleeting and trivial at the same time - that it has been quietly meditating in a corner of my mind for a while as its many layers slowly crystalise.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-6940572994359037932013-06-06T22:35:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:47:17.676+10:00A Winter in the Hills by John Wain (1970)A pleasant if pedestrian read. Wain is in that Nevile Shute vein of perfectly accomplished writers who never really reach any great heights. <i>A Winter in the Hills</i> tells the story of Roger, an academic, who heads to northern Wales to learn Welsh only to get involved in some local troubles. Wain does evoke the atmosphere of the small villages and the landscape of northern Wales very well but he is probably more notable for his participation in 'The Movement', a 1950s British poetry movement that included Philip Larkin and Kingsley Amis and was a backlash against modernism and experimentation. Says it all really.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-43225936602833894672013-05-21T20:01:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:48:11.262+10:00Hunger by Knut Hamsun (1890)This bleak but compelling psychological portrait of a slightly unhinged and destitute young man struggling to establish himself as a writer while slowly starving has been called the novel from which all twentieth century literature sprang. It's a big claim but I prefer to see this work as part of a natural progression from Dostoevsky through to modernism. That's not to diminish <i>Hunger</i> in any way. Set on the streets of Oslo, this tale of a fellow full of frenzied, self-defeating idealism is said to be semi-autobiographical. Toward the end of his life Hamsun sympathised with fascism, something that has scarred his subsequent reputation.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-8689106332363072682013-04-29T08:43:00.000+10:002013-08-15T22:04:11.609+10:00Dibs: In Search of Self by Virginia Axline (1964)Virginia Axline pioneered non-directive play therapy for disturbed children, and this is an account of her sessions with Dibs, a five year old boy from a wealthy family. Dibs was so uncommunicative and aggressive that he was almost considered retarded. His gradual emergence through Axline's gentle techniques is what makes this book a classic in its field, although I must admit to wondering how accurate her account was at times. But it's an incredible read and some of Axline's discoveries, such as that Dibs had secretly taught himself to read, were jawdropping. The identity of Dibs has never been revealed.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-79733299668341861692013-04-17T20:43:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:49:49.292+10:00Carmen by Prosper Mérimée (1845)This is the story upon which Bizet
based his famous opera. While the novella gives much more by way of a
backstory, the essential tale remains the same. Carmen, the
impossibly 'illuring' gypsy woman, holds the Basque soldier Don<span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">José</span> hopelessly in her thrall and leads him into a life of villainy. Set
in majestic Andalusia, <i>Carmen</i> is equal parts romance and
adventure, and the fall of Don <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.1875px;">José</span></span> under Carmen's relentless spell
has a sort of Shakespearean inevitability about it. It still speaks
to us almost 170 years later because, well, we've all been there on
one level or another. A deserved classic, but little read.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-50854449145372242932013-03-31T19:27:00.000+11:002013-08-15T21:50:11.185+10:00A Month in the Country by JL Carr (1980)This is a beautiful little book. Set in
1920, Tom Birkin has returned to England after WWI with a twitch and
stammer to find his wife gone, so takes a job up in Yorkshire
uncovering a medieval mural in a village church. He strikes up a
friendship with a fellow veteran doing archaeological work in the
churchyard and slowly integrates into the minutiae of village life,
falling in love with the dour vicar's young wife along the way. Carr
was almost 70 when he wrote this, and it shows. It feels
long-distilled and the ending is wise, understated and magnificent.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-84928861013109396412013-03-15T22:55:00.000+11:002013-08-15T22:01:16.263+10:00Max Havelaar by Multatuli (1860)I almost gave up on this one halfway through, but I'm glad I didn't. <i>Max Havelaar</i> tells the story of a minor Dutch official in colonial Java who becomes outraged at the way the local people are being exploited. It's somewhat autobiographical and while the book shocked Holland and eventually led to reforms, the author suffered the usual whistleblower's fate and died in exile, embittered. As a novel, <i>Max Havelaar</i> is often self-indulgent and you never quite know where it is heading, but it is redeemed by the strength of its message and prose that is passionate, surprisingly fresh, sometimes beautiful and often very funny.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-83948597780584152732013-02-28T20:24:00.000+11:002013-08-15T22:01:40.340+10:00Season of Migration to the North by Tayeb Salih (1966)Considered something of a classic and a very readable one at that, Salih's novel is narrated by a young man returning to his Sudanese village after studying abroad, only to find a mysterious man living there. That man confides that he too studied abroad and relates his time in England, his seduction of various Western women and the abiding sense that he was caught between two worlds.
It all ties together in the end but some plot points do stretch credibility. Still, the frank discussion of sex must have made this book dynamite when first published in Arabic in 1966 and it remains a poignant meditation on colonialism. Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-47770389333850512013-02-11T19:29:00.000+11:002013-08-15T22:10:07.562+10:00The Last Kings of Thule by Jean Malaurie (1955)In 1950, Malaurie, a French geographer/ethnographer, spent a year living with the most northern people on Earth - the Inughuit - while he mapped the northern reaches of Greenland and recorded their disappearing lifestyle. From hunting techniques and remarkable ice sea crossings to Canada, to consensual partner swapping to stay sane through the interminably long, dark winters, it is the irrepressible personalities of the Eskimos that really shine in this memorable book. The account finishes with the building of a huge, secret US airbase at Thule heralding the end of their harsh but happy traditional way of life – something subsequent editions go on to detail.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-2082825405489976792013-01-14T21:43:00.001+11:002013-08-15T22:03:04.648+10:00Turbott Wolfe by William Plomer (1926)<i>Turbott Wolfe</i> exploded like a bomb upon publication in Plomer's native South Africa. Plomer was just 22 when he wrote this novel which brutally exposed the attitude of white South Africa toward the black population. That was crime enough, but it was the novel's unashamed embrace of interracial sex that really cemented its notoriety. The story centres around the title character, a young man running a store in a native reserve, who becomes appalled by his white neighbours and captivated by a young black woman. It's a stunning and amazingly prescient book - with an instructive but hefty 70 page introduction by Laurens van der Post.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-91033502319769942642012-12-15T22:21:00.001+11:002013-08-15T22:04:25.268+10:00The Nargun and the Stars by Patricia Wrightson (1973)Few books had as profound an impact on me when I was growing up. This haunting tale of a lonely boy discovering an ancient stone Nargun, a creature straight from Aboriginal mythology, on his uncle's rural property had me spellbound. It still does. Wrightson, who died in 2010, was criticised for using indigenous beings out of context, but what she was emphatically saying was that European mythology doesn't belong here - Australia has its own dragons and elves. And ever since I have viewed the bush through a different and wondrous lens.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-77690738724733494532012-11-28T21:43:00.001+11:002013-08-15T21:52:55.043+10:00Pierrot by Raymond Queneau (1942)This 1950 translation by the British novelist Julian MacLaren-Ross was a let down. You can't turn colloquial Parisian French into Cockney, complete with rhyming slang, without losing the essence of an author like Queneau. Beyond that, I found this to be a delightfully odd novel that is light, happy, even somewhat distracted at times. Pierrot is a young man hopelessly frustrated in work and love, and Queneau breezes his hero through some bizarre events that include fleeting elements of mystery and magic. A couple of coincidences toward the end are a bit hard to swallow though.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-33658867169045074592012-10-13T22:07:00.002+11:002013-08-15T21:56:52.940+10:00The Three Royal Monkeys by Walter de la Mare (1910)What an absolute delight. This is a magical tale of three monkey brothers who go in search of their father, and have great adventure along the way. De la Mare wrote ghost stories and poetry, and viewed children with their extraordinary imaginations as sort of creative visionaries. You can almost feel him reaching back for this here. There's an unbridled playfulness with language in this novel that prefigures CS Lewis and Tolkien - in fact I'd be surprised if de la Mare wasn't an influence on them. What's more, this heartwarming celebration of brotherhood is now available free online. Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-70747967456186784502012-10-06T09:46:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:57:12.570+10:00Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban (1980)I only knew Hoban by his children's stories, but this novel is nothing of the sort and, well, there's no other way to say it - <i>Riddley Walker</i> is a masterpiece. Set in SE England, many generations after a nuclear apocalypse, a remnant population grasps at fragments of language, technology and legend as they try to reconstruct the 'clevver' times. Courageously written in a crude, bastardised English that presents an immediate barrier to the reader, it is this striking language that ultimately feeds the rich, mysterious and desperate atmosphere of the novel and lifts it into something truly remarkable. Russell Hoban died last year.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-13847414585191633092012-09-18T20:38:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:54:47.977+10:00Flatland by Edwin Abbott (1884)Mathematical fiction. Who knew? <i>Flatland</i> is a short, simple novel with hand-drawn illustrations about a society of shapes living on a flat plane. And it is mind-blowing. This is a startling allegory of the Victorian class system and a stark portrayal of how society handles heretical ideas, namely that there may be dimensions that exist outside our known experience. My enthusiasm however, comes with one significant caveat: women are unashamedly treated as unintelligent second-class citizens in this book. After publication Abbott sought to explain this as a satire of sorts, but I'm not sure I'm entirely convinced.
Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-42573388863943286242012-08-25T22:25:00.004+10:002013-08-15T22:03:17.237+10:00A Life Full of Holes by Driss ben Hamed Charhadi (1964)This is a most unique book. Charhadi was an uneducated North African house servant encouraged to record a series of tapes on his life by the author Paul Bowles. The tapes were transcribed and published as <i>A Life Full of Holes</i>. The result is a remarkable story of the precarious hand-to-mouth existence led by untold numbers of people around the world. Through forced migrations, prison terms, betrayals and more, Charhadi comes across as charming, positive and yet somehow resigned to his lot in life. He is a compelling storyteller from a long oral tradition, and his
observations on Christians – or Nazarenes as he calls them – are fascinating.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-83615853192456356322012-08-04T21:00:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:55:38.498+10:00The Pages by Murray Bail (2008)I'm sorry but this book just didn't cut
it. OK, so Bail's prose is enigmatic and slippery, but the premise
here is contrived at best: an academic is sent to a remote farm to
read the writings of a little known hermit philosopher who has passed
away. What follows unsurprisingly is a thinly veiled philosophical
indulgence with some equally thin characters. Look, I did quite enjoy
his earlier Canowindra book, even allowing for the unexpected Clare
Quilty-like appearance of the suitor. But <i>The Pages</i> has made
me reconsider the premise of that book in a different way now too. Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-80785584563212691412012-07-13T18:27:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:56:07.143+10:00The Friends of Eddie Coyle by George V Higgins (1971)This book should be a showcase for
aspiring crime writers. Coyle is a small-time crook who has been
painted into a corner by the law and has to make some very careful
choices. Pretty standard stuff? Yeah, except the entire story is
carried exclusively by fizzing, gritty dialogue that makes the whole
grubby world of Boston lowlifes almost lift off the page. This was
Higgins' first novel, and although he went on to write quite a few
more, he doesn't get the recognition he deserves. Guess Cold War
thrillers were the order of the day and he kinda fell through the
cracks. Pity.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-11676819078578237572012-06-27T22:11:00.000+10:002013-08-15T21:58:38.688+10:00Declares Pereira by Antonio Tabucchi (1994)There is a gradual
awakening as you read this fine novel that clues you in on how the
story will end, but this only makes the main character, Dr Pereira,
more endearing. Set in Salazar's Portugal in 1938, Dr Pereira is a
lonely, affable widower working as an editor at a small Lisbon
newspaper. Uninterested in politics, he is nonetheless drawn to a
left wing resistance group, a dangerous move in a fascist-friendly
state. Answering why he takes this risk is central to understanding
this deceptively simple novel, something Pereira's actions ultimately illuminate in an unforgettable way.Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-53112548765883156492012-06-11T19:18:00.000+10:002013-08-15T22:04:41.774+10:00Chéri by Colette (1920)<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en">I’ve
had a bad run with French literature of late, but</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en">
</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en">Chéri</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en">
ha</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><span lang="en">s
put an end to that. This story of an aging courtesan and her young,
rich boy toy was scandalous in its day but now comes across as well,
quite charming really. Colette's wry and sharp observations of pre-war high society Parisian petulance and vanity,
along with its apparently carefree pleasures, are a delight. Of
course all this was soon to be obliterated forever by WW1, and it is
change and loss that sit emphatically at the heart of this wonderful
novel. </span></span>Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-56859527622798283942012-05-31T22:48:00.002+10:002013-08-15T22:00:34.200+10:00The Bog People by P.V. Glob (1969)<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span lang="en">Across
northern Europe, ancient bodies have turned up perfectly preserved in
peat bogs for centuries. </span></span><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span lang="en"><i>The
Bog People </i></span></span><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span lang="en">is
a fascinating investigation into </span></span><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span lang="en">who
these iron age people were and why they were interred in the
ritualistic way they were. Glob, a Danish archaeologist, found some
of the best preserved examples of bog people in the 1950s and 60s,
and his anecdotes on the discovery and uncovering of these bodies are
a highlight. So are the amazing photographs of the exhumed bodies and
the items found with them. </span></span><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span lang="en"><i>The
Bog People</i></span></span><span style="line-height: 100%;"><span lang="en">
labours a bit toward the end but that's only a minor quibble.</span></span></span>Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5664287790011416175.post-84213971081379507892012-05-09T22:23:00.000+10:002013-08-15T22:03:59.972+10:00We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson (1962)<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There is a lurking, unspoken
malevolence in this book that I just love. There is a simplicity of
language that lifts Mary Katherine Blackwood above most other
fictional characters I have encountered. There is a mystery that
isn't really a mystery at all. There are themes of small-town
ostracism, violence and atonement. And there is an ending that should
be sad and disturbing but isn't. But most of all there is a wish to
read more of Jackson's work – a desire I rarely have with any
author.</span>Brendanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11390247791191177684noreply@blogger.com0