A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle

There are so many ways Disney can stuff this up. The odds are short, in my opinion, on these:

  • Meg will be too gorgeous, cute, sexed up.
  • She won’t have bands.

But still. We will have a sci fi movie in which there is a Strong Female Character. Maybe they will change the parts that will be non-PC for a modern audience. The Christian angle – even though the book survived attempts at banning in the US for being blasphemous. The mother being a housewife scientist – she cooks dinner in the lab while doing her experiments. Probably not allowed now? And Meg, who in the end, saves the day by loving. Not that she can’t do higher maths at some too young age, but this isn’t her contribution to saving the day. Because it’s a girl thing really, isn’t it. Loving the best. Couldn’t have a bloke in that role. I suppose Disney will just leave that how it is.

I do see why it was so popular. I don’t really understand why it would still be so – not only because of old fashioned attitudes, but because it must surely be too hard for children now. Maybe it’s for adults now?

It turns out, upon looking up goodreads, that I’ve been tricked into reading a book that has the # sign on it. Arrggghhhhhhhhh. So I guess the movie’s going to be coming out in sequels for ever.

I’m not sure how much I should like this….I sympathise with those who don’t like it, but the fact is I read it at a spritely pace until finished. That means something.

 

 

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How The Light Gets In by MJ Hyland

I’ve knocked off a lot of good books over the last couple of weeks including David Cohen’s Disappearing off the face of the earth, Per Petterson’s It’s Fine By Me and Graeme Simsion’s The Rosie Project. Despite this competition, I expected How The Light Gets In to be the star and I have not been disappointed.

Like Gail Jones’ Black Mirror, it’s a first novel by an Australian. The similarities stop there. How the Light Gets In is a perfect novel. Utterly gripping, with a creepy flawed main character who nonetheless engages our sympathies from the start and never loses them, it must be right up there with best first novels ever. It’d make a great movie.

Highly recommended.

Note: surprisingly the author is writing from experience.

Drama of a life less ordinary
By Brigid Delaney
July 19 2003

M.J. Hyland
35, writer
“I’ve never experienced writer’s block. When it’s going really well my body temperature goes up and I’m flushed. I get quite delirious.”

“Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood,” wrote Frank McCourt in Angela’s Ashes.

Melbourne writer M.J. (Maria) Hyland had a childhood that makes Frank McCourt’s seem lucky. But she says it “is not very interesting” and would prefer to talk about her debut novel, How the Light Gets In. So we steer clear of her early years – for a while.

Set in middle America, How the Light Gets In follows the fortunes of Louise Connor, a genius 16-year-old with a penchant for gin, chain-smoking and Russian literature.

Raised in a housing commission flat in Sydney, she escapes the squalor and poverty of her background on an exchange student program. Her wealthy hosts struggle to understand the behaviour of their wayward charge. She is complex and difficult, captivating and infuriating.

When Hyland sent the book’s first five chapters unsolicited to Edinburgh super-publisher Jamie Byng (who discovered Yann Martel’s Booker-winning Life of Pi), she was an unknown Australian first-timer. After demanding the rest of the novel, Byng rang her back and said, “I want to meet Lou.”

Hyland makes it clear she is not Lou – even though she went on an exchange student program to America from which she was expelled for underage drinking. ‘I’d been drinking since I was 13,” says Hyland. “I was just a regular teenager who drank. Suddenly I was in Idaho and I couldn’t smoke, drink or hitchhike.”

It’s too easy to suggest that the book is mere autobiography, particularly when her early life contains the material for a dozen novels. Melbourne-based Hyland, 35, was born in London to Irish parents. When she was two they arrived in Australia on an assisted passage. Crippled by poverty, the family lived in “sheds, people’s backyards and caravan parks” around Liverpool and Cabramatta. Her father was “a hopeless alcoholic” and gambler who “was pissed all through my childhood”.

Unable to secure a lucky break in the lucky country, the family moved back to Ireland when she was four, and lived in a notorious Dublin housing estate where “the lifts were full of vomit and urine. It stank. It was an intensely rough place.”

New schools and new housing estates came every few years. Hyland recalls the family being “deeply impoverished”, though she enjoyed the “constant change” and “interesting people”.

It was only when she made one “really good school friend’ that she felt sad about leaving. She was 11 and it was back to Australia. The decision to return was made by her father when he came home one day – full of drink-fuelled hope and optimism – thinking this time it would work.

The boat docked at Fremantle and the family moved into a nearby migrant hostel. Hyland remembers living with “interesting people from Singapore and China”, taking a special bus into school each day with other migrant kids and having “gruel for breakfast”. Less tolerable was the heat – the kind of white, blinding heat peculiar to Western Australia that the pale Irish girl instantly loathed.

The family moved frequently in Fremantle before her father, on another bender, decided to pack them in a car and drive across the Nullarbor to Melbourne. They were “homeless migrants” but for Hyland it was “all pretty normal – not alarming. I liked all the drama.”

Hyland thinks it made her a writer, although her childhood was largely without books. She reckons that she read less than a dozen books before she was 13 and those she did were “mostly Enid Blyton”.

The family stayed in Melbourne – but not together. Hyland is estranged from her brother, now back in Dublin, and she says her father recently served time for armed robbery.

“He went into a 7-Eleven holding a sign saying it was a hold-up,” she says. “I don’t think he had a weapon. He’s not aggressive, but he’s got a gambling and alcohol problem.” She doesn’t feel she ever knew him, only glimpsing the man he might have been. “He was pissed all the time so I didn’t really know what he was like.”

Her mother was the strong one. Stricken by polio as a child, she was hospitalised from six to 16, “but she kept the family going. She worked as a secretary all her life. She’s an incredibly strong person.” Hyland struggled academically before being accepted as an exchange student in America at 16. The host family had a “house full of books” and the experience gave her the resolve “not to end up like my father”.

Back in Melbourne, she began elocution lessons to straighten our her accent and got a series of part-time jobs. She excelled at school and gained a place to study law at Melbourne University. After graduating she was offered a job with a prestigious law firm. However, despite the drama in her early life she describes it as “the pinnacle of misery” and “the worst year of my life”. She resigned but continued working in law.

While she did that, she helped found a literary magazine, Nocturnal Submissions, which she ran for eight years until 1997. But she is not sure if it was time well spent. “A lot of [the writing] was vile – utterly execrable. Too many people use writing as a confessional. Reading it does not leave you with the energy to write.”

Hyland now teaches creative writing at Melbourne University and is working on a second novel. She doesn’t have to practise law. Still, she says with some regret that her legal practising certificate recently expired: “Law gave me some structure … all these rules and internal disciplines.” But writing is satisfying in a more primal way. “I’ve never experienced writer’s block,” she says. “When it’s going really well my body temperature goes up and I’m literally flushed. I get quite delirious.”

As a writer, Hyland prefers to be known by her initials to escape the constraints of gender. She is also ambivalent about nationality, for her childhood has left her with a wanderer’s heart. “I might live in Manhattan or Edinburgh or Cardiff,” she says. “I think of myself as without nationality.”

How the Light Gets In, by M.J. Hyland, is published by Penguin, $22.95.

Best Australian Essays 2004 has a piece by Hyland in it, also about her life, and you can see it online here.

The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion

This has been reviewed a gadzillion times in the press and online. A few notes….

It doesn’t surprise me, having read a little of the background of this once I finished the book, that it was intended as a screenplay. It is sloppy as a novel and, as many have mentioned, once it moves to NY, the story really becomes a corny romance.

However, I am surprised to see it is considered chicklit, it deserves better. It is hilarious from that fabulous start: ‘I may have found a solution to the Wife Problem.’ I can see why it’s described as that old-fashioned thing, a screwball comedy.

It is impossible to write a book like this without having to endure the moral considerations. Is it okay to write about weird people if one isn’t weird (perhaps the author is?)?. Is it a politically correct portrayal of Aspergers if the person does have Aspergers? Some people who deal with it at close quarters say yes, others no. I don’t really understand why books (etc) have to be scrutinised in this way, why characters have to be labelled, why they have to receive approval. This is a book about a weird guy. He is inadvertently funny. As the story develops it may be that he plays up on that on purpose, making him advertently funny. The situations are funny. They are described in funny ways. The author’s had fun. Probably his lucky proofreader had fun too.

The darn thing’s funny, really funny, most of the time. That should be enough.  It’s enough for me.

 

The spoiler: Disappearing off the face of the earth by David Cohen part two

I had a friend in Geneva who went from close to cutting me off when she read my review of The Sea, The Sea, The Sea (repeated to taste) by Iris Murdoch. She was a Murdoch fan. She was deeply hurt by a review which made fun of her idol. Although at the time I thought she was an idiot, the fact is that books we love hold a place in our heart which overtake rationality. I love this book, and it pains me to think that there are people out there who don’t get it.

When I wrote my review of this a few days ago, I was reluctant to give anything away that would cause one to know too much of the book prior to reading it. However, I can see that this has led to not enough information in some respects. So, this is the spoiler and the upgrade, since I gave this four stars at the time, whilst wishing I could give it five.

More than one nimwit has read this book thinking that they ‘got’ the twist early on and that therefore this book has failed. But this book is not meant to have a twist. The point of the book is that it is about a person with schizophrenia. He doesn’t know that – but can he know it? Can the part of him that we are barracking for, the part telling the story, understand what is happening and therefore do something about it?

Much as the book may be comic, it has this disarmingly sad fundament. We are hoping the best for a serial killer, who is so ordinary he could be anybody. The author has produced a dysfuntional serial killer we can all love and relate to in no different a way from relating to the family in The Castle.

It is possible that only Australians will get that. We are particularly tolerant and have a sense of humour which permits this book to be what it is. But I encourage non-Australians to read it and attempt to enter the spirit of the exercise. If, however, you are wanting a book that has a clever twist that you don’t get until the very end – or at all – then this book is not for you.

It’s Fine By Me by Per Petterson

Do brutal climate and harsh environs inevitably lead to such stories? Auden is a survivor. The question is whether he will escape as well as survive. This is a grim story of abuse, alcoholism, dead-end jobs, petty town mentalities. But above it is a level of joy for the reader in the lovely prose, the simple, minimal way in which Petterson does his work. And surely the one will transcend the other by the end leading to something like a happy future. Auden’s a reader and in his heart he’s a writer. Could the author really leave the hopes of this young man and the reader dashed?

Maybe. I’m not going to give that away. Suffice to say I read this with my heart in my mouth, during the course of today. It’s short and very difficult to put down.

Petterson’s on two out of two with me.

Disappearing off the face of the earth by David Cohen part one

I write a spoiler sort of review of this here.

I think it’s safe to say, having read this over the course of a day, that it’s the perfect easy read. An equal mix of suspense, pathos, great characters and humour including laugh out loud precise comic timing. On top of which it’s splendidly Australian.

Over the last months, having followed the experiences of a friend with a book in the Australian best seller lists for the unusually long period of a couple of months, it has become evident to me in a more real way than previously that it’s a cut-throat world out there for the author. Once your book drops off the lists and that happens almost immediately post publication, it becomes near impossible to get a copy. Perhaps this is a reason to be thankful for the large online booksellers and databases.

What chance does this give a book such as this of big success? Approximately zero. But what a shame. I don’t want to talk about the story, it’s to be left to the reader to find that out. I can, however, give this four stars, which from me is high praise indeed.

My best guess is that sometime in the future, and I’m afraid that will be about thirty years, that this will become one of those little revived classics that clever people on goodreads write about knowingly.

Well, come on goodreaders. Beat the rush. Be different. Read it now!

 

Black Mirror by Gail Jones

Early on I almost gave up on this. I started keeping a list on the endpapers of some of the use of language that particularly irked me. Her language is rendered beautiful by its ornate imprecise superfluity. Overall I disagree with this approach. Language can be beautiful without being overdone. If this book had been a picture I would have hated it. Far from adding clarity, her overuse of words led to ambiguity which I do not believe was intentional.

I had never heard of the well-known Gail Jones until I went to see her talk with Coetzee and others recently. Her voice was odd and not entirely pleasing to me. Yet I wanted to listen. Strangely, that seems to reflect her style of writing, if this book is to be the judge.

I don’t believe that the structure of the book worked either. It was too unbalanced. There was no real interaction between the two main characters to justify that structure. Nor am I convinced by the panorama of it all. The wide range of the period, throw in Melbourne, WA mining town, the Surrealists having a ball in France. World War II. London then, London now. Not surprisingly perhaps, I found her most convincing in Australia – the parts set in Melbourne and WA are best.

All this we could sum up as ‘trying too hard’.

Having said all that, there were long moments where the elegiac style was perfect. She created vivid pictures of everything she described and characterisation was less convincing but not awful.

Overall one sees the potential of the author in this first novel and one reads it expecting more of future efforts. I will try another to test this theory.