I went to Book Slam last week. For those of you who don't know it Book Slam is 'London's Best Literary Nightclub' according to the blurb. Its moved to the Tabernacle in Notting Hill and whilst I'm still debating if I prefer the cleaner, more theatrical and grand looking venue to its dark, dirty predecessor there's no doubt that Book Slam still rocks.
Thursday saw readings from poet Robin Robertson and author Joshua Ferris. Music came from the talented Tawiah.
Robin Robertson's Scottish drawl and dry wit had me captivated. He started with "Most of my poems are about drink, sex and death. It's vital they're kept in that order." Beat. "For legal reasons." Robin lived up to his word with a poem about an artichoke which was a barely disguised euphemism for, well a "stub root" as he affectionately called it.
Patrick Neate, the brainchild behind the night and occasional, host took to the stage in his usual non-style. Clutching at a can of beer he barely concealed his discomfort at having to stand in the spotlight. This familiar style is endearing (he'd probably hate that) and was particularly so when he mentioned that he was doing a book signing. He cringed and muttered and finished by saying "I hate myself a little now." Still I don't think anyone else felt the same way. I for one miss him when he gets a professional to take to the stage.
Anyway after Robin came Joshua Ferris reading from his new novel, The Unnamed, a novel about a man, Tim Farnsworth, with a psychological disorder that causes him to walk. This compulsion to walk can strike at any time and he has no power to stop it. Joshua read from the start of the novel in which Tim has been to see another doctor who has suggested a new cure.
Certainly the premise was interesting and I came away wondering whether Tim was ever going to be cured of his malady however I'm not sure I'm going to buy it... I'll keep you posted.
Showing posts with label book slam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label book slam. Show all posts
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Sunday, 21 February 2010
A Review
I've just finished reading If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things By Jon McGregor.
I know this it isn't his latest novel, that being Only The Dogs which I saw him read an extract from at Book Slam and which disturbed me with its harrowing depiction of the heroin trade which he described in detail, from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the heroin addict jacking up in a phone box no longer in control of his bodily functions. I digress and actually it is worth pointing out that If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things is not as dark as Only The Dogs, far from it in fact.
The opening lines from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things are 'If you listen you can hear it. The city, it sings.', this description could be applied to McGregor's prose because this book, it sings. The residence of the street that is the focus of the novel are described in such exquisite detail that I felt I was there, with them, waiting for the impending tragedy that overshadows the story from the outset. There is a the dad with the disfigured face which we learn was burned when he tried to save his wife from a fire. There is the family who let their boys roam the streets playing havoc. There is the protagonist, a lonely girl who finds herself pregnant after a one night stand. Then there is the motif of twins that follows us through the novel and is crystallised in an ending that surprised me so much I had to read it a few times to take it in.
These stories are pieces of the collage that McGregor creates to give us insight into everyday lives. Indeed the 'remarkable things' of the title are the everyday occurrences that we take for granted. Simple acts, thoughts, encounters all play to this theme. Beautiful and nuanced this is a book worth reading.
I know this it isn't his latest novel, that being Only The Dogs which I saw him read an extract from at Book Slam and which disturbed me with its harrowing depiction of the heroin trade which he described in detail, from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the heroin addict jacking up in a phone box no longer in control of his bodily functions. I digress and actually it is worth pointing out that If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things is not as dark as Only The Dogs, far from it in fact.
The opening lines from If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things are 'If you listen you can hear it. The city, it sings.', this description could be applied to McGregor's prose because this book, it sings. The residence of the street that is the focus of the novel are described in such exquisite detail that I felt I was there, with them, waiting for the impending tragedy that overshadows the story from the outset. There is a the dad with the disfigured face which we learn was burned when he tried to save his wife from a fire. There is the family who let their boys roam the streets playing havoc. There is the protagonist, a lonely girl who finds herself pregnant after a one night stand. Then there is the motif of twins that follows us through the novel and is crystallised in an ending that surprised me so much I had to read it a few times to take it in.
These stories are pieces of the collage that McGregor creates to give us insight into everyday lives. Indeed the 'remarkable things' of the title are the everyday occurrences that we take for granted. Simple acts, thoughts, encounters all play to this theme. Beautiful and nuanced this is a book worth reading.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
