A Year in Books 2017

It's time to look back at another year in books. Happily I did a bit better with my reading in 2017 than I did in 2016.

In 2017 I read 17, 894 pages in 100 books. Not a bad effort. Up from the 11, 075 in 2016, but not at the dizzying heights of 2015 (20,061).

That 100 books in 2017 is no small coincidence. I had set my Goodreads target to 100 for the year, and for most of the year I was keeping up and on track but things unwound a little in the last few months of the year, and I had to make a concerted effort in late December to get to that magical 100. I did it with 50 minutes to spare! A close call indeed.

I wasn't particularly great at rating or reviewing books in 2017. Some of these I did give 5 stars at the time, some have just really stuck with me.

Scrappy Little Nobody. Anna Kendrick. Audio.

Florette. Anna Walker

The Remarkable Secret of Aurelie Bonhoffen. Deborah Abela. Audio

Maggot Moon. Sally Gardner. Audio. My Book of the Year. 

Don't Call Me Bear. Aaron Blabey

The Weight of a Human Heart. Ryan O'Neill

The Hidden Life of Trees. Peter Wohlleben. Audio

Tuck Everlasting. Natalie Babbitt

The Hate U Give. Angie Thomas

Burial Rites. Hannah Kent. Audio

Moonrise. Sarah Crossan

Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls. Elena Favilli and Francesca Cavallo

12 of my 100 reads were 5 stars.

5 Aussie books. 

4 Adult reads.

2 Picture Books. 

1 Verse Novel.

5 Audio Books. 

3 Nonfiction/memoir.

10 Female Authors.

3 Male Authors

9 New to Me Authors!

The Weight of a Human Heart had a big impact on my reading aspirations being the first short story collection that I've read in many a year. I have now amassed quite a number of short story collections (quite a number), I hope that more will be appearing in the best reads of 2018. 

Also interesting that 5 of my top 12 were audio books. I really have taken to them with gusto. I really loved all of those audio books. Maggot Moon was particularly stupendous of course, but the others are all fabulous. Burial Rites was magnificent and beautifully read, and it was wonderful to hear the Icelandic names and places pronounced rather than stumbling over them every time whilst reading. Noone could be more surprised than I was to actually listen to a celebrity memoir (it's not my thing) and then enjoying it so much. And The Hidden Life of Trees really changed how I view and think about trees. Did I even think about trees before? Not nearly as much. 

Rather incredibly I appear to have not read any Jackie French in 2017 so she can't make an appearance in this list. This is the first time that this has happened since lists began to be compiled. I shall have to rectify this terrible omission in 2018. 

Les Mis Chapter One Monsieur Myriel

I am so super excited at starting the Les Miserables Chapter-a-Day Readalong! I couldn't wait to start, so, soon after midnight in Australia I was delving in. I've had the 2012 Penguin Cloth Bound edition of the 1976 Norman Denny translation on the TBR for some time, and always figured that I would read it in my dotage (whenever that happy time comes). I ended up buying the more recent (2013) Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition Christine Donougher translation in the lead up to the read-along so I now have the two translations to chose from. 

Last night I read Fantine Chapter One Monsieur Myriel from both versions to see which one I favoured and which I will read. Both books are whoppers of course, both extremely difficult to manoeuvre whilst reading in bed. One hard back, one paper back. The hardback Denny has a nice ribbon, but feels more chunky in the hand. Both have smallish fonts but the Donougher feels easier on the eye, which is important given that it is 1416 pages long- making it the second longest book I've ever attempted- I did a short lived attempt at a read-along of the 1533 pages of Clarissa one year. Naturally I'm much more hopeful of success with Les Mis. 

And what of the translations themselves? Well there are obvious difference in style between the two, although the basic information conveyed is the same. The opening paragraph:

CD: In 1815, Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was bishop of Digne. He was an old man of about seventy five. He had been bishop of Digne since 1806.

ND: In the year 1815 Monsieur Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of Digne. He was then about seventy-five, having held the bishopric since 1806. 

From the original French according to Project Gutenberg.

En 1815, M. Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel était évêque de Digne. C'était un vieillard d'environ soixante-quinze ans; il occupait le siège de Digne depuis 1806.

The CD translation seems the more direct, while ND uses a more formal style perhaps. 

A random sentence:

CD: Monsieur Myriel had to undergo the fate of every newcomer to a small town where there are plenty of tongues given to wagging and very few minds given to reflection.


ND: He had to accept the fate of every newcomer to a small town where there are plenty of tongues that gossip and few minds that think. 


I think I feel inclined to continue with the more recent Christine Donougher translation at this stage. It reads more smoothly to me, and brings out the humour more. That view may change of course. I will miss the ribbon.

Given that the first book is entitled Fantine I find it somewhat unusual that the first chapter of Fantine and indeed the entire work is about someone else entirely. I realise he's setting the scene but it seems an odd place to start. Although it is reassuring that the Revolution is mentioned on page 1 and Napoleon just over the page on page 2. Napoleon always comes up. I asked a Parisian taxi driver about the taxi system once and he started talking about Napoleon!

In my somewhat bleary New Years Day early morning state I confused Digne with Dinde! Which means that I googled dinde. Dinde of course means turkey (the bird), I had been wondering why Monsieur Myriel would be the bishop of Turkey, but he is the bishop of Digne, and digne means worthy, so he is in fact the bishop of worthy, which is no doubt obvious to French readers. 

Whilst googling I found a great article from The Telegraph about the various French locations that Victor Hugo used in Les Miserables. I remembered my own visit to Musée Victor Hugo, and learnt that the 2012 movie was filmed in England. 

Even given that turkey confusion later today I'm going to give Monsieur Myriel a go en français! And also check out the audio version at Librivox (which is a rather old translation, 1887! by Isabel Florence Hapgood). Allons-y!

I Am, I Am, I Am

I grabbed I Am, I Am, I Am off a bookstore shelf when I was in Melbourne in August. I'd never heard of it then. But I was drawn in by that gorgeous cover, and the subtitle: Seventeen Brushes with Death. I Am, I Am, I Am is Maggie's first memoir after having seven novels published. I'd never heard of Maggie O'Farrell at that stage either, but I Am, I Am, I Am is so beautifully written that I'll certainly seek out her fiction when I can. 

I really love the way the book is designed and organised. Each of the seventeen brushes with death is a separate chapter, each a short story almost, named after the body part threatening her life and illustrated with gorgeous historic anatomic drawings. 

I don't often talk about my day job here (in fact I studiously avoid it), but I see life and death on a daily basis. It informs my outlook on the world, it is the lens through which I view the world, life and humanity, and must of necessity encase my reading of this book (well all of my reading actually, but particularly this type of book), and indeed was one of the reasons I was so drawn to it to start with. Seventeen brushes with death, seemed an almost improbable, unwieldy claim. Can anyone really be that unlucky? I tallied up mine- one definitely, maybe a few others. 

There is nothing unique or special in a near-death experience. They are not rare; everyone, I would venture, has had them, at one time or another, perhaps without even realising it. The brush of a van too close to your bicycle, the tired medic who realises that a dosage out to be checked one final time, the driver who has drunk too much and is reluctantly persuaded to relinquish the car keys, the train missed after sleeping through an alarm, the aeroplane not caught, the virus never inhaled, the assailant never encountered, the path not taken. We are, all of us, wandering about in a state of oblivion, borrowing our time, seizing our days, escaping our fates, slipping through loopholes, unaware of when the axe may fall. 

Some of Maggie's near-death experiences were more near than others, and sometimes she doesn't realise when death may have been near. 

She asks if I'll write about having septicaemia and I say no. I don't remember it. I was too young. And also I don't think I was in danger of dying, was I?

The chapter about her miscarriage is astonishing. Gut wrenching. 

It will be hard, every time, not to listen to the internal accusations of incompetency. Your body has failed at this most natural of functions; you can't even keep a foetus alive; you are useless; you are deficient as a mother, before you even were a mother. 

Maggie wonder why when "losing a baby, a foetus, an embryo, a child, a life, even at a very early stage, is a shock like no other" we don't talk about it more as a society. 

Why don't we talk about it more? Because it's too visceral, too private, too interior. These are people, spirits, wraiths, who never breathed air, never saw light. So invisible, so evanescent are they that our language doesn't even have a word for them. 

Maggie to this day deals with the ongoing consequences of a severe childhood illness and it is fascinating and humbling to read her words about that. 

You yourself know that a near-death experience changes you for ever: you come back from the brink altered, wiser, sadder. 

I Am, I Am, I Am ( a quote from The Bell Jar) is about much more than near-death, it is also about Maggie's life. Her childhood, her travels, her education ("an unremarkable degree in English literature"), her loves, her marriage, her family and friends. It is beautifully written. 

Something is moving within me, deep in the coiled channels of my stomach, something with claws, with fangs, with evil intent. It is gaining strength, I can feel it, drawing it off me. It is as though I have swallowed a demon, a restive one that turns and fidgets, scraping its scales against my innards. I must fold into myself, breathe, grip my hands into fists until the spasm passes. 

Although if someone in reality described their pain to me in that way I wouldn't be sure if the pain was in their belly, or in their head. Maggie is a tea abstainer as I am, and we both worked cleaning hotel rooms when young, although I was never to describe it as poetically as she does in the first few pages, making me gasp with recognition. 

All morning, I sift and organise and ease the lives of others. I clear away human traces, erasing all evidence that they have eaten, slept, made love, argued, washed, worn clothes, read newspapers, shed hair and skin and bristle and blood and toenails. 

I loved learning that anaphylaxis was "discovered" and named by French researcher Charles Richet during experiments on dogs in 1901. He was awarded the 1913 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for his work. Sadly he was a man of his time and was also president of the French Eugenics Society. 

We Come Apart

I was vaguely aware of this book when it was released earlier in the year, although I can't quite remember where I heard about it or saw it specifically. It caught my interest because it is a verse novel, and I do honestly enjoy them, but also because it has two authors, which is rather unusual. I bought it when I was in Sydney in November and snapped it up at Basement Books on sale. 

Sarah and Brian talk about collaborating

I was aware of both authors before this book. I've read a few of Sarah Crossan's books before. One (see my review). The Weight of Water. Moonrise, definitely my favourite so far (see my review), which means that Sarah has released two amazing verse novels this year. Brian Conaghan wrote The Bombs That Brought Us Together which I've bought (twice), but not yet read. 

We Come Apart is set in North London. Jess Clarke lives with her mother and stepfather, there are troubles at home and Jess has just been caught shoplifting and is ordered to attend a reparation scheme for 3 months of community service. At community service she meets Nicu Gabor, a Romanian boy who has recently come to London with his parents who has also been caught shoplifting. It's rather a grim life for both of them. 

I bet they don't live on grey estates
and eat Mars Bars for breakfast. 

The story is told in alternating chapters of Jess and Nicu's voices. It's really well integrated, really well done. Although I'm not sure about Nicu's voice. Naturally, Nicu doesn't have perfect English, and his chapters are written in stilted and incorrect language, which feels authentic but which made the reading voice in my head sound like Borat (yes I know, he's from Kazakhstan). 

Many peoples with much miserable in their heart,

many peoples with little monies,

all walking

up down

down up

stopping

starting 

again

again,

smoking in huddle group,

and

chatting in small circle.

Everyone watching everyone do same things. 

Peoples with no place to go for laughing and be

happy

Same as my old village.

The atmospheres, buildings and peoples 

in London North

is like giant rainbow. 

But

not beautiful colours

with golden treasure at end.

Is the rainbow with

white to grey to brown to black. 

But that is a minor quibble perhaps - even though it does make up half the book. Nico has a kind heart. The story swept me along and I read it in a few short days, even reading some before succumbing to the somewhat inevitable nap post Christmas lunch. 

We Come Apart has lots of great themes. Domestic Violence. Bullying. Hopelessness. Racism. Friendship. Love. Family obligation, and the differences of family expectations in different cultures. 

I can't put on a brave face and pretend that 

at the end of this 

things will be different.

Maybe for him they will be.

But for me 

they won't. 

Nothing's ever going to change. 

Of course Nicu does change things for Jess, but not in the way she, or I, expected. We Come Apart is Highly Recommended. 

Sour Tales for Sweethearts

I'm currently in a sprint to the finish to make my Goodreads goal for the year. I don't think I finished it last year. This year I really want to complete it. Sour Tales for Sweethearts is my 96th read for the year, so I have four to go to hit my target of 100. Desperate times call for desperate measures. So when my friend brought this pamphlet sized morsel along to bookgroup I knew I needed to read it. 

And I knew I was in for something different when I read the first line of The Hand. 

A young man asked a father for his daughter's hand, and received it in a box. 

Okay then. 

I've never read any Patricia Highsmith before. Of course I'm aware of some of her stories, but only through movie adaptations. I saw The Talented Mr Ripley whenever it came out, and never since, and I saw Carol at the movies recently- but that's it. I'd heard that she was a clever, good writer so I wasn't really prepared for my disappointment with this book. 

Sour Tales for Sweethearts is four short stories (most are really, really short), extracted from Little Tales of Misogyny, a collection published in 1977. 

The Hand
The Invalid, or, The Bed-Ridden
The Fully-Licensed Whore, or, The Wife
The Female Novelist

All are tales full of bizarre, nasty people doing bizarre, nasty things. And I didn't like any of them. I certainly didn't find any of the stories funny as the cover blurb suggested. Yes I can see what she is doing taking a literal view of asking for a daughter's hand in marriage, women who want to get married for spurious reasons and then do in their spouse. 

Now she could become a professional, with protection of the law, approval of society, blessing of the clergy, and financial support of her husband. 

But I can't understand how she ever sat down to write these stories. What was her inspiration? Well maybe The Hand. What if I take an expression literally? I didn't like the narrative style of The Hand, it seemed to have words missing, I got confused and I had to reread some of it to work out what she meant. 

Sadly I think it will be quite a while before I have another go at Patricia Highsmith, this was not a good taste test for me.

Our Souls At Night

I don't often take the opportunity to read a book in a day, or even have the possibility of reading a book in a day, but I'm so glad that I did with Our Souls At Night recently. It's an easy, quick and rather beautiful read.

I first heard about this book last year on The Bookclub (which sadly aired it's last ever episode last night), and they all loved it. "A beautiful plea for tolerance." I'd read another Kent Haruf book (Plainsong) quite some years ago, and remember enjoying it but not much more so I was keen to get to Our Souls at Night because I really liked the premise. 

In a small town in Colorado seventy year old widow Addie Moore approaches her neighbour Louis Waters for companionship at night. 

I mean we're both alone. We've been by ourselves for too long. For years. I'm lonely. I think you might be too. I wonder if you would come and sleep in the night with me. And talk. 

Addie and Louis have known each other at a distance for years, they knew each others deceased spouses and the major events of their lives in the way that people in a small town know each other. But now they are able to share their real stories, their history, their tragedies, their grief, their marriages.

We had that long time of joined life, even if it wasn't good for either of us. That was our history. 

Our Souls At Night is gentle and funny. It has a sparse and simple text without punctuation. 

So, life hasn't turned out right for either of us, not the way we expected, he said. 

I was a bit disappointed with the ending, I wanted better for the characters. Actually I was quite upset by it, Addie and Louis had really got under my skin, I liked them both. It felt like a Life of Pi Throw It Across the Room Moment, but it didn't spoil the whole after taste of the book like it did for Life of Pi. 

I've recently started listening my way through the marvellous Chat 10 Looks 3 podcast and Annabel has somewhat ruined this book for me with pointing out (rather correctly) how the title sounds when spoken by Australians. It's not good. 

Cat Person

Earlier this month a short story went viral. Yes. A short story went viral. I'm not sure that that has happened before. Cat videos certainly have, but Cat Person? Could it be the most talked about short story ever? The Guardian thinks so, although mentions Brokeback Mountain and The Lottery (see my review) as possible exceptions. 

Cat Person was published in The New Yorker and was soon taking the social media world by storm. Why? I'm still not exactly sure, but I thought I should check it out. 

Cat Person tells the story of a meeting between 20 year old uni student Margot and Robert, a somewhat older man who is a customer at the arthouse movie theatre where she works. Margot flirts with him over a box of Red Vines. Except Robert didn't notice that it was flirting, and neither did I to be honest. 

“That’s an . . . unusual choice,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually sold a box of Red Vines before.”

That's flirting these days? What follows is a rather improbable attraction between Margot and Robert, although each of them works things for their own advantage at times. Margot forges on with the relationship even though she has reservations. Neither of them is particularly likeable, although we feel more for Margot. 

He was tall, which she liked, and she could see the edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. But he was on the heavy side, his beard was a little too long, and his shoulders slumped forward slightly, as though he were protecting something.

I felt author Kristen Roupenian's presence too much, and could feel her manipulating both the situation and my feelings. At one stage Margot realises she may have put herself into physical danger. Margot and Robert "joke" about it. 

“It’s O.K.—you can murder me if you want,” she said, and he laughed and patted her knee.

Really? Would anyone actually say that? Out loud?

I was rather surprised that it became so sexually explicit, but then I haven't really read much fiction in the New Yorker before, I'm not sure what they usually run- I certainly wouldn't have bet it was this. Perhaps this is just short fiction in a post 50 Shades world? And no, I haven't read that either. 

In all, I just didn't really like Cat Person. Yes it has some interesting perspectives on modern relationships I guess, but I just didn't think it was that well written. I felt manipulated throughout, and it all seemed so improbable, even though I'm well aware that the improbable is really the norm. I do see however that when Margot has some misgivings at her situation but then ploughs on ahead with a particular course of action anyway and why many women relate to that. 

Kristen Roupenian is a PhD student at Harvard and has certainly made a splash with her first short story. She apparently has a short story collection in the works, and I imagine that will be published as soon as possible next year to ride the wave of publicity stemming from Cat Person becoming a hashtag. (Update Dec 20: Oh yeah- she's set- a bidding war for a short story collection! Surely another first?)

There's been a lot of talk and controversy about Cat Person. It seems women identify with Margot and her actions, and it has struck a #MeToo chord. It also has people behaving badly, relationship by texting, fat shaming and many other modern concerns.

ABC

NYT
SMH

The Guardian

Vox (which gives some other short story suggestions)
There's even been interest in the Cat Person photo. It's actually a real couple recreating Robert's bad kiss. I wonder what the couple think of that?