| Page Contents | ||
|---|---|---|
| Aravind Adiga | The White Tiger | 2008 |
Literary fiction. This book is a rant against, and explanation of, corruption in modern India, but what you might like, and even might give you ideas, is the way it's done. The book consists of a series of transcriptions of emails in which an Indian chauffeur tells a Chinese diplomat, in darkly humourous style, about his life. Addressing a diplomat allows the author to address the reader naturally, not as a break from the conventions of a straightforward narrative.
One day, as I was driving my ex-employers Mr Ashok and Pinky Madam in their Honda City car, Mr Ashok put a hand on my shoulder, and said, "Pull over to the side." Following this command, he leaned forward so close that I could smell his aftershave - it was a delicious, fruitlike smell that day - and said, politely as ever, "Balram, I have a few questions to ask you, all right?"
| Harlan Coben | The Innocent | 2005 |
Crime fiction. Coben throws together complex medleys of ordinary(ish) characters in extraordinary situations, and lets them dance at speed. In this, his twelfth novel, his aims are most successful, so it's his most satisfying, which gives you, reader, a quandary: if you read this first, and feel unquenched, the others will pall, albeit not badly; if you read another title, and feel lukewarm, you won't want to read another one, so won't experience this peak. On the other hand, you may end up with a different view entirely.
"She had stopped breathing. We tried mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions. ... I was the one who did the chest compressions and. ..." Her voice trailed off.
"And that was when you realised that Sister Mary Rose had breast implants?"
| Andrew Davidson | The Gargoyle | 2008 |
Fine fiction. The "spoiler free" promise makes it difficult to write about this peculiar novel, so I'll leave you to start from page one not knowing what it's about. Here's the first sentence:
Accidents ambush the unsuspecting, often violently, just like love.
| Arnaldur Indridason | Voices | 2003 |
Crime fiction; translated from Icelandic. This is an intelligent read: a traditional detective story, founded on thought not action and gore, yet modern too, with exotic names and cool facts in passing about Iceland. Also recommended: "The Draining Lake" and "Hypothermia".
"Prostitutes?" Sigurdur Oli repeated. "Hookers? Do you think there are any here?"
Erlendur nodded. "They do a lot of missionary work in hotels."
| Elmore Leonard | Freaky Deaky | 1988 |
Crime fiction. Typically, Leonard tells stories of criminals perpetrating crimes against other criminals, who scammed their money from the undeserving wealthy, thereby pitching three or more steps away from ethics. No mystery, no detection, just cool yarns and cooller dialogue. He's been losing shelf space in the bookshops in recent years, a symptom perhaps of his novels' colloquial cultural references. You don't have to read this one: you'd be unlucky to pick up a poor Leonard at random.
Skip said, "You're working me over like you used to and I love it. Getting me to play your dirty tricks on those boys. ... But just suppose for a minute, what if it wasn't Woody and Mark that got us busted?"
Robin's face came down close. He could feel her breath. In the moment before she put her mouth on his, Skip heard her say, "What difference does it make?"
| Robert Ludlum | The Bourne Identity | 1980 |
This masterful thriller is woven with motifs of, uh, identity and paranoia. Ludlum neared this uncharacteristic height with the later "The Prometheus Deception".
"I asked you what your name was."
The stranger moved his head and stared at the white wall streaked with shafts of morning light. Then he turned back, his blue eyes levelled at the doctor. "I don't know."
| Stef Penney | The Tenderness of Wolves | 2005 |
Fine fiction. Novels set in frozen wastelands fill you with images of vast white spaces broken by brittle trees and silent, circling birds. In landscapes as raw and unremitting as that, you can't help but face yourself. Meanwhile, you're reading the story.
The country to the north of here is a mean land that is either bog or stones, where even the willows and tamaracks cannot take hold. But near the river the soil is soft and deep, the forest around it so dark green it is almost black, and the sharp scented silence feels as deep and endless as the sky.
| Donna Tartt | The Secret History | 1992 |
Literary fiction. Suffused with amorality and erudition, this long tale, narrated by a male, captures the mentality of the clever, wayward student. It's also wonderfully readable, classic English.
"What are you doing up here?" said Bunny, surprised, when he found the four of us waiting for him.
"Why, looking for new ferns," said Henry.
© Stephen Balmer