Casino Royale - Ian Fleming

Despite being thoroughly upstaged by the movies, the first Bond novel is still regarded as important for its influence on later adventure writers. Its a Cold War updating of the John Buchan model, with less humour, more brutality and dismal misogyny. Not a great leap forward, then.

Least expected word: crackleware.

The Birth of Sydney - Tim Flannery (ed.)

This is an entertaining and enlightening anthology of documents relating to the early days of Sydney - letters, journal entries, governmental decrees and later published works by Trollope and Twain. I liked the earlier stuff better, which offers a tantalising glimpse of the first settlers attempts to build a relationship with the Eora people before European expansion caused inevitable conflict and ultimate tragedy.

This is my favourite excerpt, describing a very early encounter between some whitefellas and the locals:

They wanted to know of what sex we were, which they explained by pointing to where it was distinguishable, as they took us for women, not having our beards grown. I ordered one of the people to undeceive them in this particular, when they made a great shout of admiration...

The Winter Queen - Boris Akunin

This is a fun detective/adventure romp distinguished by its interesting setting - 1870s Russia. The characters and plot are engaging and surprises come up regularly, in particular the shocking and downbeat ending.

The Elected Member - Bernice Rubens

This won the Booker in 1970, so I thought I'd give it a go but to be honest it was a bit of a trudge. It reads like a British, Jewish, not very good version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - there's even a vulnerable young psychiatric patient named Billy. There are some plot developments that are promising but go nowhere in particular.

Oh well.

On Beauty - Zadie Smith

Ever since I got into David Lodge in my mid-teens I have had a soft spot for the campus novel, in which academic debate and sexual comedy provide a heady mix. This is a great recent example of the blend, made all the more pleasurable by its explicit debt to E.M. Forster. Only Connect, and all that.

The two feuding families at the heart of the story are well delineated and appealing, and the gradual exposure of their hypocrisies and fallibility rings true. The plotting is neatly done, with some expectations fulfilled and others subverted to marvellously satisfying effect.

Rameau's Nephew - Denis Diderot

An amusing dialogue between the conventional "me" and the amoral "him". Much of it was lost on me, but its fun nevertheless.

The Sea - John Banville

Lots of people say this book is a slog, and I can see why – the plot is pretty insubstantial, and there is a tendency to use words I didn’t understand or unusual formulations which personally I found fascinating – “unwarm lips”, “misfortunate”.

I was reminded of Proust, Nabokov and Beckett’s Malone Dies. This is not fancy prose for the sake of itself, but produced in order to service a meditative, occasionally humorous and extremely moving evocation of grief and memory. Remarkable.

Here’s a flavour:

My life seemed to be passing before me, not in a flash as it is said to do for those about to drown, but in a sort of leisurely convulsion, emptying itself of its secrets and its quotidian mysteries in preparation for the moment when I must step into the black boat on the shadowed river with the coin of passage cold in my already coldening hand.

Breakfast of Champions - Kurt Vonnegut

In which I found all of the wisdom, charm and moments that inspire a mile-wide grin that I have come to expect from Vonnegut. It's a loose and unusual plot featuring many of Vonnegut's regulars - Kilgore Trout is a major character - with the added bonus of lots of illustrations.

A common technique used throughout the book is to describe simple things that we take for granted as if to a child or a martian, challenging any assumptions that the reader will naturally be burdened by. It works superbly.

"We are healthy only to the extent that our ideas are humane."

The Unknown Terrorist - Richard Flanagan

It's all in the dedication - "For David Hicks".

Flanagan is out to attack the Australian government's Orwellian attacks on our freedom and the mechanisms which make this possible - consumerism, a corrupt media, the constant stoking of fear. Whilst not disagreeing with his thesis, the shrill polemic is often simple-minded and, worse, it derails the book as a work of fiction.

The plot is a schematic tale of a pole-dancer known as "the Doll" who is inadvertently caught up in a terrorism investigation. The story requires her to be somewhat dim, but the political agenda requires her to express profound insights into her plight. As a result, neither character nor situation convince on any level.

A Tale of a Tub – Jonathan Swift

This isn’t an easy read, partly thanks to the archaic language but mainly due to the fact that it is an extended satirical allegory on the state of the church in the early eighteenth century. Frankly, not my strong point. Nevertheless, Swift’s prose is pungently entertaining and there are lots of good jokes.

(I also read the brief “A Modest Proposal” which is a classic of satire – savage, hilarious and shocking, I humbly suggest you read it.)

Perdido Street Station – China Miéville

If you are the kind of person who enjoys books that begin with a map of an imaginary place (which, on occasion, I am), then you are likely to find this a highly impressive achievement. It’s a science fiction/fantasy/horror hybrid, set in the sprawling city of New Crobuzon – think Ankh-Morpork* spliced with the Alien movies. Miéville’s loving, hustle-bustle descriptions of the city read like the psychogeographies of Iain Sinclair (“a subversive topography” etc) and are almost as well-written and entertaining.

The story is less gripping, at times coming across like a retelling of a session in a role-playing game, complete with pedantic detail, incredible coincidences and characters switching from genius to imbecilic as dictated by plot requirements. The ending is a real downer, too.

Most of the fun is in the incidentals. I particularly enjoyed a digression concerning “His Infernal Excellency, the Ambassador of Hell.”

An exceptional example of, ahem, “speculative fiction”.

*If you don’t know where Ankh-Morpork is, then you are unlikely to enjoy this kind of book. Trust me.