David Eagleman's deceptively simple scenarios in this collection of short stories can be read in a few ways. As the wanderings of a very imaginative mind. Or the musings of a neuroscientist (which is what he is) about the correlation between the mind, the body and the soul. Or a man who's just trying to remind us to stop griping and be grateful for all the many little things we take for granted, 'cos life really ain't that bad. Read it whichever way you like. You'll still be amused no doubt. - Fran
Imagine multiple afterlives. Imagine they are not as usually portrayed - not just harps and angels and pearly gates. One of them is a waiting room. This is where you go and you must wait, and wait, and wait. Until your name is no longer spoken on the earthly plane. Otherwise, you're stuck.
David Eagleman's deceptively simple scenarios in this collection of short stories can be read in a few ways. As the wanderings of a very imaginative mind. Or the musings of a neuroscientist (which is what he is) about the correlation between the mind, the body and the soul. Or a man who's just trying to remind us to stop griping and be grateful for all the many little things we take for granted, 'cos life really ain't that bad. Read it whichever way you like. You'll still be amused no doubt. - Fran
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I really, really enjoyed this book. Read it in two days I did. Was transported to Mississippi circa 1960s, into leafy suburbs with rusty Cadillacs lining dust streets, where at any moment I imagined Willem Dafoe and Gene Hackman's FBI agents would turn round the corner and would not be amiss. A story with believable, likeable protagonists, and where a few 'villains' are, it must be given, wafer thin in terms of personality or character development. Nevertheless, a story with heart and a good handful of twists and turns to keep the page turning. And I ended up rooting for a good ending for all the long-suffering, tough-as-old-boots, indomitable women who inhabited this novel. In fact, I 'saw' the entire book in my mind's eye as a Hallmark/HBO mini series with Oprah or Lisa Bonnet on the cast. Nothing wrong with that. Visceral, visual and exhilarating. - Fran
My all time favourite!
It's Saturday evening. Really I should be lying on the couch, catching up with my SKY box, watching recorded episodes of The Good Wife, Britain's Got Talent, or even Randy Jackson: America's Best Dance Crew... there's only 3% space left for recording, so I have a lot of viewing to do. Instead, I am sitting in front of my PC, pouring through publishers' back lists and trawling through my memory for favourite books to put on our international list of must-have books. Shivaun and I have decided we should each focus on our repective strengths. She's great at American, European, African and Middle Eastern authors. I, on the other hand, have a little more knowledge about Chinese and Japanese authors. This is because, in my younger days, I went through a Sino and Japanese phase. I remember how it all began. I was in the library and the cover of Yukio Mishima's Sound of Waves had caught my eye. I was 13. From then on, until about 21, I read works by quite a number of Japanese authors - Tanizaki, Kawabata, Akutagawa, even the really old classics - Murasaki's Tale of Genji and also the lesser known Tale of Heike. (I must say I actually liked Heike more than Genji. While the former dwells on the intricacies of court life, I enjoyed the historical sweep of Heike; it's an epic tome involving clan rivalry, samurai battles, honour and betrayal.) I even remember the first time I read Haruki Murakami's Pinball, 1973 and Norwegian Wood. I think this was in 1988 or 1989. A Japanese friend had bought them for me. They were English translations but unlike usual paperbacks had soft paper covers, and inside, neat, small print on soft, smooth yellow paper, typical of Japanese novels and manga, measuring only about 3.5 inches wide and 5 inches long. These stories blew me away.
And so, here I am, 20 years later, asking myself, what books will I select for the international selection bookshelves in our store? What would best represent a good cross-section of Japanese and Chinese literature? As a rule of thumb, I think they have to be pretty memorable. For example, I found myself searching for Ryunosuke Akutagawa's story The Dragon. I remember it almost as if I had read it yesterday. So surely that's got to be on the shelves. Then there's the heartwarming, heartbreaking autobiography Six Records of A Floating Life by Shen Fu, which was originally published in the 1870s. This book taught me that lesbianism was pretty common and accepted among the gentry, and dispelled for me the general notion that historically Chinese men perceived their wives as chattel. Instead (yes!) love was alive and kicking, and Shen Fu's outpouring of love for his wife is an amazing testament to read. What can I say? I hope some of the books I select will warm the hearts and stir the curiosity of others as they have done me. Now it's off to the back lists I go, or maybe, just maybe I should nick downstairs and reacquaint myself with my SKY box. - Fran You know I haven't read fiction in quite a while, and I found myself feeling quite tentative when I decided to foray back into this genre. I'm not really sure why but I tend to go through spells when it comes to reading. If I'm doing non-fiction, that's all I do for a while, and over the last couple of years, it's been nothing but non-fiction, history or self development stuff. But hey, you have to hand it to the publishers, Sceptre. The blurb on the back cover of The Other Hand reads more like an instruction manual than a synopsis, and it caught my eye. It's cleverly worded and potential buyers are admonished to not tell others what it's about after they've read it. So... like the good girl I am, I will not spoil it for anyone else. Except to say that when I read the first paragraph, I knew I had to buy it. The book starts like this: Most days I wish I was a British pound coin instead of an African girl. Everyone would be pleased to see me coming. Maybe I would visit with you for the weekend and then suddenly, because I am fickle like that, I would visit with the man from the corner shop instead - but you would not be sad because you would be eating a cinnamon bun, or drinking a cold Coca Cola from the can, and you would never think of me again. We would be happy, like lovers who met on holiday and forgot each other's names. Now, who can resist an opener like this? I couldn't. It's a cleverly told tale about two women, who meet under extraordinary circumstances, and who years later, meet again. While the storyline is certainly engrossing, I enjoyed the book in large part because of Chris Cleave's mastery of imagery and the way in which he uses words in telling this unusual story. I remember the last time I felt such admiration was when I read Arthur Golden's 'Memoirs of a Geisha.' But beyond all that, The Other Hand also paints a vivid picture of the trials and tribulations faced by an asylum seeker. Oops, I hope I haven't given too much away. This is definitely a worthy read. - Fran Thus far I've left all the blogging to Fran. Let's face it, she's far better equipped for the task than I will ever be. She carries her camera with her as a matter of habit, ever ready to whip it out and capture aspects of the world around her which link to her current passions. Besides she usually manages to get the object of her attentions within the frame, whereas I invariably focus on legs or ceilings. She's an old hand at Twitter and Facebook and actually remembers all the relevant passcodes and how to navigate between sites. For some time now she's been saying, 'You know you can add a blog if you like.'
So here it is: This morning I awoke early to the sound of rain (in June!) and couldn't get back to sleep. I glanced over at my nightstand and realised I had no less than twenty-eight books sitting there gathering dust. I am actually reading about four of them. I then looked over at the dresser and saw another thirty or so volumes; the bedroom, much like every other space in our home is beginning to resemble a makeshift bookshop, one good reason to own one I guess. Another rationale for our latest venture is that I can't actually pass a bookshop without entering... and purchasing. I tend to judge the ciites I visit and remember them by their bookshops. Shakespeare and Co in Paris, Books and Books in Miami, The Book Lounge in Cape Town and Daunt in London are among my favourites. It is exciting to think that we might create a similar space of our own. When I enter bookshops, subconsciously perhaps, I am looking for the theme or the essence of the place. This is written not only into the selection on offer, but also into the decor, the ambience and, of course, the people who own and run it. I want to know what they like, in effect, who they are. Just as clothes, cars, homes reveal the identities of their owners, so too with books. For what's it's worth, following are a selection of books that have moved or struck me over the past few months. An Unfinished Business by Boualem Sansal, banned in his native Algeria for his criticizing the government. This book is about two Algerian brothers living in Paris who discover some disturbing truths about their father's Nazi past and undertake a foreboding journey home. I read it in two sittings. Everything is Connected, a memoir on the power of music to speak to all aspects of the human being: the animal, the emotional, the intellectual and the spiritual by conductor Daniel Barenboim. Love Begins in Winter, heartbreaking stories about people for whom chance meetings with strangers force them to face responsibility for lives they believed had continued on without them, by Simon Van Booy. The Armies, about the violent life of a small, fictional Columbian town by Evelio Rosero Last Night on Earth, a chronicle of the life and experiences of choreographer Bill T. Jones and my favourite -- Wandering Star, the moving story of two women, one Jewish, one Palestianian, caught up in the turmoil of the Middle East, but who aspire for peace by J.M.G. Le Clezio. Reading through these I am aware that they are all by male writers. Not intentional, I promise. - Shivaun |
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