BOOKS @ VOLUME #76.
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![]() | The Shadow Cipher ('York' #1) by Laura Ruby {Reviewed by STELLA} It’s New York, but not as you know it. Laura Ruby’s new series 'York' is an intriguing story about three children trying to save a building from developers. The book opens with a scene set in 1855 - a feisty young woman, Ava, is getting the better of a man who has followed her through the streets of New York. He’s after information about her employers, the famous Morningstarr twins. The genius twins were great inventors and magnificent engineers. They created mechanical machines (bugs and caterpillars) that cleaned the streets, underways and overways with sleek silver carriages, solar winged cars, buildings with complex elevators that go every which way, and other mechanical wonders and automata. The action quickly moves to present-day New York where Tess and Theo Biedermann (geeky twins named after the Morningstarrs) live in a Morningstarr building. Determined not to be booted out of their building, they get together with fellow resident and friend Jamie and set about solving a puzzle, The Old York Cipher, a puzzle that people have been trying to solve for over one hundred years. There are clues all over New York; there is even a dedicated society that spends hours collecting information and analysing the clues in a giant and wondrous archive. Yet few have got beyond the first clue. Tess, Theo and Jamie are great characters who bounce off each other and offer different perspectives to solve the cipher. The first of this trilogy, this book is called The Shadow Cipher, which implies that it’s possible that everyone’s been looking in the wrong places, or maybe there’s more than one cipher. This sets up the series nicely and leaves enough hanging to keep you looking forward to the next volumes. Add to this cross-bred and genetically altered ‘pets’ or ‘service animals’ - Tess has a wonder cat-wolf called Nine; a whole host of great side characters - the younger children in the apartment building, Cricket - a imaginative, sly and sharp six year old - and her brother Otto (a ninja, of course); the very tall Mr Stoop and very short Mr. Pinscher, henchmen of the property developer, Slant; and a fantastical New York dotted with the Morningstarrs' technology, and plenty of city history woven into the story line. An enjoyable, page-turning adventure with clues, mysteries, strange consequences and extremely likeable characters. |
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Not to Read by Alejandro Zambra {Reviewed by THOMAS}
“I am writing with a great deal of ease and fluidity. One must distrust that,” wrote Clarice Lispector, quoted by the Chilean Alejandro Zambra in one of the essays in this highly enjoyable collection of literary observations on, ostensibly, some of the more interesting largely (but not exclusively) Latin American literature of the last quarter century, literature that distrusts, as Zambra dismisses, the clichéed fluidity of the ‘Magic Realists’ most readily (and lazily) associated with Latin American literature by Western readers. Zambra instead values literature that is hesitant, inventive, always aware of new possibilities, mentally and linguistically supple, striving always towards new forms. “All great works of literature either dissolve a genre or invent one,” wrote Walter Benjamin (not quoted by Alejandro Zambra (at least not in this book)). Because the reviews collected here are often of books the reader of Not to Read has not read and by authors with whom the reader (at least this reader) is unfamiliar, the reader at the outset may think they might skip quite a bit of the book, to make reading faster, but Zambra’s book is too interesting, too nicely written, and too enjoyable. There are indeed considerations of many authors the reader has not heard of, but the essays deliver the same fascination as reading Borges’s studies of nonexistent books (Borges thought it more worthwhile, and faster, to write about books that do not exist than to write the books themselves), with the added benefit that, just possibly, works by these authors may already be, or may one day be, available in English. At the very least, one reads to read about the writing and reading of texts, which is, after all, the most interesting thing to read about. The reader might have thought that skipping might save time, but the text runs so lightly and so sprightlyly that the reader is in any case carried forward more rapidly by following the text than they would have proceeded had it been possible to skip. The essays and reviews included inNot to Read also function as a sort of literary autobiography of Zambra himself, his concerns, approaches, influences and motivations, and provide a greater appreciation of his other work, direct yet subtle, playful yet poignant, personal yet politically and socially acute, compact yet wonderfully expansive. Zambra recommends books we are sure that we will like, even though we may never get to read them, but, more importantly, the reasons for his recommendations, his observations on and his responses to these books, provide a portrait of a reader we come quickly to admire, and who we as readers may well wish to be more like, as well as of a writer alert to the possibilities of writing. Zambra is frequently very funny, as he is in the title essay ‘Not to Read’, which starts out as a review of Pierre Bayard’s How to Talk About Books You Have Not Read, which Zambra has himself not read, and carries on to become a deliciously prickly lampoon of opinions formed of books without reading them, intercut with seemingly very valid reasons not to read some writers’ books. Zambra’s concision and lightness (Zambra is an exemplar of the literary qualities Italo Calvino thought most important in his Six Memos for a New Millennium) can produce beautiful sentences, such as this one on Santiago, quivering with a sensitivity that undercuts ease and fluidity and leaves us utterly aware: “It’s the city that we know, the city that would follow us if we wanted to flee from it (from ourselves), with its permanent architectural eclecticism, with the dirty river, almost always a mere trickle, cutting the landscape in half, with the most beautiful sky imaginable in those few days of autumn or winter after it rains, when we rediscover the mountains.” |
![]() | Garments Against Women by Anne Boyer {Reviewed by THOMAS} “Who eats in a cage? Or with a caged mouth?” There is either writing or not-writing (even though not-writing may be as specific concerning what is not written and writing is concerning what is), and the dividing line between the two is not so much a wall as a cliff, an inequality more effective than a barrier. Anne Boyer’s collection of prose poems, Garments Against Women, is everywhere alert to the ways in which the world as experienced by those who live in it is riven by inequalities. Those who wield a power or who benefit from the wielding of that power have little perceptual overlap with those upon whom that power is wielded or who suffer from the wielding of that power, but, interestingly, the advantaged live in a world of more restricted truth, even though the disadvantaged may feel the effects of this restriction. This asymmetry acts as a constraint upon those to whom falls more heavily the burden of existing, “lives diminished by the arrangement of the world,” their time forced into objects and taken from them by what is termed an ‘economic system’. Boyer’s poems interrogate her relationship with objects, for instance the garments she sews or that she buys from thrift shops: “the fabric still contains the hours of the lives” - can these hours have their value restored? For whose benefit have these hours been put into objects? If “writing is the manufacture of impossible desires,” can we write of or read of objects without involving ourselves in the mechanisms by which time is taken asymmetrically from workers? Is it possible for an object to not exist except as a vicarious object, “an object which exists only as it might exist to another”? Are all objects more vicarious than not? “I am the dog who can never be happy because I am imagining the unhappiness of other dogs,” writes Boyer. How it is possible to write, even to imagine writing, even if one had the time to write, without writing ‘garments’ that are designed by and are to the benefit of those who have confined ‘writing’ in the narrow world of their advantage? Whose roles must be challenged and overhauled? “I will soon write a long, sad book called A Woman Shopping, writes Boyer, an self-described “addict of denial”, in the poem ‘A Woman Shopping’. “It will be a book about what we are required to do and also a book about what we are hated for doing.” Everyone is smothered by their role: “If a woman has no purse we will imagine one for her.” “Everyone tries to figure out how to overcome the embarrassment of existing,” but the real struggle is “not between actor and actor. It’s between actors and the stage.” Boyer’s poems provide subtle and often surprising insights into the relationships between individuals and their roles, desires and scripts, personal and societal misfortunes, struggle and survival, despair and surprising joy. Can writing effect real change? “I thought to have a name was to become an object,” writes Boyer. “I thought I was a charlatan. I was mistaken. I was not a charlatan, I was a search term.” |
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{STELLA}: In the lead up to my interrogation of crime novelists Alan Carter and Paul Cleave, I’ve been delving into the world of nasty criminals, psychopaths, serial killers, crooked (just bad) cops and a whole host of no-gooders - along with shocked bystanders, good, yet compromised, cops, and a few ethically staunch good detectives. There are suspects and victims, crime scenes and murder weapons. The most recent criminal activities on record are Marlborough Man by Alan Carter (you can read my review here) and A Killer Harvest by Paul Cleave. To begin my investigation I went back to the first in Cleave’s Christchurch crime noir series, The Cleaner. The premise sounded good: Joe the Janitor working at the police station - a simple fellow who goes unnoticed in the tense and busy world of criminal investigations and unsolved murders. Yet Joe knows more than he’s letting on: he’s got information the police would love to have about the man who's been labelled ‘The Christchurch Carver’. He knows about his penchant for knives, that he is methodical and thorough. The detectives are slow to see the pattern of victims and, when they do, they are hardly working together to solve the crime. There are dirty cops intent on their own pleasures. The clock is ticking, the media are demanding answers and they are no closer to finding the carver. The Cleaner would have been a very good straight crime story about a serial killer if it hadn’t been for the other factors that blow it out of the mold. These are Cleave’s tight writing, wry, if somewhat startling humour - Joe’s Mum is extremely memorable - and a woman named Melissa. And believe me, you will never look at a pair of pliers in quite the same way again! All Cleave’s books are set in Christchurch - the gritty underbelly of the garden city. Raw, nasty and eerie, it’s the perfect backdrop for serial killers, revenge and the dark internal worlds of both the crims and the cops. A Killer Harvest is aptly named. Blind and robbed of his family, Joshua believes he is cursed - that there is a family curse. When Joshua’s father is killed on the job, an opportunity arises for the teen to see. His father has gifted him his eyes. A successful operation changes the teen’s life - but at what cost? What does Joshua know, and what is he sensing? His dreams are confusing - he sees his father falling but he’s also inside his head looking out. Can cellular memory have anything to do with the images he’s seeing? There are secrets that maybe no one wants to or should know. A darkness is rising - one worse than being blind. Added to this is a man on a rampage. His father’s killer is dead, but Simon Bower’s best mate Vincent has tipped over the edge. And he’s out to set the record straight - to avenge his mate’s killing at the hands of the police. Cleave explores memory, secrets and motivations for good and evil in this taut thriller at the centre of which ordinary lives revolve and innocent people are in jeopardy.
The special public inquisition takes place this Thursday at Elma Turner Library. >> Invite your friends. >> Do some preparatory reading. |
The winners will be announced on Tuesday 15th May. How similar will the results be to those generated by our Ockhameter? The VOLUME Ockhameter category winners: Poetry: The Yield by Sue Wootton (Otago University Press); Fiction (Acornometer): Sodden Downstream by Brannavan Gnanalingam (Lawrence & Gibson); Illustrated Non-Fiction: Tuai: A traveller in two worlds by Alison Jones and Kuni Kaa Jenkins (Bridget Williams Books); General Non-Fiction: Driving to Treblinka: A long search for a lost father by Diana Wichtel (Awa Press). Click here for the full Ockhameter results. The winner of the copy of each of the four eventual category winners is Mary Mottram. Many thanks to all entrants, and many thanks to all the publishers for supporting the Ockhameter.![]() Review by STELLA | All This by Chance is Vincent O'Sullivan's third novel, over a decade in the making. It follows a family over several generations from post-war England 1947 to Europe mid-2000s. Stephen escapes the full employment, good food and unbearable dullness of rural New Zealand for a grim post-war London. Here he meets Eva, a striking young woman of Eastern European descent. Eva, whose real name eludes her, was sent as a young child from the ever-increasing chaos of Germany to the safety of her adoptive parents, a caring and educated Quaker family. Life is surprising and happy for our young pharmacist, in love with Eva, surrounded by empathetic elders who present positive role models for a young man with a fraught relationship with his father. Yet, on a chilly London day, a letter and news of the past change the nature of the couple’s relationship to each other and the past that they attempt to keep at a distance. Eva’s great-aunt Ruth has arrived in London, a survivor from Poland awash in her own mind - the doors firmly shut to the memories that torment. O’Sullivan writes deftly, introducing us to these characters, engaging us with the joys and sorrows of their respective lives without sentiment, with rich descriptions of place and brief encounters and conversations that allow snippets of information, piquing our curiosity yet never hammering a ‘message’ home. Religion and faith, science and rationality play out across these pages with both ease and tension as the various family members exercise their love, frustrations, confusions and anger. In Stephen and Eva’s children, we glimpse the impact of the Holocaust on the next generation: David, obsessed with his family past and a desire to find his place, his Jewishness, vents against his father and is frustrated by his inability to track down the answers he so desperately craves. His sister Lisa, rational and pragmatic, seems to be untouched by the impact of her family’s past, yet the death of her mother and great aunt and their buried histories have life-changing repercussions: her closest relationships are shaped by the past that she carries with her willingly or not. This generation is unable to capture a past too raw, too close to contemplate the depth of damage: the secrets - lost in burnt papers, buried in denial and swallowed by those who have knowledge but do not wish to burden others - will not reveal themselves. Esther, David’s daughter, wanting to understand the burdens her family carry, is the secret-hunter, never setting out to resolve the mysteries of her family but drawn and compelled to understand, spurred by her father’s unhappiness, her aunt’s life and her own eagerness to bring history out from the closest. On many levels this is a novel about the intergenerational relationships of family - the humour and the drama that binds people together, about the impact of the past on the present, while also presenting a humane and prescient analysis of the world we live in now: its borders, prejudices and ambitions. All This By Chance reminds us that our history is not chance but of our making, even when encounters and actions may seem coincidental. O’Sullivan’s taut writing, compelling settings over time and place, and memorable characters make All This By Chance a compelling and thoughtful novel. |
![]() | Murmur by Will Eaves {Reviewed by THOMAS} No algorithm can entertain a proposition as being both true and not true at the same time. This necessary computational allergy to contradiction enabled Alan Turing during his time at Bletchley Park in World War 2 to significantly decrease the time it took to break the German codes (“from a contradiction you can deduce everything,” he wrote), thus saving many lives. It would also provide a good test for ‘thought’ as opposed to ‘computation’ in artificial intelligence, and have implications for the eventual ‘personhood’ or otherwise of machines. “Machines do nothing by halves,” writes Will Eaves in Murmur, a beautifully written, sad and thoughtful novel based on Turing. Machines cannot but incline towards explication, whereas it is our inability to access the mind of another that verifies its existence as a mind.* “It isn’t knowing what another person thinks or feels that makes us who we are. It’s the respect for not knowing,” writes Eaves. In 1952 an English court found Alan Turing guilty of ‘Gross Indecency’ for admitted homosexual activity (then a crime in Britain), and he submitted to a year-long regime of chemical castration via weekly injections of Stilboestrol rather than imprisonment. Turing’s chemical reprogramming, speculates Eaves, struck at the core of his identity, his mind at first barricading itself within the changing body and then seemingly inhabiting it once more, but resourceless and compliant. Is personhood always thus imposed from without, or does personhood lie in the resistance to such an imposition? What conformity to expectations must be achieved or eschewed to accomplish personhood? The murmur inMurmur is an insistent voice that rises from Alec Prior’s (i.e. Alan Turing’s) sub-computational mind as it reacts to, and reconfigures itself on the basis of, its chemical reorientation. A narrator in the third person, waiting in ambush in mirrors and other reflective surfaces, Prior’s reflection, assails and supplants Prior’s first-person narrative, breaches the functional boundaries of his identity, describes Prior as “a man in distress, a prisoner of some description?”, unpicking his autonomy, and acting as a catalyst for the emergence of material (memories, voices, impulses) from the deep strata of Prior’s mind, much of it foundational (such as Prior’s formative relationship with a fellow student at high school), atemporal or, increasingly, counterfactual (a series of imagined letters between Prior and his friend and colleague June, with whom he was briefly engaged (parallelling Turing’s relationship with Joan Clarke, June was unconcerned by Prior’s homosexuality but he decided not to go through with the marriage) veers towards a confused and non-existent future in which a child of theirs remarks to Prior, “You’re changing. You’re lots of different people, lots of things, and all at once.”). What is the relationship between memory and fantasy, and what is the pivot or fulcrum between the two? When the first-person narration restabilises it is a new first person, one constructed from without (“There was another me, speaking for me.”). Consciousness is detached from what it contains, but made of it. “I am the body in the bed. I’m what sees him. I am the room.” But it is consciousness’s detachment from its object, its resistance to connection (a machine cannot help but connect), its yearning for what it is not and what is not (“yearning is a sort of proof of liberty”), its inaccessibility, its ability to see itself from the couch of its exclusion (“a shared mind has no self-knowledge,” writes Eaves-as-Prior-as-Turing), its cognisance of the limitations of narrative, its capacity to suspend disbelief in fictions, its ability to use a contradiction as a stimulant to thought rather than a nullification, its fragility and tentativeness that distinguishes thinking from computation. Artificial intelligence will not achieve personhood through mimesis, learning or algorithmic excellence, but only, if ever, through qualities that eschew such virtues: “We won’t know what machines are thinking once they start to think.” * “As soon as one can see cause and effect working themselves out in the brain, one regards it as not being thinking, but a sort of unimaginative donkeywork. From this point of view one might be tempted to define thinking as consisting of ‘those mental processes that we don’t understand’. If this is right, then to make a thinking machine is to make one that does interesting things without our understanding quite how it is done.” - A.M. Turing (‘Can Automatic Calculating Machines Be Said to Think?’ (1952)) |
They say: "There’s something about independent bookstores that inspires intense passion in their customers. Many of New Zealand’s best-loved indies are venerable instutitions that have served their shoppers for decades, but at a little over one year old, Volume is the upstart little sister to this kind of bookstore. Co-founders Stella Chrysostomou and Thomas Koed haven’t let their combined 35 years of experience in the book trade stop them from moving fast and taking risks." We say: Everything VOLUME does is made possible by all of you. Thank you. ![]() | The Female Persuasion by Meg Wolitzer {Reviewed by STELLA} Meg Wolitzer delivers a cutting analysis of the feminism of ‘our time’. InFemale Persuasion, we meet Greer Kadetsky: young, idealistic and yearning for attention; and Faith Frank: ageing, dynamic, pragmatic and fearful of irrelevance. While the novel is set in the world of ‘new feminism’, and Wolitzer references feminist movements and philosophies, and floats these concepts through the guise of her characters’ actions and their words, The Female Persuasion is much more about the relationship between these two women and their relationships with others. Greer Kadetsky arrives at university, sans her childhood boyfriend, Cory, the only strong relationship she possesses, as an awkward, geeky and naive student intent on getting through. From the first days, she is thrown together with the more outrageous and politicised Zee, who drags her along to a lecture by the celebrated 70s feminist Faith Frank. From here an admiration is born and Faith Frank, for whatever reason, takes an interest in Greer. Years on, university complete and stranded in her small hometown of Macopee with her ex-hippie parents, Greer gets up the nerve to approach Faith for a job on the fem magazine, Bloomer. All a little too late, Greer arrives for an interview on the day the magazine folds, no longer relevant or appealing to the new wave of feminism. Yet Greer’s luck holds when Faith Frank invites her to apply for an assistant role in a new women’s foundation, LOCI, backed by Emmett Shrader, a corporate billionaire of some dodgy dealings. Ironically, she never seriously questions the locus of power, too enamoured with Faith Frank and all she stands for. She will do anything for Faith. It’s hard to wholeheartedly like Greer or Faith, and you shouldn’t, yet you can understand the idealism of the younger and the pragmatism of the older. Wolitzer shows up organisations and their power structures for what they are: mechanisms to get things done, yet also mechanisms which place power in the hands of a few, with willing acolytes ready to jump. After reading a few reviews of this book, I was surprised that many had missed Wolitzer’s irony and wit that plays out throughout the book. Wolitzer is similar to Jonathan Franzen and Jeffrey Eugenides in style: dramatic relationship plots are layered over popular culture, and her social commentary often cuts to the quick. It often had me laughing out loud (those unforgettable moments when the team are at the summer house and Greer goes along with the pack tucking into her rare steak even though she’s a vegetarian). In Female Persuasion the all-white liberal female world of privilege of the LOCI foundation will make you wonder who this sanitised feminism is for. How will our classic good girl, Greer, respond when she is confronted with the truth? Added to this mix are the compelling voices and stories of Cory and Zee. Both have epiphanies driven by dramatic events or hard choices that help them develop from cardboard cut-outs of what they think they should be in their early 20s to the people they become a decade on, and this keeps you engaged with this novel at a deeper and fundamentally more human level. |