6 - Stories of Your Life and Others

It will become clear over the course of this year that I am a fan of science fiction. So it was with some regret that I did not make it as far as seeing Denis Villeneuve's much-praised Arrival when it was in cinemas at the end of last year. I could, however, read the story on which it was based.

Stories of Your Life and Others brings together the short(ish) stories that make up the first half of the career of American author Ted Chiang. While there are elements of science fiction in the stories, they could perhaps best be described as speculative science fact. In short, Chiang asks the question "what would happen if..." and then sets up a world in which that is reality. At the same time, he manages to establish a cast of characters and begin, develop and conclude their story arcs. This is an achievement in itself given that most of the stories are under 50 pages. But it's really only half of the whole.

Chiang is clearly a very intelligent man. While Wikipedia states that his academic endeavours concluded with a bachelor's degree in computer science, I find it hard to believe that he is anything short of PhD level in pretty much every discipline. In fact, the story Understand follows the path of a man who is endowed with a superhuman intelligence that allows him to collate and then transcend all existing human thought, and I imagine Chiang's mind to be on the same plane.

The collection starts in a relatively straightforward manner with Tower of Babylon, an account of the biblical tale of a tower constructed with the aim of reaching God. Once you can get past the physical differences to our world, the story builds nicely to a surprising conclusion and you find yourself immersed in the setting. But that's about as easy as it gets.

It's probably no coincidence that I found Story of Your Life, the inspiration for Arrival, to be the next-most accessible story. During my MA course I was forced to attend a module on research methodologies in applied linguistics. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the lectures were held at 9am on Monday mornings, but I found it hard to see any significant application beyond that study of the vocabulary sizes of various rappers and the recent article breaking down Donald Trump's speech patterns. But Story of Your Life provides another possible use - when aliens first make contact with Earth, a linguistics researcher is sent in with the seemingly impossible task of deciphering what the aliens are saying, and then replying to them. The zen-like approach to language that Chiang invents for the aliens is truly inventive, as is the way in which the story develops and then concludes once the main character begins to understand how to speak and read it herself. It's an abstract story in a lot of ways, but I felt that my knowledge of the area helped keep me grounded.

Consequently, I think there was probably a lot I didn't catch in the other stories. GCSEs in maths and biology only got me so far with Division by Zero and Seventy-Two Letters, while my knowledge of theology (Hell is the Absence of God), sociology (Liking What You See: A Documentary) and genetics (The Evolution of Human Science) is even less developed. And as stated above, to fully understand Understand would require multiple lifetimes of study in a multitude of subject areas. Which is actually the point of the story.

But none of this matters too much, because Chiang can write. While in less capable hands these stories might be frustrating, falling into either textbook-like descriptions of the worlds they describe or focusing too much on the characters and leaving the setting underdeveloped, Chiang balances the two perfectly, meaning that while the concepts require a lot of additional thought, the stories themselves are surprisingly easy reading.

4.5/5 for making me feel stupid.

If The Life & Death of Scenery was the 2nd-best sci-fi hip hop album of 2016, then clipping.'s Splendour and Misery was the best. Producers Jonathan Snipes and William Hutson work on a high level of theory - the latter may have completed a PhD in experimental music, but the concise and entertaining flow of rapper Daveed Diggs means you don't need one yourself to enjoy it.

5 - Anthem

As I was passing through my edgy modernist phase during the course of my A-levels, for some reason Ayn Rand was never an author that was particularly on my radar. I'm not sure why this was - the English course itself provided me with a pretty extensive reading list in terms of dystopian fiction, from the obvious (1984, Brave New World, A Clockwork Orange) to the slightly less so (Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go, Margaret Atwood's visceral The Handmaid's Tale). Nor was my personal reading limited - I ran the gauntlet from Knut Hamsun's Hunger to Don DeLillo's White Noise, both unsettling books in their own right from opposite ends of the 20th Century. Yet the works of Rand, despite being considered parallel to all of these, remained unread.

But I was not unaware of her existence, so decided now was the time to give one of her books a try. The two generally cited as her best, Atlas Shrugged  and The Fountainhead, are not particularly conducive to a year of reading more than one book, so instead I opted for the lesser-known 1938 novella Anthem.

Anthem portrays a future society under supreme control - citizens devoid of all individualism to the point where the narrator refers to himself exclusively in the third person, and each character is assigned a number rather than a name. Technology and cultural activities are also strictly limited, and it is alluded that both of these played a part in the destruction of the society that preceded the current one. The whole is presided over by a council of elites; the similarities with the Soviet Union are clear, although the extent to which that is true borders on prescient considering the date of writing.

Our hero, the snappily named Equality-2521, stands alone as an individual seeking to escape from this system. Having been identified as a potential troublemaker at an early age, he is consigned to a life of sweeping the streets of his city. But this cannot crush his spirit, as he studies science in secret and dreams of escaping from the city with a peasant girl he has seen working in the fields.

Political connotations aside, Anthem is a brilliantly written book. While 1984 portrays a truly viable vision of a future police state but is hampered by Orwell's appallingly ham-fisted prose style, and Brave New World is well written but has dated somewhat, Anthem suffers from neither of those issues, and it must be borne in mind that it is from broadly the same period as both. Rand's writing is perfectly concise, revealing just enough about the world of her novella for the reader to understand the context, but still building up to the reveal of the mystery at the end.

The ending is certainly the main source of contention. While the "forbidden word" that has been hinted at up to this point is somewhat predictable, it still serves as a relevant reminder of the dangers of a society where individualism is suppressed to too great an extent. However, the new direction followed by Equality-2521 and the girl, Liberty 5-3000 - living at one with nature outside society - seems somewhat trite, and really isn't a million miles from the Völkisch ideology that the Nazis were pushing in Germany at the time. It's easy to see why Rand's works are so beloved by the libertarian right, but in the case of Anthem I think they've actually missed the point. As the novella concludes, there are hints that the new, rather isolationist, commune built by Equality-2521 will eventually head down the same route that led to the self-destruction of the society of the "Unmentionable Times". A cycle in which there is no real winner, perpetuated by the tendency of human nature to scramble to extremes in both directions. Sobering stuff.

5/5

Pretty much everything is banned in Anthem; L'Orange and Mr. Lif's The Life and Death of Scenery imagines a world in which that extends merely to all forms of culture. It was probably the second best sci-fi rap album of 2016.

4 - Catch-22

"They're not going to send a crazy man out to be killed are they?"

"Who else will go?"

The above quote is perhaps the most succinct representation of the titular, much misused, catch that permeates Joseph Heller's Catch-22. Barely a paragraph goes by in which the characters are not confronted with another form of the famous logical paradox. The perfect contradiction of it comes to define practically every character's story arc, their interactions, their conversations and their very existence. All of this and more is why I have come to consider it my favourite book.

However, the novel's first line - "It was love at first sight" - doesn't quite reflect my relationship with it. On the first reading, the plot is so brutally complex and non-linear that it isn't until beyond the halfway point that the reader can begin to piece together what actually happens, and when. Indeed, to attempt to explain it here would require more words than the book itself, so here's a drawing by Heller himself:

Much better.

In fact, this was my fourth time taking this particular ride, and I was surprised at how much of the plot was just second nature to me. This allowed me to appreciate the little allusions and connections throughout the book that link the episodic chapters to one another, ensuring it is so much more than just a collection of short stories.

And yet the chapters, especially the longer among them, serve perfectly well as stories on their own. The story of Milo Minderbinder and his preemptive forays into the post-war globalist world of trading, in particular, would work brilliantly as a film, as would perhaps the earliest moments in the work's timeline in which Yossarian is subjected to the absurdity of basic training, the ever present threat of actual combat hanging over him and concluding in the incident that drives his perspective for most of the book.

Countless words have already been written about the catch-22 concept and its logical and philosophical connotations; about Heller's (decidedly negative) portrayal of war and his use thereof as an analogy for the wider world; about the criticisms that are levelled at the contemporary society of the 1960s under this guise. Still more have been written about the use of language in the book, how it reflects the catch scenario in itself, and how the threads of narrative weave together to form a cohesive whole. I doubt that I will be able to add much to any of this, other than that these are all parts of what make it such a masterpiece in my opinion.

Instead, what struck me most this time around was the work's sensitivity. Hiding among all the absurdity of the dialogue are some outstanding soliloquies on the intransigence of life and the inevitability of death. The scene where Yossarian is made to pose as an airman already killed in battle in order to provide closure to his family who have come to visit him on his deathbed stood out as particularly poignant, but there are several similar moments where the action slows down a touch to provide similar hubris. A number of characters become, even with all the madness that surrounds them and which they seem to willingly perpetuate, tragic figures at the mercy of forces beyond their control.

The final quarter of the narrative in particular becomes almost relentlessly pessimistic, until the final scene which brings together all the hints and allusions at a possible solution that have been building up to that point. It wraps up the book as a whole in a way that is - and I don't use this word lightly - nothing short of genius.

This a book that everyone should read, and then read again. I for one anticipate getting through it many more times in my life, and I genuinely expect to take away something new each time.

5/5, obviously.

It seems fitting that my favourite book should go hand in hand with my (current) favourite song - Outkast's Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik. The album by the same name actually has a few things in common with Catch-22, namely the way in which threads of themes mesh together throughout to form a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts, but at the same time those parts somehow work better on their own. In itself that's a catch-22 scenario...

3 - Bricking It

I mentioned in my introductory post that I used a commute into London for a previous job to get some serious reading done. One, slightly less serious, book that I got through during that period was another Kindle recommendation - Nick Spalding's Fat Chance. I picked it up as something lighter, having been assured by reviewers that it was genuinely funny, and found that in spite of myself I had to agree. But there was also a lot more to it than that - I found it a brilliantly frank portrayal of married life, the rapid onset of middle age and all the shortcomings of the diet "industry". There were some great set pieces, each chapter acting almost as a self-contained story, some moving moments, and, as I have already said, I'd be lying if I tried to claim it didn't make me laugh.

Since I hadn't set any intellectual requirements for this year's endeavour, I decided Spalding's newest work might be worth a look. The similarities between the two are obvious - both are told from two, alternating, points of view, both concern the trials of the main characters in their attempts to reach a goal, and both are ultimately quite British in their scope. While Fat Chance chronicled the attempts of a married couple in losing weight for a competition, Bricking It is the story of a brother and sister attempting to rebuild and then sell a house left to them by their grandmother.

There are also similarities between the flaws of both books. Spalding does not have a particular talent for dialogue, and the result is conversations between characters that come across as stilted or just plain unnatural. And the interior monologues are only slightly better. Conversely, while in Fat Chance the main couple were well developed in spite of a rather vaguely portrayed set of minor characters, the opposite is true in Bricking It - the story arc of the siblings is rather predictable, but the supporting cast is full of memorable figures that add colour to the work.

Where Spalding salvages all of this, to the extent that all of these criticisms become secondary, is in his fantastic ability to construct a set piece. With each chapter serving as an episode within the greater context of the plot, he manages to cram an entire story, from start to finish, twenty times over into the novel. It is in this context that the comedy works best - scenes involving a box in the attic and a bonfire with unexpected consequences stood out as particular highlights. But it also ensures that, while the overall plot of the book may be quite simple and linear, the pace of the book remains consistently fast throughout. I doubt there will be many other books this year that I finish quite so quickly.

And, once again, I have to admit that I laughed out loud at times.

4.5/5

If this book were to be adapted into a film, I feel it would be at least 43% montage scenes. At least one of them deserves to be set to this:

Simple and unassuming, yet amusing and clever.

2 - Meditations

In my ongoing quest to fill the void of sporting activity that graduate life tends to entail, I decided, almost a year ago, to devote some of my energy to the gym. Three evenings and one morning each week, I get to wander around in silence counting reps in my head and generally relieving the stresses of the contemporary working day. At the same time, I am exposed to terrestrial television's early-evening line up of quiz shows - Pointless, The Chase and Eggheads, which allows me to exercise both mind and body. Or something.

As part of this pursuit I have been known, occasionally, to browse the various fitness forums offered up by the internet. One day, in among all the insecurity, in-jokes and odd pieces of actual good advice, I came across a thread dedicated to so-called "mental gains" - specifically, recommended reading for the man or woman with the goal of physical perfection. Suggestions ranged from the Bible to the rather out-there teachings of "iceman" Wim Hof. But by far one of the most popular works, and one that caught my eye, was the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

Marcus Aurelius was emperor of Rome from 161-180 AD, although for the first eight years he shared power with Lucius Verus. Meditations was written in Greek over the last ten years of his reign, and commits to paper (papyrus? wax?) his stoic world view as applied to the full spectrum of the human experience.

I had been assured prior to reading that this book would change my life, along with my fundamental understanding of the world around me, my role within it and my duties towards it. So it would be safe to say that expectations were, ultimately, set impossibly high. Not to say that there aren't some brilliant words of wisdom to be found. Marcus Aurelius' attitude to the world of work resonated in particular:

"What art and profession soever thou hast learned, endeavour to affect it, and comfort thyself in it; and pass the remainder of thy life as one who from his whole heart commits himself and whatsoever belongs unto him, unto the gods."

Did the Romans even have jobs in the modern sense? Probably not, and yet these words would not be out of place at a careers talk in the present day. Equally, his advice on the natural world and mankind's responsibilities in that area still hold up.

But ultimately my main issue with the writing was that it was just too... earnest. Following this philosophy would entail assessing every single action of your life, determining whether it serves a higher purpose, and eliminating any aspects that do not. It's a mindset I absolutely apply to lifting weights, but I can't really see it taking root elsewhere. Combine that with an 18th century translation that hadn't bothered to explain any ancient Greek terms that are untranslatable and Meditations became something of a burden to read. Perhaps that was the point: the teaching of stoicism is, essentially, to suck it up and get on with life. But the world would be a much more boring place if that was all anyone did.

2/5

I've also decided that this blog should stay true to its roots, so each book will be paired with a musical counterpoint. I feel like Aurelius would have loved Gesaffelstein's Pursuit, for all its clinical efficiency. Good workout music too.

1 - Distraction Pieces

Like, I suspect, the majority of Brits who were teenagers in the mid '00s I was first introduced to the work of rapper Scroobius Pip through his seminal collaboration with Dan le Sac, Thou Shalt Always Kill. Though I now think it comes across as trying a bit too hard with its sanctimonious tone and early trash-rap mood, at the time it seemed to fit in perfectly with the world view of a generation of indie and emo kids who thought they had the arts all figured out. "Thou shalt not make repetitive generic music" seemed to us the most brilliantly witty indictment of the admittedly pretty awful pop music that permeated the airwaves of the time and kept what we considered real music out of the spotlight.

But music moved on, and so did I.

Then, about five years on, I rediscovered him and found that there was a vast back catalogue of great material that I had missed out on. While the that same world view that I never quite agreed with remained, it was applied to the gamut of the human experience, in particular as it pertained to modern British society. And I realised that the man had a brilliant talent for words.

So when I saw, thanks to the occasionally good Kindle recommendations emails that Amazon bombard me with, that Scroobius Pip had written a book, I was interested. When I saw that it was in fact a series of interviews with various creative types on such varying topics as politics, the arts and science, I thought it could be worth a look. And since, as one Amazon reviewer pointed out, it was currently on sale for less than the price of a pint, I decided it would be a good way to kick off the first year in which I attempted dry January.

As it transpired, Distraction Pieces is in fact a collection of transcripts from Pip's iTunes podcast of the same name. For those who have been regular listeners, there is not much new here. But as I said, I had never been a particularly close follower of his work and wasn't even aware that the podcast existed.

The ordering by theme, rather than interviewee, keeps the book flowing and introductions to each section by Pip himself help to give more of an insight into his own views, as the guests are allowed the lion's share of each conversation. Bringing together an interesting mix of personalities ranging from Frank Turner, Amanda Palmer and Killer Mike from the world of music, Romesh Ranganathan and Rufus Hound from comedy and writers Alan Moore and Jon Ronson, Pip provides merely the occasional nudge to steer his interviews into various directions. Police brutality, the creative process and the role of the arts in modern society are all covered, as are death, independent cinema and magic.

While it would perhaps have been more interesting to see a few guests with opinions that conflicted with those of the interviewer, Distraction Pieces remains a brilliant insight into the minds of some of the more highbrow creative types around today, their view of the world around them, and their view of themselves.

As a teenager, I thought I had the arts figured out; now I know that isn't the case at all. But it is reassuring to see that the artists themselves are still trying to figure things out.

4/5. Not sure if I'll do ratings, but that's what this gets.

Reading

Somewhere along the line, I fell out of love with reading.

As a child, I couldn't get enough. With a foundation, like the majority of British kids, in the works of Roald Dahl, I progressed to the classics between the ages of around seven and fourteen, encountered a brief dry spell, and then immersed myself in modernism over the course of my A Levels like any good pretentious aspiring arts student should.

But the next five years were about to drive me into the ground.

While I didn't dedicate every waking hour of my life to the library (hardly any in fact since I preferred to work from my room), a degree in French and German followed by an MA in Translation Studies ensured that there was little time available to read for pleasure. So I simply stopped.

In fairness, I did actually enjoy a lot of the books I studied. Subject to deep analysis, the short stories of Franz Kafka reveal themselves to be just about the most perfect use of any language ever. Thomas Mann proved with Mario und der Zauberer just how beautiful German can be in the right hands, while Peter Weiss's Die Ermittlung showcased its brutality in gut-wrenching detail and Ulrich Plenzdorf's Die neuen Leiden des jungen W. its potential for humour. The poetry of Baudelaire allowed me to feel every inch the stereotype of an arts student that I aspired to be, and an academic reading of Asterix revealed more dimensions than my ten-year-old self could ever have imagined.

Then again, a lot of what I read had less of an impact. I am reminded, by its presence on my bookshelf, that I once studied a book named Flugasche by Monika Maron, and yet I cannot recall a single detail of its content. Stripped of its post-colonial context, Maryse Condé's La coeur à rire et à pleurer reads like an airport paperback, while Die heilige Johanna der Schlachthof is Brecht a painfully long way from his best. Renan Demirkan's Schwarzer Tee mit drei Stück Zucker has not even been deemed consequential enough to warrant its own Wikipedia page, and for good reason.

And then there were the works I actively disliked. Nobel Prize aside, Elfriede Jelinek's writing in Women as Lovers is post-modern neo-realist rambling at its absolute worst. The second half of Goethe's Faust proved so impenetrable that I struggled for the majority to decipher even the superficial meaning of the smog of classical allusions and forced weirdness. While I never read Mein Kampf in its entirety, the passages I did encounter, for all their tedious egocentricity, left me wanting to punch a hole in the wall and Hitler in the face. And yet the worst of the worst would have to be Georges Bataille's Le bleu du ciel, the only book I have read so utterly depraved that I found myself genuinely offended by its content. Worse still was that it was dropped from our curriculum. After I had already read it.

Looming in the background to all this like a vast, oceanic undercurrent, was the endless, soulless, hard academic theory. Hours spent poring over regional breakdowns of French by-elections from the 80s in an attempt to work out exactly how many people jumped ship from the Communist Party to aid Mitterrand's drearily efficient rise to power. The inscrutability of political theory in general. The black hole for enjoyment that is film theory in general. The pretension of literary theory in general. The theory of translation, in which the same debate has been raging with little progress since the turn of the 20th century, and which has provided absolutely minimal influence on my emerging career as a translator.

Needless to say, reading came to be something of a chore, and one that I only picked up again when I found myself with a 75-minute daily commute to and from London. This allowed me to tick off a few works I'd had my eye on, but was never a long-term solution and before too long I found myself driving to work, living in a house with plenty of other forms of entertainment in a town with plenty of yet other forms of entertainment.

I did not read many books in 2016. In 2017, I aim to read 20. I will probably review most of them on this page at some point. Stay tuned!