Christmas is coming and, as well as trying to decide what books to buy for the book lovers in my life, it’s time for me to look back over the past 12 months and tell you about the highlights of my reading year.

One of the titles that stands out from the early part of the year is The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Schaffer and Annie Burrows [Bloomsbury £10.99 9781408800485 ]. I have to admit that it was the title that attracted me to begin with, but I was completely absorbed in this tale, set just after the second world war, of a London author who is looking for inspiration for her new book. She hears about this strangely named society in Guernsey and begins a correspondence with the members of the society to find out more.

Later on, I read The Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson [Canongate £7.99 9781847671691] which was on the Richard and Judy list. Whilst in hospital a patient from the psychiatric wing begins to take great interest in a man who has just suffered horrific burns in a car accident. Her name is Marianne Engel and she is a sculptor of grotesque statues and gargoyles. She insists that she has known the burns victim in another life in Europe in the 14th Century and bit by bit she relates the story of her life at that time and how they met. Very graphic in places, but quite compelling.

Another fascinating and un-put-downable novel for me was The Somnambulist [ Gollancz £7.99 9780575082144], by Jonathan Barnes, the story of a Victorian illusionist, Edward Moon. Moon’s chief claim to fame is to be able to thrust several large swords through the body of his accomplice, known only as The Somnambulist, without causing any loss of blood or discomfort as the main attraction of his nightly performances. He is also a bit of a detective “on the side” and is called on to help Scotland Yard with a couple of murder cases which involve a strange religious sect. Very odd, but very good!

As for non-fiction, I was totally hooked by the story of the Fitzwilliam family of Wentworth House in South Yorkshire. It’s called Black Diamonds by Catherine Bailey [Penguin £8.99 9780141019239]. The book chronicles the decline and fall of the Fitzwilliams and is set in the largest privately owned house in Britain, which is nowadays a crumbling and forgotten palace.  There’s a lengthy review of the book in The Times Online Property section – of all places

As regular readers of this blog will know, I’m quite fond of “TV tie-ins” and I’d like to mention a couple published in 2009, which I haven’t bought, but wouldn’t say no to.  The Victorians; Britain through the Paintings of the Age [BBC £25 9781846077432] by Jeremy Paxman is a good read as well as being lavishly illustrated, to use a well worn phrase (but this time I think it’s justified).  The second is one not previously mentioned in the blog, and that’s Life [ BBC Books £25 978-1846076428] by Martha Holmes and Michael Gunton: the TV series is excellent (the last instalment to be screened on Monday Dec 14^th)and so is the book.

Now for local history and local authors: Jonathan Foster’s book about the mysterious life of scientist and inventor Harry Grindell Matthews The Death Ray [Inventive Publishing £11.99 9780956134806] is a really good read- essential for anyone interested in the history of science. Janet Roberts’ book Oil under Sherwood Forest [£4.99 Janet Roberts Booklets  9780956190208] is a fascinating account of the American “invasion “ of Nottinghamshire when extra help was needed during the second world war to sink the oilwells around Eakring.

The new book on Hardwick Hall, Hardwick ,A Great House and its Estate, by Philip Riden and Dudley Fowkes [Phillimore, £14.99 9781860775444] was only recently published in the “England’s Past for Everyone” series. I have looked for it in the shops, but it doesn’t seem to have filtered  through yet, so I’ll hopefully report on that in the near future.

In brief: other titles which made an impression on me during the year were A Lifetime in the Building [Aurum £16.99 9781845133962] by Christine Adams, the story of how May Savidge literally moved her house from Hertfordshire to Norfolk;  Deliverance by L A G Strong [now out of print] is a forgotten gem from the past. It’s set in the West Country and is about an orphan set loose from the orphanage to find his own way in the world; and finally Devil in Amber [Pocket Books £7.99 9780743483803] by Mark Gatiss a gripping surreal novel with a touch of humour about the unlikely named Lucifer Box who tries to stop someone with an equally improbable name – Olympus Mons – from taking over the world.

There’ll be another posting before Christmas.

I’m sitting in a hairstylist’s chair in a fruity salon in the swanky Pittsburgh neighborhood of Shadyside. Women are all around me, but I’m getting my hair cut by one of just two male stylists in the place.
Richard, my stylist, is an avowedly gay man — wide open, yet respectful of others’ heterosexual hang-ups. But you can get him talking. I notice the inch-thick rubber choker around his neck, which seems out of place with his dress shirt and skinny tie.

“You’re looking a little S&M, a little fetishist today,” I say. He smiles, seeming happy I noticed.

“I like to be totally free with the person I’m with,” Richard says, tossing his head and smoothing a bang of his jet-black, chemically treated hair with the back of his hand.

He deftly places a comb over my right eyebrow and says in a low voice: “I’m just going to trim your eyebrows, okay?”

I nod my head, and with a few sweeps of his clipper, my eyebrows are shorter, less full and neater. I check myself in the mirror and immediately notice the improved effect. Though I feel a bit funny, the trim didn’t hurt a bit, and it sure did make I difference, I think.

That bit of man-scaping brings up a question that has been nagging my insecure macho ego for a while. So I ask myself again: Could I be a metrosexual?

I consider my location, and then go down my mental checklist of possible metrosexual indicators. I’m in a quichey, women-centered hair salon. I’m getting my hair styled by a gay man in S&M regalia. I just got my eyebrows trimmed.

Sitting in that chair, I once again began to worry that I am at least partly metrosexual. What had happened to me, I wondered. How did I get to be such a sissy, seemingly overly concerned with my grooming? Was this some sort of crisis of self-confidence?

On any other day I might’ve been in denial like other times, sitting there at the capable hands of my gay-boy stylist, but today is different. A frightening specter of my past — an old mistake of a girlfriend I’ll call Scary — is sitting just feet from me. With a plastic bag covering her hairdo, she is reading a magazine and pretending not to notice me. I start to feel just a bit shy and effete, thinking of how she knew me years ago, when I was less refined. Then I momentarily feel like I am invading her womanly space, and possibly shocking the hell out of her. Part of me takes a twisted pleasure in the thought, so I talk louder and more brashly to Richard.

“I’ve been studying women for years. I can pick out the strange haircuts, and also the awkward-looking knees,” I say. “Some women should not wear certain haircuts, because they don’t fit their face—just like some people can’t wear pastels.”

Even as I am saying these things, I don’t hear how potentially sweet they sound. But with Scary just feet away, I do realize how far I’ve come from years ago, when I was dating her and shoveling concrete for work while not finishing college. My old self would not have been caught dead in a place like the salon, unless he was there to pick up a girl.

When it comes to metrosexuality, if you have to ask yourself if you are one, you’re probably in denial. I haven’t gotten to the point where I get “mannies and peddies” yet (and I’m not ruling them out), but I have found myself paying a lot more attention to skin care products. I’m hip to StriVectin-HS, which somehow makes fine lines on the face disappear, at least temporarily. But it’s too expensive for me to want to regularly use.

A couple of haircuts back, I mentioned to Richard that I’ve been feeling like something of a metrosexual.
“There’s a difference between metrosexual and heterosexual,” he said, looking at me in the mirror and continuing to trim my hair. “A metrosexual will pluck his eyebrows, and a heterosexual won’t.”

“Well, I use Hylexion, for the dark circles under my eyes…” I said.

“You’re metrosexual,” he said, nodding his head.

— Jonathan Barnes

So after keeping my emotions about books in check all through this year’s Landmark Sale, I decided to make a visit on the last day of the sale, hoping that the available selection would have been reduced, and I wouldn’t end up bankrupt as I usually do. I did just fine. Went over-budget by only 50%, which is good because my usual is around 200-300%. This continues my couple-of-months-long streak of not splurging on books till I read enough of the ones I have.

So, as usual, here’s a short, mostly uninformed set of opinions on some of the books I bought. It’s essentially an annotated list, but I’ve linked to stuff this time so you can take a look for yourself.

***

I decided to get myself some comedy, for one thing. So it was extremely fortunate that there was a Robert Rankin book on sale (The Toyminator, sequel to the rather awesome The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse), and one by Jasper Fforde – The Fourth Bear. This one isn’t part of the matching hardback set I talked about some time ago – it’s a paperback, but I haven’t read this book, and I can always give this copy away when I get the matching set.

I also saw Eoin Colfer’s Hitchhiker’s book, And Another Thing …, but I decided not to buy it just yet because looking at it just made me sad.

I found a lovely hardback of Good Omens for Rs. 149, with this sort of flippable dust cover, so you can choose the white angel cover saying ‘Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman’ or the black devil cover saying ‘Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett’. It was a pity I couldn’t find more copies to give to other people.

I bought a couple of books for a friend – a second copy of Daniel Kehlmann’s Measuring the World (I haven’t yet finished reading the copy I own, because a friend ‘borrowed’ it fairly quickly), and Death by Chick-Lit by Lynn Harris, which, of course, I’m going to read before I give to my friend.

Which reminds me, I got one ladlit book (for myself) – Love and Other Near-Death Experiences by Mil Millington – and chose not to get one by Mike Gayle because that dude sucks at endings.

I missed out on buying Best New Horror 15, because I thought I already had a copy. Turned out I had Best New Horror 12. But anyway, I’ve got way too many anthologies at home which I still have to read, and also, Landmark had something like five copies. It’ll stay. Speaking of horror, I got Joe Hill’s Heart-Shaped Box, which I’d been craving for a while. I also got Transgressions 2, which has a story by Joe Hill’s dad.

The find of the day originally seemed to have been Eagle Annual: Best of the 50s (featuring Dan Dare, apparently ‘the Greatest Comic Strip of All Time’), but it turned out to be more of an interesting artefact than something of actual reading value. Still, cheap!

I tried to renew my old allegiance to sci-fi by buying Black Man by Richard Morgan and Spook Country by William Gibson. (Proof I’m a bad sci-fi fan? I’ve only read the first 30 pages of Neuromancer – I got bored and stopped.)

Assorted weird books that stood out from the (rather large) pack – Lost Souls by Michael Collins, Time Was Soft There by Jeremy Mercer (a memoir centred on a bookstore), The Discomfort Zone by Jonathan Franzen (a holistic memoir, it seems), The Testament of Gideon Mack by James Robertson, The Somnambulist by Jonathan Barnes (New Victoriana), Rain Dogs and Love Cats by Andrew Holmes (bought due to the Tom Waits connection, and currently reading) and The Insatiable Spider Man by Pedro Juan Gutiérrez (nothing to do with Peter Parker).

Also bought my first Jeanette Winterson (Tanglewreck) and Simon Spurrier’s first (Contract).

Finally (did you notice how I reserved it for the end, didja, didja?), I got Electric Feather, mainly because I wanted to finish reading the Samit Basu story excerpted here. I finished this book last night, by the way, and it was quite interesting. I’ll be writing a review soon. All in all, I’m glad I got it. You can read Ruchir Joshi’s introduction here on Nilanjana Roy’s blog.

And that’s all for this shopping spree. I don’t have the usual feeling of shame and huilt at overspending, which makes me happy. And these’ll last me for a while, don’t you think? Yeah, right!

Whether burned or bloody, Jonathan Barnes does love to see London in complete chaos.  It happened in his last novel The Somnambulist, and has now continued in The Domino Men.  Few things crossover between the two, save the intriguingly bizarre characters constituting his uber-secret and not-so-normal civil service division called The Directorate.  Oh, and The Prefects, can’t forget them.

The story centers around Henry Lamb, a completely ordinary though perhaps even dull, clerk who through a series of extraordinary  though familial events is drawn into a hunt, a race to prevent London’s descent into utter ruin.  By all accounts he has no business within the Directorate or even approaching The Domino Men, the only ones who can either help or even destroy the chances for success.

Barnes excellently scripts his mystery around the fog that continually encompasses London, though he also lowers a fog over the reader’s mind as well, keeping us in the dark about the major players of the novel.  He offers breadcrumbs about the Directorate and the Domino Men, the comatose grandfather of Henry, and the ever over-confident mastermind Director Dedlock, though his description is never enough to quash the ever-lingering questions the reader may conjure. A frustrating yet gripping method.  We know of a battle waged for centuries and that the Prefects are dangerous to say the least, but Barnes, hopefully in anticipation of another novel, tells us only what were allowed to know of the process.  All that is requested is that we must “trust the process”.  And in the end, the distinction of who the villain was is not at all clear.

In several ways the Domino Men surpasses The Somnambulist; the ending is much more captivating though at times the pacing can be a bit slower.  His inclusion and description of the aristocracy (Prince Arthur in particular) is quite interesting, for it is neither kind nor overtly cruel. The Prefects, however, were a bit under-described as they were in the former. Their playfully comic nastiness, hinted to atmospheric levels, falls just short of their behaviour, though admittedly ruthless and reckless as the story hits its crescendo.  Their actions are more a vehicle of the story than the framework.  Overall, its another fascinating story about London, manipulated by all creatures forceful and ubiquitously normal.  Fun yet creepy, one can only wonder how many times and what twisted ways London has fallen and yet continues to rebuild itself in the mind of Barnes.

Picked up a couple of books at Indigo today with a $25 gift card I had kicking around: The Somnambulist, by Jonathan Barnes, and Slaughterhouse Five, by you know. No, I haven’t yet gotten around to reading this classic. I’m taking it with me to San Francisco.

But I’ve already started into the Somnambulist. I hadn’t heard of it before, but I found the title intriguing when I stumbled across it in the discount books. The reviews were favourable. I’m in twenty pages and I’m glad I picked it up: it’s a page-turner, light and witty.

When I finish it, I’ll leave a review here.

I eschewed walking the dog this morning, much to his chagrin, so I could finish The Somnambulist.  Some reviews I’d skimmed over griped about the ending, particularly the last fifty pages.  Just goes to show you not to trust the reviews.  I loved this book!  Sure there were a few slow parts in the middle, but man, that ending just had me turning page after page.  I loved the fact that the narrator turned out to be the chief bad guy.  I was disappointed by the fact that Mrs. Grossmith’s fiance turned out to be a spy, loosing one of the book’s tenuous holds on reality.  But still, she was a great character.  I would really like to see this book made into a big budget screenplay, but I know that will never happen.  (Frank Miller, want a new project?)

Ok, on to some specifics.  The Prefects were awesome.  These brothers were dressed as and looked like English schoolboys but were fully grown adults.  Hawker and Boon.  They spoke in tandem, playing off each other which just made them all the creepier.  Oh yeah, and they’re gruesomely effective assassins who set up their contracts by meeting with their prospective employer in abandoned school playgrounds in the dead of night.

“Please,” he said.  “I’m deadly earnest.  I need you to kill two men.”

“Wrong ‘uns, are they sir?

“Ne’er-do-wells?”

“Bounders?”

“Rotters?”

“Cads?”

“Give us their names, sir. Do.”

These guys are gonna have me looking over my shoulder for a while.  The efficiency with which they killed, but at the same time, with such flair, was fun to read, scary to think about, and those feelings combined ended up making me feel slightly slimy for liking them so much, but, wow.  Their denoumont in the book’s final scenes needs to be set to a symphony and shown in agonizingly slow motion.

The narration style was great; I was not annoyed at all by having the narrator interrupt the flow of the story from time to time to apologize for some unbelievable aspect of the story but go on to beg my indulgence a bit longer, or to warn me that the next thing that happened will stretch my willing suspension of disbelief beyond the breaking point.  Rather, I found that it heightened the excitement.  The diction and syntax were particularly enjoyable as well, making it fun to read not only for story but for how things sounded.

I was annoyed by one line (though again, the construction of it was wonderful): “Feeling much as Jesus must have felt once Thomas had finished rummaging about in His ghostly wounds, I tried hard not to seem smug.”

Perhaps it is because we just read that pericope in church, but, Thomas never actually felt the wounds.  Once he saw them he confessed, “My Lord and my God,” falling to his knees.  Little things like that, which are so easily researched, that go unnoticed by either author or editor bug me.  Like the book of Revelations from the previous book I read.  It’s not Revelations.  It’s Revelation.  Do me a favor.  Look it up.  It’ll make you look less dumb.

Ok, rant over on that issue.  All in all this was a marvelously fun novel, a great first novel, and one which makes me very anxious to read his second book, The Domino Men.  Kudos to Jonathan  Barnes – you kindled my imagination and didn’t take yourself so seriously as to be pretentious, but had fun writing, which led to my having fun reading.  Great book.

I’ve lost my camera – that’s not what I meant to type at all but that’s what came out.  My camera’s batteries are dead and I haven’t gotten new ones yet.  That’s the truth, so there’s no new pictures right now.

Anyway, I meant to say this earlier, but another connection between this book and my previous one are the gimmicky first lines.

From Mister B. Gone:  “Burn this book.”

From The Somnambulist: “Be warned.  This book has no literary merit whatsoever.  It it a lurid piece of nonsense, convoluted, implausible, peopled by unconvincing characters, written in drearily pedestrian prose, frequently ridiculous, and willfully bizarre.  Needless to say, I doubt you’ll believe a word of it.”

The difference:  While both examples worked, as in, they got me interested to read further, the second is far more successful.  You can’t say that you write in “drearily pedestrian prose” and be believed.  If that were true, the line would read more like this, “My writing sucks.”  In fact, the narrative style of The Somnambulist is quite good though I can imagine the semi-constant interruptions of the narrator would annoy some people.  (Several years ago, this kind of thing was quite in vogue as being post-modern.)  The characters are a lot of fun.  Right now I’m about an hundred pages from the end and the story is still interesting although it has slowed down a little.  I’m thinking the book is exactly the right length, because I suspect the plot is about to pick up considerable speed and race to the end.  If so, it will mean that the somewhat slower middle was limited and about just the right size to establish and develop characters without slowing down too much.  The characters are a lot of fun, too -I’ve particularly enjoyed (aside from the two principles) Mrs. Grossmith and Barabbas.  Mrs. Grossmith’s late-in-life romance is a great side tale that serves as a sort of humorous foil into real life apart from the unbelievable aspects of the main plot.  As unconentional (in literature, in real life it happens all the time) as it is, it grounds the narrative in a reality that you can hold on to.  Barabbas, on the other hand, in ensconced firmly in the realm of the weird.  I really want to know what his backstory is with Moon, but I doubt I ever will find out.  Barabbas’ death scene was one of the best I’ve read in a while.  So vivid and so awesome!

I wish the whole connection to Coleridge’s poetry had either been introduced earlier or would be sustained longer.  I’m wondering if Barnes is a fan of Dan Simmon’s work, who puts Keats into about every sentence he types.  The idea of using another author’s work to influence the drama of your story is one that appeals to me and gives a sense of depth that I enjoy.  It also shows off the education of the author, or at least their ability to successfully navigate wikipedia.

Looking forward to the end of The Somnambulist now not only because I’ve heard it is Weird, but also because I’ve finally purchased (being unable to get it at the library, the hold list being so long) The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, the Pulitzwer Prize winning novel from Dominican writer Junot Diaz.  It’s about a nerd who refers to his tormentors/bullies as “ringwraiths.”  I’m excited.

Top 10 Unanswered Questions after reading The Somnambulist by Jonathan Barnes:

1. Who is Barabbas?  What is his past history with Edward Moon ?  Why is he chosen by Love, Love & Love?
2. Who is the Somnambulist? Where did he come from?  Why doesn’t he talk and what’s with the milk? What is he? Who was his predecessor? What the hell happens to him at the end?
3. What happened in the case Moon failed to solve that is repeatedly referenced but never explained?
4. Who would procreate with Skimpole?
5. Who or what exactly are The Prefects?
6. Why Coleridge? And what was the purpose of b******* h** b*** t* l***?  (That’ll make more sense if you read the book).
7. Are we really expected to believe the unlikely reason we are given by the criminal mastermind (I use that term lightly) for his whole evil plan?
8. Dedlock & Skimpole – what exactly was the point?
9. What is the Directorate’s purpose and why is it secret?
10. What was the reason for the strain between Moon & his sister, Charlotte?

You may have noticed that’s more the 10.

My intention was to give this book a bad review. That changed somewhere along the way. It’s really not surprising. The Somnambulist may not be a particularly good book, but sometimes bad books happen to good writers. Jonathan Barnes is, in fact, a good writer who unfortunately made a mess of his first book. Or did he? As I reread my initial draft of this review I realized that what Monty Python was to Arthurian Lit is what Barnes may be to the Victorian Detective Novel.

The Somnambulist is fun in an absolutely ridiculous way.  The author definitely did his research and the result is a novel that pays homage to the genre. Arthur Conan Doyle, Lovecraft & Dickens all have a stake in the story… among others. (For the full list read the Praise for the Somnambulist found on the first page of the paperback edition).  That may be exactly why the book disappoints.  Barnes took on authors who first and foremost are storytellers, which only highlights the fact that he isn’t.

The main character, despite the title, is Edward Moon – a part time investigator and conjurer in Victorian England who has fallen to B-list celebrity status for reasons never fully explained.  Moon and his sidekick, the Somnambulist, are pulled into a strange murder mystery of seemingly Lovecraftian persuasion.  We are led from there through a labyrinth of situations, events, and settings peopled by characters which are familiar to fans of the genre – in admittedly twisted versions.   All of this is strung along by the flimsiest plot I’ve ever come across and told by an unreliable narrator who is generous enough to warn us of his status in the opening paragraph.

“Be warned. (See?!) This book has no literary merit whatsoever.  It is a lurid piece of nonsense, convoluted, implausible, peopled by unconvincing characters, written in drearily pedestrian prose, frequently ridiculous and willfully bizarre.  Needless to say, I doubt you’ll believe a word of it…one final warning: in the spirit of fair play, I ought to admit that I shall have reason to tell you more than one direct lie.”

If an unreliable narrator informs you that he is unreliable, doesn’t that make him reliably unreliable? Hence he is no longer an unreliable narrator?  Why Barnes felt he had to let that cat out of the bag so early on is beyond me, other than for stylistic effect.  There is a lot of that throughout the book: stylistic devices and effects.  Often it feels as if the author has a list of plot elements and literary devices he’s checking off while providing a bare bones narrative structure to hold it all together.  Think of it as Steampunk (Google it if you don’t know the word) porn.  The story is only there as an excuse to get you to the good parts.

The good parts of The Somnambulist are the eccentric and wonderful characters.  Not least of which is the book’s namesake: a milk guzzling, mute giant who can be repeatedly pierced by swords as if he were made of sawdust. It’s a testament to Barnes’ imagination that the Somnambulist probably won’t be your favorite.  For example there are The Prefects, two adult psychotic killers that dress and talk like British Public School boys.  They leave a trail of carnage through the second half of the book.  Or Dedlock, the middle aged British civil servant and head of the Directorate, who seems almost banally stereotypical until you realize that no one in this novel is typical.  Or that questionably unreliable narrator who has a love / hate relationship with Moon that is oddly engaging. Again, Barnes isn’t a bad writer. If his novel fails, it fails because he is so busy running us to the next character and setting that we never really have the opportunity to explore and enjoy the one we are currently at.  He doesn’t give them, or the story, a chance to become something.  The characters’ motivations are flimsy at best, and other than appearing at the right time they do nothing to further the plot.  And the plot does nothing to develop who they are.

My verdict is that The Somnambulist could be a better book than it is,  despite being clever on many levels.  (There’s an interesting connection to explore between the title, Coleridge, and a Coleridge bio by John Charpentier entitled Coleridge: The Sublime Somnambulist).   At the end I was left feeling frustrated that only a very small portion of the story has been told, and superficially at that.

So, is it Booksexy?  It does have a certain something… like a guy with a great line but no substance.  Perfect for bars, in the art house lobby before the film starts & anyplace where you’re going to see and be seen.  Get caught reading it when the eye candy you asked out with no intention of going on a second date shows up.  It’ll make great  small talk while you decide whether or not you’ll be…  umm… reading in bed tonight.

So, after the dreaful and painstaking process it was making it through Mister B. Gone, it was with a sigh of relief that I picked up Jonathan Barnes’ first book, The Somnambulist.  The link between Barker’s drivel and Tom McCarthy’s Remainder was principle characters unfit for normal society.  The line between Barker’s book and Barne’s is a theme of murder, and somewhat unconventional characters.

Let me be clear: I hated Mister B. Gone but so far and really enjoying The Somnambulist.  I really like the seedy London setting and the characters are intriguing to me.  I’ve always liked stories dealing with magicians, a la Houdini.  For me they hold a kind of majesty, hearkening back, if you will to a somewhat simpler time, when belief in the unbelievable was possible and imagination was encouraged.  Edward Moon and his sidekick, the enigmatic Somnambulist are fascinating.  I really appreciate the fact that while Moon is a pretty decent guy, kind of your standard good guy, Barnes immediately gives him a bizarre vice – atypical prostitutes.  For example, he’s particularly fond of a bearded woman with an extra arm, underdeveloped, and protruding from between her breasts.  Like I said, atypical.

Like the previous novel, this one reads fairly fast.  Unlike the previous novel, I’m excited and disappointed by that because I like the characters, the setting and the story, which, on page 60 is just beginning to unfold.  So far it is exciting and just a fun read.  Nothing too profound or particularly “literary,” just good, clean fun.

Galaxy British Book Awards

The evening of Friday 3rd April is when the winners of the several categories of the Galaxy British Book Awards  will be revealed at the Grosvenor House in London’s Park Lane – these publishers certainly know how to celebrate. For all the nominations in the different categories, including the Richard and Judy best read of the year, visit the Waterstones website, or you can pick up a “Shortlist magazine” free at WHSmiths and other outlets. You can vote for your books of the year at www.galaxybritishbookawards.com.

A book with “no literary merit whatsoever”….

… at least that is the claim in the blurb of this book. It is a crime novel, but not as we know it; it is a murder investigation, a fantasy and in parts a horror novel. The Somnambulist [ Gollancz £7.99 9780575082144], by Jonathan Barnes, is the strange story of a Victorian illusionist, Edward Moon, whose chief claim to fame is to be able to thrust several large swords through the body of his accomplice, known only as The Somnambulist, without causing any loss of blood or discomfort as the main attraction of his nightly performances. Moon does have a sort of “sideline” – that of solving murder cases and when he is called in by Inspector Merryweather of the Yard to help with a couple of murders, it seems at first to be an open and shut case. But the mystery soon deepens, when it appears that some strange religious sect is involved – I use the term “sect” very loosely – and is trying to take over Victorian London to introduce a completely new way of living.

Apart from The Somnambulist himself, who is unable to speak and is addicted to milk (!), the novel is peopled with a host of very strange characters. There is very ugly Thomas Cribb who claims to have lived in the future as well as in the past, a man covered in fish-like scales who is found to have committed the first two murders and the body of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, which has been preserved in a semi conscious state by the religious sect, since it was apparently Coleridge’s original idea to set up the religious colony. Perhaps the cleverest and most surprising turn of events is about three quarters of the way through the novel, when the identity of the narrator is revealed. If you don’t mind a few grotesque and gory descriptions and you enjoy a bizarre, ridiculous and sometimes implausible plot, this is for you. I was sorry when I got to the end, as I was enjoying it so much.

Jonathan Barnes now has a sort of sequel to “The Somnambulist”. The Domino Men [Gollancz £7.99 978-0575082311] is set in present day London, but some of the characters in the previous novel seem to have survived into the 21st Century. I haven’t read this one, but I’ll put in a request for it at  my local library.

By the way, don’t confuse Jonathan Barnes with Julian Barnes,(whose new novel Nothing to be Frightened of [Vintage £8.99 9780099523741] is just out in paperback).

Peeking at the Peak District

I believe I’ve mentioned already Peeks at the Peak by Ann Beedham. Well if you enjoyed that , there’s a second volume now available [ Youbooks £12.99 9781905278244] Both books look at a random selection of historical sites in the Peak District and east Derbyshire as well as famous people connected with the area. Each topic is covered by two to four pages of information and photographs, many in colour. Volume 2 includes the spa town of Buxton, Fanshawe Gate Hall, near Holmesfield, and William Gell, the man from whom the Via Gellia road takes its name. Printed on A4 size art paper, both volumes would make an ideal present for anyone interested in the Peak District, but they are more than just gift books.

STOP PRESS

See this weeks’ Chad- page 33 -  for a chance to win a copy of a new book “The Death Ray: the secret life of Harry Grindell Matthews”. This is the man who invented what was in effect the very first mobile phone ( – in 1909!) and whose most famous invention was the “death ray machine”.

London, heute. Das Ende der Welt ist nah! Naja, jedenfalls das Ende Londons. Denn vor langer Zeit hat das britische Königshaus einen Pakt geschlossen, der das Empire sichern sollte. Einen Pakt mit einem göttlichen Wesen: Leviathan. Nun steht Leviathans Ankunft kurz bevor, der sich holen will, was ihm versprochen wurde: London. Das einzige, was ihm dabei im Wege steht ist das Direktorium, eine unglaublich geheime Geheimorganisation, die seit langer Zeit einen (natürlich geheimen) Krieg gegen das Haus Windsor führt. Und Henry Lamb, seines Zeichens Archivar in der STAATLICHEN ARCHIVVERWALTUNG – DEPOT- UND URKUNDENREGISTER. Als Henrys Grossvater (“der alte Lumpensack”) – früher Spitzenagent des Direktoriums – ins Krankenhaus eingeliefert wird, beginnt eine Kette seltsamer Ereignisse ihren Lauf zu nehmen, an deren Ende – wir ahnen es – Henry die Welt retten wird. Naja, jedenfalls London retten wird.
Bis dahin tauchen noch diverse skurrile Gestalten auf, es fliesst reichlich Blut, in die Erzählung mischt sich eine fremde Stimme und die Welt gerät aus den Fugen. Naja, jedenfalls gerät London aus den Fugen…

“Das Königshaus der Monster” (im Original “Domino Men”) ist eine indirekte Fortsetzung des wunderbaren “Das Albtraumreich des Edward Moon“. Wie bei “Moon” taucht auch hier das Direktorium auf, die Präfekten sind wieder mit von der Partie und es wird uns eine Realität präsentiert, die so knapp unter der Oberfläche unseres Alltags existieren könnte. (Wenn wir einfach mal annehmen, dass Magie und Übernatürliches real sind.) Aber ich muss gestehen, dass ich mich schon besser amüsiert habe. “Das Königshaus der Monster” ist Langeweile auf sehr hohem Niveau. Sprachlich durchaus lesenswert und gelgentlich witzig, ist die Geschichte durchschaubar und auch durch die “fremde Stimme” wird sie nicht wirklich interessanter. (Anders als bei “Moon”, wo wir ja einen Erzähler hatten, der mit seiner Erzählung ganz eigene Ziele verfolgte.) Das Ende ist dann zwar irgendwie ganz anders als gedacht – aber eher enttäuschend. Ein wenig hatte ich beim Lesen das Gefühl, dass da jemand den Stil aus “Moon” kopieren wollte, ohne dass es recht gelang…
Und es ist eine Quasi-Fortsetzung – trotzdem wird praktisch nichts über den ersten Roman erzählt. Nur der sehr unsympathische Dedlock mit seinem Direktorium und die (auch nicht besonders netten) Präfekten tauchen wieder auf. Wir erfahren zwar etwas über die Geschichte des Direktoriums, das deckt sich aber kaum mit dem, was der geneigte Leser aus “Moon” kennt. Da wäre es doch vielleicht besser gewesen, eine komplett neue Story zu beginnen, statt den Leser in der unbefriedigten Hoffnung zu lassen, er könne doch noch etwas über “die Sache in Clapham” erfahren oder den Schlafwandler oder die seltsame Gestalt, die rückwärts durch die Zeit lebt(e)…

Wirklich schade, ich hatte mich so auf dieses Buch gefreut – leider sind meine hohen Erwartungen enttäuscht worden. Wer “Das Albtraumreich des Edward Moon” noch nicht kennt und kurzweilige, skurrile Unterhaltung sucht, der kann sich mit “Das Königshaus der Monster” vielleicht anfreunden. Wer aber den Erstling von Barnes geliebt hat, der sollte lieber die Finger von diesem Buch lassen. Jonathan Barnes hat – meiner Meinung nach – sein hohes Unterhaltungspotential hier nicht ausgeschöpft.

For those who have or even haven’t read The Somnambulist by Jonathan Barnes, one should check out The Domino Men, whch comes out Feb. 12th.  Word is The Prefects are making an encore appearance.

With the intention of padding my blog with extra content, I’ll add another review I recently submitted on LibraryThing. The Somnambulist, by Jonathan Barnes is well worth the time spent reading.

The Somnambulist - Jonathan Barnes

A bizarre, not so modern mystery

Edward Moon is a “conjurer”, an entertainer struggling to preserve what little reputation and income he has left. Among polite society he is now more likely considered a laughingstock than the once promising investigator propelled by his sharpened abilities of examination. Considered past his prime, his Las Vegas-styled evening show, set in Victorian era London, is now only attracting the fanatically faithful. So Moon, along with the Somnambulist, his giant, deathly pale, almost human-like partner in crime-solving and fright inducing sidekick, is bored. Yet that is about to change.

As far as crime solving duos go could this very well be the Victorian era predecessor to our modern day Starsky and Hutch? As far as mysteries go, probably not so much, as Sherlock and Watson might have proven a more apt comparison. At least Watson talked. The Somnambulist, on the other hand, doesn’t; he would rather accompany Moon silently grasping his pints of milk.

If such a bizarre introduction to The Somnambulist intrigues you, then by all means delve deeper than the surface just scratched, as this book by Jonathan Barnes turns more curious by the page. But it is as entertaining as it is strange; Moon is as stubbornly cynical, full of snark as he is determined to solve what is the most important threat facing London. And the Somnambulist is, well, the Somnambulist. But will that threat be The Directorate, an assassin known only as The Mongoose, the fun-loving Prefects, or the very literary Chairman itself? Full of intrigue, murder, and curiosity, this story is all wrapped up into a very sharply-written novel. It’s dark, creepy, and humorously suspenseful. And it’s only the first novel written by Barnes.

La rivista greca Cogito ha invitato quattro filosofi anglosassoni (Jonathan Barnes, Myles Burnyeat, Raymond Geuss e Barry Stroud) a una tavola rotonda sulla natura e gli scopi della filosofia. Eurozine, che è un aggregatore di riviste culturali europee, ha ripreso l’articolo. Lo leggo senza imbattermi in molto di nuovo, finché arrivo a questa domanda.

“Cogito: La filosofia dovrebbe essere praticata solo da chi ha ricevuto una formazione in filosofia?”.

Il primo a rispondere è Jonathan Barnes, esperto di filosofia greca, che inizia così:

“JB: Rispondo alla domanda con una contro-domanda: ‘La matematica dovrebbe essere fatta solo da quelli che hanno una formazione in matematica?’”.

“Bravo Barnes”, penso, “una risposta degna di Socrate. La matematica non è certo riservata ai matematici. Tutti facciamo calcoli ogni giorno, quando controlliamo lo scontrino della spesa, ci chiediamo se faremo in tempo a un appuntamento, o pensiamo a quanti gol deve fare l’Italia per passare il turno. La riflessione filosofica, anche se magari non ce ne accorgiamo, è altrettanto universale e quotidiana”.

Dopo di che Barnes aggiunge:

“Beh, non voglio decidere io, ma è abbastanza chiaro che se non hai una formazione matematica, finirai probabilmente per fare un casino immondo – a meno tu sia uno dei quei rari geni naturali. Lo stesso vale per la filosofia”.

Brian Leiter, che segnala l’articolo, giudica imbarazzanti altre risposte di Barnes (per esempio quella in cui si vanta di non avere letto in vita sua più di 100 pagine di filosofia continentale).

Since this is an ongoing conversation here, I thought I’d point out an interesting conversation about the similar topics over at Eurozine:

Modes of philosophizing

A round table debate

Should philosophy have something to say to non-philosophers? Should philosophy be pursued only by those trained in philosophy? Should academic teachers of philosophy consider themselves philosophers in virtue of the fact that they teach philosophy? And should analytic philosophers deny that continental philosophers are philosophers at all, or acknowledge that they represent different modes of philosophizing? Cogito poses some big questions to four prominent British and US philosophers.

Cogito: Do you think that philosophy as pursued by philosophers has something to say which is, or should be, of some relevance to the way non-philosophers think about the world and their life? Is it desirable that philosophers make an effort to make those aspects of philosophy which are relevant in this way available to non-philosophers?

Synopsis (from Amazon):
‘Be warned. This book has no literary merit whatsoever. It is a lurid piece of nonsense, convoluted, implausible, peopled by unconvincing characters, written in drearily pedestrian prose, frequently ridiculous and wilfully bizarre. Needless to say, I doubt you’ll believe a word of it.’ So starts the extraordinary tale of Edward Moon, detective, his silent associate the Sonambulist and devilish plot to recreate the apocalyptic prophecies of William Blake and bring the British Empire crashing down. With a gallery of vividly grotesque characters, a richly evoked setting and a playful highly literate style this is an amazingly readable literary fantasy and a brilliant debut.

Review:
If you like your historical crime fiction packed full of mystery and intrigue, then you could do a lot worse than picking up The Somnambulist and losing yourself between the covers. From the outset, the anonymous narrator of the tale uses misdirection and half-truths to both draw the reader and throw them off the scent without ever having realised there was a scent to begin with.

It’s a cleverly-written whodunit that borders on the paranormal without ever fully crossing that line and, despite being filed with characters that wouldn’t be out of place in a Victorian circus sideshow, it never quite ventures outside the realms of possibility (or, at the very least, it seems that way during the reading). Characters are wonderfully, humanly flawed and inspire a mixture of sympathy, hatred, fear and loathing, and yes, occasionally even a little love and inspiration.

Next time you’re looking for something a little unusual, give this one a try.

Reviewed by Kell Smurthwaite

THE SOMNAMBULIST, by Jonathan Barnes

I don’t know Jonathan Barnes, but in my mind I imagine someone who grew up reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, HP Lovecraft, and a little Mary Shelley on the side. It bursts open dripping with mystery and weirdness, and I found myself unable to put it down. The middle begins to sag, and the final act does not fully recover, though it makes a stunning effort and I was finishing it off while standing in line to get a book signed (thank you for your patience on that, Mr. Butcher).

Seems as though it’s his first novel, and I’m forgiving on the things that happen in first novels. Despite the sag in the middle, I found it overall intriguing. I was disappointed that more wasn’t done with Thomas Cribb’s character. I enjoyed the Prefects and wish they were brought in sooner and for longer. I wish there were more sleuthing.

Despite any criticisms I may lay on this book, I’d still go read his next work.

35. The Somnambulist by Jonathan Barnes (2007)

Length: 353 pages

Genre: A blend of fantasy, historical fiction, and horror

Started: 20 March 2008
Finished: 22 March 2008

Summary: Edward Moon is a washed-up stage magician in turn-of-the-century London, as well as an amateur (and relatively unsuccessful) detective; the Somnambulist is his giant, bald, and mute assistant. When a local actor dies in a unique and grisly way, Moon takes on the investigation as a means of relieving his boredom. However, the murder is only the tip of something much bigger – the rumblings of a sinister plot that may threaten the very city itself.

Review: Imagine if Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, Katherine Dunn’s Geek Love, Christopher Priest’s The Prestige, Matt Ruff’s Sewer Gas and Electric and Philip Pullman’s Sally Lockhart series got together and had a bizarre little baby and that baby had a terrible fevered nightmare, and that will give you some idea what this book is like. I can’t exactly say I liked it, although it was definitely interesting. I think the problem was that there were too many characters without enough (or any) characterization, too much going on without a lot of (or any) background, and too many strange mysteries without enough (or any) satisfying explanations. It read fairly easily, and I enjoyed the language and the writing style (except he really likes the word “unprepossessing”), but it felt a little disconnected – as though *I* had a fever and wasn’t fitting all of the pieces together into the whole. There’s a lot of interesting potential, but it feels as though the author was more concerned with packing one more strange, dark, and mysterious character or thread into the story, and forgot about actually making his story make sense to his readers. 3 out of 5 stars.

Recommendation: Not a bad read, but not as good as I’d hoped it would be. Gaiman fans who’ve run out of Gaiman would probably be the most likely candidates to enjoy this book, but it’s not a rush-out-and-buy recommendation.

This Review on LibraryThing | This Book on LibraryThing | This Book on Amazon

First Line: Be warned. This book has no literary merit whatsoever.

Vocab:

• p. 19: “At the Theatre of Marvels there were no rabbits, no hats, no shuffling of cards, no coloured handkerchiefs, no rings, cups or balls – Moon’s act was altogether more recherché than that.” – of studied refinement or elegance; precious; affected; pretentious.
  .
• p. 25: “Patrician, elegantly middle-aged, she had an aloofness about her, a haughty froideur.” – an attitude of haughty aloofness; cold superiority.
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• p. 28: “The Somnambulist had changed into a set of striped pyjamas (due to his excessive size, these had to be produced for him bespoke) and was sitting up in bed, chalk and blackboard by his side, engrossed in a slim volume of verse.” – made to individual order; custom-made.
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• p. 31: “He drank compulsively, it seemed, bibulously, as though he could not live without it.” – fond of or addicted to drink.
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• p. 56: “The servant stood at the doorway and announced, with the po-faced solemnity of a pastor reading the last rites: “Mr. Edward Moon and the Somnambulist.”” – having an overly serious demeanor or attitude; humorless.
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• p. 102: “Two guards eyed them truculently as they approached.” – aggressively hostile; belligerent.
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• p. 103: “Owsley took them through corridors and passageways whose dingy walls dripped with fungus, damp and grime; past cell after cell peopled by the solitary condemned, their cries and lamentations filling the air, as choking and mephitic as smoke.” – offensive to the smell.
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• p. 105: “Barabbas lay at the furthest corner of his cell; corpulent, naked to the waist, his fleshy face framed by rings of Neronian curls.” – A hairstyle modeled on the Emperor Nero.
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• p. 119: ““Just as you’d expect – vague, oracular warnings, phrased in the most purple and prolix terms.”” – extended to great, unnecessary, or tedious length; long and wordy.
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• p. 148: “He looked at the spotless, soulless luxury of his bedroom and under the influence of an ineluctable compulsion began – quite deliberately and with clinical precision – to smash it all up.” – incapable of being evaded; inescapable.
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• p. 159: “Naturally he’d had his lapses and temptations, as a younger man in particular, but nowadays he strove for a pure and virtuous existence, a life of temperance, decency and moderation, free from sybaritism and excess.” – a person devoted to luxury and pleasure.
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• p. 322: “Moon was of course tiresomely sententious about the incident.” – abounding in pithy aphorisms or maxims.
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• p. 325: “Even now I shudder to think of the consequences had I gifted such weird power upon, say, Lord Byron or mad Blake or that oikish fraud Chatterton.” – depreciatory schoolboy word for a member of another school; an unpopular or disliked fellow-pupil.