I’ll begin by saying that this really is an exciting publication for lovers of Jon McGregor’s short fiction. The man is renowned for the short stories that he’s published in various places, but this is the first time that a Jon McGregor collection has been brought together. True, some of these collected stories have been published elsewhere, including the two excellent stories that put him on the BBC National Short Story Award stories – If It Keeps On Raining (shortlisted 2010) and Wires (shortlisted 2011) – but to the best of my knowledge most of the collection is original and previously unpublished. What theme is the collection on, if any? Let’s have a look at the cover blurb:

A man builds a tree house by a river, in anticipation of the coming flood. A sugar-beet crashes through a young woman’s windscreen. A boy sets fire to a barn. A pair of itinerant labourers sit by a lake, talking about shovels and sex, while fighter-planes fly low overhead and prepare for war.

These aren’t the sort of things you imagine happening to someone like you. But sometimes they do.

Set in the flat and threatened fenland landscape, where the sky is dominant and the sea lurks just behind the horizon, these delicate, dangerous, and sometimes deeply funny stories tell of things buried and unearthed, of familiar places made strange, and of lives where much is hidden, much is at risk, and tender moments are hard-won.

So that’s blurb, and I think it gives a good indication of what this collection is all about. Primarily, the theme seems to be about dramatic events affecting mundane and largely uneventful lives – the kind of events that people don’t imagine happening to them, as the blurb says . Don’t you just love it when normal everyday characters are going about their normal everyday routines when BANG, something happens, and the metaphorical apple cart spills all over the road? Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

What interests me more though is the setting for all of the stories in This Isn’t The Sort Of Thing That Happens To Someone Like You – the fenlands, that naturally marshy region to be found in eastern England. McGregor has said previously that ‘place’ is very important to him in his fiction (he talks about it during this video interview), and so I wonder why he has specifically chosen this area as a location for this collection of short stories? I won’t know for sure until I read the book of course, but at this stage I’m guessing it’s either something to do with the fenlands being largely featureless and bland, which would give McGregor more of a blank ‘stage’ on which to amplify dramatic events, or it may have something to do with the fragility of the area, which would compliment and accentuate the fragility of the people who find themselves in unusual circumstances in McGregor’s stories. Whatever the reason it’s an intriguing one, and I’ll be searching for clues while I’m reading.

So what about the man himself? Well, Jon McGregor was born in Bermuda in 1976. He grew up in Norfolk, and currently lives in Nottingham with his wife and two children. He’s had three novels published to date, If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things, So Many Ways to Begin and Even the Dogs (all published by Bloomsbury), with the first being longlisted for the Man Book Prize. McGregor’s debut novel also won him the Betty Trask Prize and the Somerset Maugham Award in 2003.

Given the level of McGregor’s literary successes thus far (although he always seem to just miss out on the top prizes), I find it remarkable that he hasn’t any formal academic qualifications in writing (he does hold a BSc in Media Technology & Production from the University of Bradford). No biggie because lots of writers don’t have formal qualifications in the craft, but I just find impressive for someone who writes so well to have had no formal training. He certainly gives hope to all those budding writers who don’t want to contemplate taking the university route.

So I guess that’s all I have to say about Jon McGregor and his new short story collection for now, and it’s on with the job of working my way through the 30 stories on offer. I’ll proceed as I always do, reading each story individually and reviewing it, before returning with my final afterthoughts on the collection as a whole. I made a pledge in my last short story collection forethoughts post that I would be dramatically speeding up my journey through these collections, and I aim to stick to that. So hopefully, it’ll only be a few days before I come back with my final review on This Isn’t The Sort Of Thing That Happens To Someone Like You. I’m in for a thrilling journey I think, and you can keep up with my progress at any time by coming back to these forethoughts, and following the links that I will create below as I post a review of each story. Following the contents below, there are also some links which you may find useful if you want to find out more a little more about Jon McGregor.

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:: Contents of This Isn’t The Sort Of Thing That Happens To Someone Like You ::
(links lead to individual reviews of each story, when posted)

• That Colour
• In Winter The Sky
• She Was Looking For This Coat
• Looking Up Vagina
• Keeping Watch Over The Sheep
• Airshow
• We Were Just Driving Around
• If It Keeps On Raining
• Fleeing Complexity
• Vessel
• Which Reminded Her, Later
• The Chicken And The Egg
• New York
• French Tea
• Close
• We Wave And Call
• Supplementary Notes To The Testimony
• Thoughtful
• The Singing
• Wires
• What Happened To Mr Davison
• Years Of This, Now
• The Remains
• The Cleaning
• The Last Ditch
• Dig A Hole
• I Remember There Was A Hill
• Song
• I’LL Buy You A Shovel
• Memorial Stone

Bloomsbury | 02 February 2012 | £14.99 | HARDBACK | 272 PP | ISBN: 9781408809266

Find out more about Jon McGregor:

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

First off, why am I so excited about reading this particular collection from debut author, Macleod? Well, mainly because I’ve heard so many good things about it. Light Lifting may be new to the UK, but in Canada where where this author hails from, Light Lifting has been on bookshop shelves since September 2010 (HERE’S a video from the launch), and since then it has created quite a stir around literary circles. Not only was Light Lifting shortlisted for the 2010 Scotiabank Giller Prize the day after its publication, but last year it was also shortlisted for the prestigious Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. The collection also took the Margaret and John Savage First Book Award at last year’s Atlantic Book Awards, while also standing a finalist in the Commonwealth Writers Prize. Even ignoring all of the glowing literary reviews – and of these there are many – this collection has built up a lot of prestige over the past year, and I don’t think there are too many short story fans out there who wouldn’t be excited (or at the very least intrigued), to read this one.

Let’s go look at the cover blurb:

Light Lifting, Alexander Macleod’s long-awaited first collection of short fiction, offers us a suite of darkly urban and unflinching elegies. These are elemental stories of work and its bonds, of tragedy and tragedy barely averted, but also of beauty, love and fragile understanding.

That’s the blurb – short and sweet but suitably intriguing I think. The mention of the stories being ‘elemental’ and themed around ‘tragedy’ and ‘work and its bonds’ is particularly interesting, especially when juxtaposed against ‘beauty’ and ‘love’, because it sounds as though these may well be the kinds of story that one can’t quite get out of the head once finished. I’m a huge fan of ‘stick in the head’ tales, and I remember reading somewhere (I can’t remember where exactly – probably because my brain is full of ‘stick in the head’ tales ) that all of the stories in this collection are wholly memorable, and in a truthful, biting, gritty kind of way. And that’s absolutely my cup of tea.

And if that wasn’t encouragement enough for me, the great Irish novelist Colm Tóibín declares that the stories in this collection ‘offer a real pleasure which comes from the sense of life and emotional honesty in them’ which really piques interest, especially when factoring in Anne Enright’s comment that Alexander MacLeod illuminates every page of this collection, with his ‘belief in people and the power of story’. Marketing blurb I know, but marketing blurb that comes from two literary giants.

What is perhaps espcially interesting about Light Lifting however, is that it’s a culmination of over 15 years of work. This is not to say that it has taken MacLeod fifteen years to write the collection from start to finish, rather the stories in it span 15 years of writing. I think it’s safe to suggest therefore, that there’s nothing unconsidered or last minute about the seven stories included in this collection, and that Macleod has had plenty of time to put a spit and polish on every one of them.

So what of Alexander MacLeod himself? Well, for starters he comes from good literary stock. His father is the noted short story writer and novelist, Alistair MacLeod, who amongst other things won the International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award in 2001 for his 1999 novel, No Great Mischief.

Alexander himself was born in Inverness, Cape Breton and raised in Windsor, Ontario. He holds degrees from University of Windsor, the University of Notre Dame, and McGill. He is married with three young children and is currently an associate professor of English at St. Mary’s University, Halifax, Nova Scotia. This is clearly a man who eat, sleeps and drinks literature, and he has done so for a long time.

Additionally, MacLeod used to be a serious distance runner and I know one of his stories – the first, Miracle Mile which I’ve had a sneak read of already (Wow, but more on that later) – is about the life of the competitive distance runner. Macleod admits that there are elements of himself in all of his stories, so I’m expecting this collection to be as intriguing in an autobiographical sense as it is in a fictional. Given the time span during which the stories have been created I’m looking forward to seeking out the signs of Macleod blossoming, both as a person and as a writer.

So Light Lifting really does look to have the makings of one extraordinary short story collection (the cover is basic and unassuming too which is always a promising thing i.e. it doesn’t need bells and whistles to sell it), hence my thrill at the thought of reading it. The fact that the collection has gained so much recognition before coming to the UK is exciting enough, but adding in all of the other things – MacLeod’s ancestry, his love for literature, the timespan covering the creation of these stories, the comments from prominent authors etc. – I don’t think I’ve been as eager to dive into a short story collection for a long time (I lie because I get excited over most short story collections, but I’m doing so for dramatic effect ).

So, how am I going to proceed with my reading of Light Lifting? Well, the same way as I always do with short story collections/anthologies i.e. read and review each individual story before returning with a final afterthoughts post for the collection as a whole. I’m noted for being rather leisurely when it comes to the speed in which I read short story collections, but this is something I really want and need to improve on. So rather than posting my final afterthoughts on this collection in a few weeks time, I hope to return in a few days to let you know how I got on. Meantime, you track my progress through this collection, below. Oh and and if you want to know little more about Alexander MacLeod, then scroll past the contents list for Light Lifting, where there’s a few links that will hopefully enlighten you.

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:: Contents of Light Lifting ::
(links lead to individual reviews of each story, when posted)

• Miracle Mile
• Wonder About Parents
• Light Lifting
• Adult Beginner I
• The Loop
• Good Kids
• The Number Three

Jonathan Cape | 02 February 2012 | £15.99 | HARDBACK | 211 PP | ISBN: 9780224093941

Find out more about Alexander MacLeod:

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

Even before I begin reading Accabadora by Michela Murgia (MacLehose Press; translated by Silvester Mazzarella), I know I hold something special in my hand. In its native Italy, the novel has won six – count them: 1,2,3,4,5,6 – literary awards (including the prestigious Campiello Prize), so to ignore a book with such glowing accolades would be idiotic (people do though, as lovers of translated fiction know fine well). Actually, given that it has such a striking cover (designed by Monica Reyes. She seems to have used a simple patterned fabric but to great effect), Accabadora is impossible to ignore even without knowing that it’s a multiple prize winner. This is one which will definitely stand out on the bookshop shelves, you can be sure of that.

Let’s move on then to look at the cover blurb, which may, as we all know, contain mild spoilers:

When the once-beautiful Bonaria Urrai adopts Maria, the unloved fourth child of a widow, she tries to shield the girl from the truth about her role as an accabadora, an angel of mercy, who acts as a midwife to the dying. The rural community fear and revere her in equal measure, but they understand that just as only a woman can bring life into the world, only a woman should take it away.

Moved by the pleas of a young man crippled in an accident, she breaks her golden rule of familial consent, and in the recriminations that follow, Maria rejects Tzia Bonaria and flees Sardinia for Turin. Adrift in the big city, she strives to find love and acceptance, but her efforts are overshadowed by the creeping knowledge of a debt unpaid, of family ties that have nothing to do with blood, and of a destiny that must one day be hers.

A powerful and yet delicate novel set in the 1950s rural Sardinia, written in a rich, limpid prose that perfectly captures the hidden ties between life, love and death.

First impressions based on the blurb? Powerful stuff, about a girl who is obviously troubled deep down. The big part that ‘family’ seems to play in Accabadora (as with many Italian novels) is intriguing. We all know how deep running family feuds can get, and I’ve a feeling that this one might well get right down to the core, especially when taking the mother’s ‘profession’ into consideration. If the family feud does reach the depths I expect it to, then Accabadora is, I think, going be one heck of a ‘rollercoaster’ novel.

Know what else I love the sound of? That this novel is set in a rural location in 1950s Sardinia. I know little of the history of the island during this period, so it’ll be nice to find out a little more. The fact that the novel is also partly set in the bustling city of Turin is of further interest. Aside from offering a striking contrast to rural Sardinia, it’ll hopefully teach me something about 1950s Turin too, because I know nothing about that either (and who says that fiction doesn’t educate, eh? ).

Of course most interesting of all is this theme of the accabadora. Apparently, these traditional ‘angels of death’ actually existed on the island of Sardinia up to as late as the 1970s, and they were brutal in their profession (Judith Schalansky missed a trick here, didn’t she?). The aged accabadora would enter the home of somebody dying – swathed in black; face covered – and clinically dispatch the poor person, not only with precision but more often than not using a cudgel, specially crafted from a tree branch. Wonder what these things may look like? Then wonder no more, because for your delight and delectation ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been able to track down a video (in Italian, sorry) which shows this tool of the accabadora (from about the 1min mark), in all of its gruesome glory (thanks to Andrew Collins):

As for the author, Michela Murgia, well this is my first time reading her – perhaps not surprising given that this is her debut in English – and I know surprisingly little about her aside from knowing that she was born in Cabras, Sardinia in 1972 and that she has worked as a religious studies teacher, a timeshare saleswoman and an administrator in a power plant. However, the fact that she has come along with a novel which has picked up six literary awards in Italy, speaks volumes. There must be something hugely competent about her, and I look forward to finding out exactly what, for myself.

The translator, Silvester Mazzarella is also new to me. The Canterbury-based multilingual translator seems more than up to the task however, having learned English from his mother, Italian from his father, and Swedish while teaching at the University of Helsinki. I look forward to tasting the fruits of his labour, so to speak.

So for now that’s all I can say I guess, and I’m left to the task of diving in to Accabadora. Weighing in at just a little over 200 pages it shouldn’t take me too long to tick this one off. So I should be back real soon – certainly before the book’s official publication date of October 27th – to let you know what I thought of it. For now stay safe, and be wary of any old ladies dressed in black who may come a-knockin’ on your door .

MacLehose Press | 27th October 2011 | £12.00 | HARDBACK | 208 PP | ISBN: 9780857050458

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

I’ll begin by briefly explaining what the Bristol Short Story Prize is all about. Founded by the Bristol Review of Books and operating as a non-profit organisation under the guidance of the brilliant Joe Melia (brilliant because Joe’s passion for short stories is undying), the Bristol Short Story Prize is an annual prize which awards the best short story submissions as judged by an expert panel. The winner, along with two runners-up and seventeen other shortlisted stories, are given a small cash prize and awarded with publication in the yearly anthology. There is an onus on promoting previously unpublished writers, but the main aim of the Bristol Short Story Prize is in promoting the short story form in general, which is something much required in the UK, as fans of the form in this country will know.

That’s the Bristol Short Story Prize in a nutshell but what of this latest anthology, No. 4? Well, I’ll begin with the cover blurb:

Original, exciting and innovative writing abounds in this collection of 20 irresistible short stories. Selected from more than 2,000 entries for the 2011 Bristol Short Story Prize, here are 20 superb writers illustrating not only their own talents but, also, the vast spectacle of the short story.

Mmmm…‘the vast spectacle of the short story’, I like that phrase, and it’s oh so true. The short story is infinite in theme and it’s certainly a spectacle to behold. And that’s one of the things I’ve enjoyed most about previous BSSP anthologies, the selection has certainly always been wide-ranging with each of the stories standing as a real spectacle in its own right.

Of course the story that stands as the biggest spectacle in this latest anthology is the one which triumphed as this year’s Bristol Short Story Prize winner. The winning story is called My Girl, and it’s the creation of Open University PhD student, Emily Bullock. Since I’ve already reported on Emily’s triumph I’ll send you over to that post to find out more. What I will say though, is I’ve had a bit of a sneaky read of Emily’s winning story and I’ve got to say that I’m mightily impressed with it. Last year’s winning story was very ‘punch in the guts’ (Mum’s The Word by Valerie O’Riordan – you can read my review of it here), and Emily’s story, which is much longer in length, is even more so (quite literally), raising hopes that this latest BSSP anthology could turn out to be even better than last year’s one (diffcult to top, but who knows).

I’ve yet to read 1st runner-up Laura Windley with her story The Kitchen at the Lion, 2nd runner-up Laura Lewis with a story called, Reading Turkish Coffee or any of the other seventeen inclusions in this year’s anthology, so although I read Emily’s winning story before penning my forethoughts, I’ve only cheated a little .

I’ve said on previous occasions that I have huge respect for the judging panel behind the Bristol Short Story Prize, not least because they all seem to have exquisite taste. And I’m delighted to note that the judging panel for this year’s award remains exactly the same as it was last year, with chair Bertel Martin being supported by authors Tania Hershman, Helen Hart and Joe Berger and publishing guru, Maia Bristol. I expect therefore, a similar standard of story quality to that which was published in the anthology last year.

Another thing that has remained more or less the same on previous editions of the anthology, is the design. I love the layout, mainly because each story is accompanied with a small thumbnail of each author and a brief bio, and this – for me at least – really sets things up, providing a nice little introduction to each story. I’m glad they’ve kept this winning format.

I say that the design has remained the same for the Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology Vol. 4, but of course the cover is different. I don’t know if you’re aware of the design process for the covers for the BSSP anthology, but it’s rather warming. You see, the winning cover is selected from those submitted by students enrolled on design courses at the University of the West of England in Bristol. This year’s winning design is the work of 2011 graduate, Claire Shorrock. It’s fantastic isn’t it, and I strongly suggest that you head on over to Claire’s Tumblr, to gasp in awe at the quality of her other illustration work. Gotta love the Bristol Short Story Prize for giving a step up to those in the early stages of their design career, and they even offer journalism students the opportunity to interview winning authors. Heart of gold that Bristol Short Story Prize.

So there we have it, the briefest of introductions to the new Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology Vol. 4. It’s down now to the reading to discover whether this year’s anthology matches up to that of previous years. My ‘journey’ through BSSP 4 will be the same as it was last year (and as it is for every short story collection/anthology I read). I will read and review each individual story before passing opinion on the anthology as a whole. To aid you, and me, I’ve listed all of the stories contained within this anthology below, and I will link to my review of each story as I post it. I hope you stick with me through this one. If it’s anything like last year’s anthology then it’s going to be a thrilling ride. Thoughts and comments are gratefully received.

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:: Contents of the Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology Vol. 4 ::
(links lead to individual reviews of each story, when posted)

• My Girl by Emily Bullock
• The Kitchen at the Lion by Laura Windley
• Reading Turkish Coffee by Laura Lewis
• No one Has Any Intention of Building a Wall by Ruth Brandt
• Himitsu-Bako by Timothy Bunting
• The Bovine Histories by Ian Burton
• Dressing for Chess by John Fairweather
• Marseille Tip by Niven Govinden
• The Milk Jug by Eluned Granich
• Katie’s Sandpit by Naomi Lever
• The Flies by Miha Mazzini
• What’s Eating Him? by Paul O’Reilly
• Cats and Elephants by Nastasya Parker
• Open Mike Night by Robert Perry
• The Last Fare by Philip St John
• Ernie Breaks by Genevieve Scott
• Brown Bag by Safia Shah
• Baking Blind by Melanie Whipman
• National Gallery by Peter Winder
• The Klinefelter’s Adventures: Chromosome of Havoc by Rachael Withers

Bristol Review of Books Ltd. | 16th July 2011 | £10.00 | PAPERBACK | 180 PP | ISBN: 0955955580

Find out more about Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology #4:

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

Let’s begin, as always, with the publisher blurb:

A man bets all he has on a horse race to pay for an expensive operation for his dog. A young refugee wants to box her way straight off the boat to the top of the sport. Old friends talk all night after meeting up by chance. She imagines a future together.

Stories about people who have lost out in life and in love, and about their hopes for one really big win, the chance to make something of their lives. In silent apartments, desolate warehouses, prisons and by the river, Meyer strikes the tone of our harsh times, and finds the grace notes, the bright lights shining in the dark.

As is fairly obvious from the blurb, there is something wholly gritty about Meyer’s English debut story collection (originally published in Germany under the title, Die Nacht, die Lichter). Meyer’s writing has been described by one reviewer as having an air of ‘dirty realism’ about it. Quick to shake off the tag at his recent appearance at EdBookFest, Meyer said that he had never heard of the term until a journalist had mentioned it to him. Meyer said that he didn’t really like to put himself in any category, he just liked to write about the darker side of life, in a ‘beautiful poetic way.’

And certainly, having had the pleasure of hearing him read at EdBookFest (he read a portion of his prison-based story, Riding the Rails), I’ve got to say that there is definitely something beautiful and poetic about Meyer’s prose. At the same time however, there’s also a rasping rawness to it. A strange combination I know, but oddly it works, and it works really well. I think it takes a special kind of writer to see beauty in that which is not beautiful, and already I’m thinking that Meyer might well be one of these special writers.

After seeing him perform, Meyer unquestionably whetted my whistle for his All the Lights collection. He comes across as one of literature real characters; kind of mix between renegade and genius. He has a strong presence and a supreme confidence (in a non-arrogant way), and this only deepens my curiosity for both Meyer and the fiction that he writes.

Born in the German city of Halle in 1977, Meyer has always lived in East Leipzig. Inspired by a father who has a huge passion for literature and a library containing thousands of books, Meyer was to gain entry to the German Literature Institute in Leipzig in the late 1990s, where he perfected his craft. Showing that he’s cut from a slightly different cloth than your standard literary type, Meyer states in a 2006 interview that he found the first two years at the Institute tough. “I had a hard time with the people. For me they were a bunch of intellectual riff-raff,” he said. This speaks volumes doesn’t it?

Although All the Lights marks Meyer’s debut in the English language, his first published work was a novel written in 2006, entitled Als wir träumten (As We Were Dreaming). All the Lights was originally published in 2008 under the title Die Nacht, die Lichter. It was to win the Leipzig Book Fair Prize in the same year. More recently, Meyer has published a third book in Germany, entitled Gewalten (Acts of Violence), which is described as ‘a diary of 2009 in eleven stories’.

If Meyer on his own were not enough to have piqued my interest for reading All The Lights, then I also have the added bonus that this collection has been translated by none other than Katy Derbyshire. I’ve long held Derbyshire on a pedestal, ever since her work on city-lit Berlin where she introduced many untranslated literary snippets to the English language. I have a great respect both for the quality of Derbyshire’s translations, and her ability to remain sympathetic to the author’s voice. It’s not an easy thing to get right, as any reader of translated fiction will know, but Derbyshire seems to have a sublime skill in the art.

Talking in a blog post earlier this year, Derbyshire said the most profound thing with regards to her time spent translating the stories in All the Lights. I really must share it with you:

Translating the stories is tricky but incredibly rewarding. At times I find myself gazing into space, marvelling at how good they are and how lucky I am to be working on them. But most of the time they suck me in and make me frown in concentration, suspending real life all around me.

Wow, just wow.

I also found out that Katy Derbyshire wasn’t only the translator of this title. She was also a key lynchpin in bringing it to the attention of publisher, And Other Stories. This new publisher – who I admit to being most excited about – uses a unique model for selecting books to be published. Basically, they employ a network readers, writers and literary translators to decide on future publications, and it is through this process that Derbyshire encouraged the translation and publication of Meyer’s collection. Looking at the early indications, I’m glad that she did.

So, a ‘renegade’ writer who sees beauty in the darker side, coupled with one of my favourite translators? I can see this being one hell of a journey that I’m about to embark on. As with all of my reviews of short story collections, I will travel though All The Lights in the same way. I will read and review each individual story, before returning with a final ‘afterthoughts’ post, when I will take into consideration the collection as a whole. I have listed the contents below, and I will link to each individual short story review as I complete it. There’s also a strong possibility that you’ll also find me making reference to this collection as I work my way through it, in the pages of my reading journal, and/or on Twitter. Feel free to pipe in with comments and observations any time that you feel like it (especially if you’ve read the collection). I’d love to hear from you.

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Contents of All the Lights:

And Other Stories | September 2011 | £10.00 | PAPERBACK | 240 PP | ISBN: 9781908276018

Find out more about Clemens Meyer:

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

*****

So I’ve reached the end of my island-hopping journey through Judith Schalansky’s Atlas of Remote Islands, and it’s time to offer up a few afterthoughts on it. You may remember, if you read my forethoughts, that I was quite taken by the book’s beautiful design, but my biggest fear was whether all of the work that had go into the design was only to disguise poor content. Well, I’ll alleviate any fears of this straight away because the content of the book certainly DOES live up to expectation, matching the quality of book’s presentation, perfectly.

Well crafted narrative
I think Schalansky is a fine writer. I was looking forward to her picking me up and taking me around fifty nondescript islands around this planet Earth, but I’d feared that she’d be like one of these monotone museum guides (you know, the ones you sometimes get lumbered with on museum visits. They’re knowledgeable enough but their delivery is just so yawn). Thankfully, Schalansky isn’t anything like that at all. Her narrative is well crafted and fast moving, and she can certainly a whip up a good story – based on fact, allegedly – and present it in an engaging way.

Brings out a spectrum of emotion
Yep, I was thoroughly entertained by Atlas of Remote Islands. I giggled at the life led by the ‘governor’ and his ‘subject’ on Saint Paul Island (well, until the end of the story at least). I wept at the plight of the poor slaves who were left deserted on the island of Tromelin (seven of them got the last laugh though). I took with a pinch of salt the story of Atlasov Island and how it began life as a mountain in the middle of Lake Kurile in Kamchatka, before the other mountains in the area got jealous of it and forced it to find a new home in the sea. And, I was left shocked and shaken by the islanders of Tikopia and their rather horrifying solution to population growth (apparently the island’s natural resources can sustain 1200, and not a single islander more). So a wide range of subjects and a whole spectrum of emotion shown there, by me (not deep emotion, but emotion all the same) so I think I can safely say that I think there’s a little something in Atlas of Remote Islands for everyone.

Over too quickly
As much as I enjoyed Atlas of Remote Islands I do have two minor complaints about it (if you can really call them complaints). Firstly, I managed to whizz through the book is next to no time. That’s good because it shows I enjoyed the book, but you’d think, given that the Atlas of Remote Islands features FIFTY islands, that there would be plenty to keep me reading for a long time. Not so, in actual fact most of the book is made up of eye candy – full page maps, timelines, distance graphs etc. with only half a page of prose being given for each island. Of course it’s definitely a case of writing quality over quantity with this one, but if somebody picks this up expecting it to offer them a substantial reading experience, then they’re going to be a little disappointed.

A bit on the pricey side?
My second minor niggle regards the price. £25 seems rather a lot for a book that only amounts to only 143 pages (including introduction and index). I know this book is beautiful and a lot of work and effort has gone into creating it, but I for one would have to think twice about buying this book to put it on my own bookshelves (I’m reading a library copy. I know, I’m a skinflint )

Flawless translation
Finally, I should give brief mention on the translation of this book by Christine Lo. The translation is invisible, it reads as though originally written in English. The prose is neither awkward at any point, nor ambiguous. And the narrative flows freely. That’s down to a good translator that is, so Lo deserves big credit on this one.

The perfect present
In summing up then I’d have to say that I really liked Atlas of Remote Islands. I know I moaned about the price and the short length of Schalansky’s narrative pieces, but putting this aside this is still a thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining book. I guess it’s one you should think about buying yourself as an indulgent treat, or as a special gift for someone else. If you are thinking of doing that then I can think of no finer choice.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

:: What others have said about Atlas of Remote Islands::

• “[Atlas of Remote Islands] is an utterly exquisite object.” – Robert Macfarlane, Guardian Books.
• “This is a great coffee table book, perfect for history buffs, dreamers or anyone who sticks pins in their maps and obsessively uses “GTrot” on Facebook.” - Blair H, The Lost Girls.
• “Every single page of The Atlas of Remote Islands is as individual and enchanting as the island it describes.” – Worm, The Dabbler.

Particular Books | 07 October 2010 | £25.00 | HARDBACK | 144 PP | ISBN: 9781846143489

Judith Schalansky will be appearing at the Edinburgh International Book Festival, in a Newton First Book Award event with Alastair Bruce, on Friday 19th 6:45pm – 7:45pm. For ticket information and booking, please visit the event page on the EdBookFest website.

OK, to get a grounding on what The Art of Fact is about, let’s begin with a quick look at the cover blurb:

The Art of Fact is a historical treasury tracing literary journalism back to such pioneers as Defoe, Dickens and Orwell, and to crime writers, investigative social reporters, and war correspondents who stretch the limits of style and even propriety to communicate powerful truth. Here an extraordinary range of styles – the elegance of Gay Talese, the militance of Marvel Cooke, the station-house cynicism of David Simon, the manic intelligence of Richard Ben Cramer – illuminates an extraordinary range of subjects. From large public events (Jimmy Breslin on the funeral of JFK) to small private moments (Gary Smith on the struggles of Native American basketball player), these readings – sad, funny, and most of all provocative – offer the double pleasure of true stories artfully told.

Well, this may be a fairly standard piece of blurb writing which was designed – as these pieces are – to generate some excitement for the book, and I think to some extent it does. There is mention of some big literary nonfiction names here i.e. Richard Ben Cramer and Gay Talese, but what strikes me as fascinating is that Daniel Defoe and Charles Dickens are labelled as ‘pioneers’ of the form. This is interesting because personally I would have classified literary nonfiction solely as a product of the twentieth-century. Of course I’m not naive enough to think that the form just sprang out of nowhere – it has to have roots in the past somewhere – but I’m surprised to discover that those roots stem, according to Kerrane and Yagoda, from these two (maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked because Dickens and Defoe were journalists themselves, after all). Regardless, I’m curious to discover (if I can) just what kind of influence these ‘pioneers’ had on the literary nonfiction today.

Browsing this anthology I can see straight away that most of the entries are extracts from longer works rather than standalone creations. I’m not particularly bothered by this because I think the editors have skimmed the cream from the top of the milk so to speak in order to illustrate certain points. That’s fine, at least it’ll give me a taster of these larger works for now, and if I want to I can revisit them in full at a later late.

So what’s contained in this anthology? Well, you can see the full contents at the foot of these forethoughts, but to clarify first of all, Yagoda states in his preface that the pieces that were chosen – or at the very least shortlisted – were the ones that had, in the first place, met certain criteria. Firstly, all pieces of literary nonfiction had to meet the fundamental principle of being 100% factual, so out went things such as Joseph Mitchell’s Old Mr. Flood (which in effect features a composite character), and John Gregory Dunne’s Vegas (which is as much fiction as it is fact). Secondly, the pieces had to be pure reportage i.e. the journalists are working from gathered factual material and not just from memory and ‘sensory observation’, Thirdly, is something which Yagoda refers to as ‘currency’ i.e. the story is written as close to the time of the event as possible because as the gap between event and writing about it widens, so the event starts to creep into the realms of history.

From the whittling down process the final decision on what to include in the anthology came down to one important element of literary nonfiction – innovation. In other words, the pieces had to demonstrate a new kind of creativity in their construction, while dispensing with the ‘codified standards and agreed-upon shapes’ of mass-produced twentieth-century journalism.

So it’s clear that selection for The Art of Fact was stringent and well considered and it’s no coincidence that I, even with my limited knowledge of literary nonfiction, can spot inclusions from many of those who are believed to be masters of the form. Truman Capote, A. J. Liebling, Hunter S. Thompson, James Agee, Ted Conover and Tom Wolfe are all featured, as is Joseph Mitchell, the man who made me fall in love with literary nonfiction in the first place. I’m also delighted to see that Steinbeck, Hemingway, Orwell and Joan Didion made the cut, even though they are not writers who I would immediately associate with the form (I’m sure their inclusions in this anthology will teach me otherwise ).

What’s also interesting about The Art of Fact, is that the editors have chosen to divide the entries in the anthology into four distinct subsections. The first subsection – ‘Pioneers’ is self explanatory and it contains the entries from those who preceded the established form of literary nonfiction. As we have seen, the cover blurb already mentions that Daniel Defoe and Charles Dickens are considered ‘pioneers’ and my curiosity is further piqued to find the likes of Stephen Crane and Jack London also among the inclusions in this opening section (but then again they were journalists too, weren’t they? ).

The second subsection – ‘Telling Tales’, contains entries from those reporters who have gathered their research – either from being on the scene or from primary sources – and have then woven that factual material into something which either resembles the narrative novel, or as something a little more direct i.e. an enhanced ‘fly on the wall’ account of events. Either way the presence of the journalist is not felt in these pieces.

By contrast, the third subsection – ‘The Reporter Takes the Stage’ – very much puts the reporter in the spotlight of his/her piece. The pieces in this section are from journalists who have broken one the guiding principles of their profession, and they have made their presence felt in their reportage – along with their personal thoughts and feelings – and often with profound results.

The final subsection – ‘Style as Substance’, contains pieces from those journalists who have developed their own unique style of literary nonfiction, be it in the way in which they use a distinctive voice to relate their story, or in the use of an innovative structure on which to deliver it.

Well, I’ve spoken a little about the structure and content of The Art of Fact and it’s now time to tell you something about the beautiful minds behind it. I’ll be honest from the outset and tell you that I know very little about Kevin Kerrane, and I’ve certainly never read any of his writings. I do know however, that he is something of an academic genius. He is a professor of drama, journalism and Irish studies at the University of Delaware.

Ben Yagoda on the other hand I do know, mainly through his book The Sound on the Page (Harper Collins), which has given me great delight and much guidance in the past. Like Kerrane, Yagoda is another respected academic teaching at Delaware, where he specialises in English, journalism and writing.

It was through Kerrane and Yagoda’s professional partnership at Delaware that the idea for the Art of Fact anthology was born. Tired of having to spend countless hours at the photocopier, or in negotiations about copyright agreements, the two professors decided they would take matters into their own hands, and create a sourcebook which would aid the students who enrolled on their literary nonfiction course.

This brings me nicely to revealing my biggest fear about this anthology – that it’s going to turn out to be nothing more than a dry, insipid academic tome which will put me to sleep quicker than any prescription drug. That said, I think it’s going to be anything but sleep-inducing. Not only does Time Out New York tell me on the cover this could be ‘the world’s most readable textbook’ , but as we’ve seen from the range of entries, and the process with which those entries were chosen, there’s something select and ‘cream of the crop’ about this anthology. So rather than bore me to death The Art of Fact should invigorate me, and deepen my love for literary nonfiction (that’s what I’m hoping anyway).

Of course the proof of the pudding is in the eating so they say, so my next move is to set off on my journey through The Art of Fact. I aim to record my journey through this anthology in the same way that I do with any other collection or anthology. I will read and review each entry as I proceed (linking to the contents below as I file each review), before returning at the end to give my final review on the anthology as a whole. I’m well aware however, that unlike a short story anthology the aim of The Art of Fact is to educate and enlighten, and I will keep this in mind every step of the way. You will be reflected in my individual reviews, and in my final review of the anthology as a whole. Also keep a close eye on my reading journal, because there’s a good chance I’ll be passing comment on this anthology via that too.

****

:: Contents of the The Art of Fact ::
(links lead to individual reviews of each literary nonfiction piece, when posted)

• Daniel Defoe from The True and Genuine Account of The Life and Actions of the Late Jonathan Wild
• James Boswell from The Life of Samuel Johnson
• Henry Mayhew – Watercress Girl
• Charles Dickens – The Great Tasmania’s Cargo
• Walt Whitman from Specimen Days
• W. T. Stead from If Christ Came to Chicago
• Stephen Crane – When Man Falls, a Crowd Gathers
• Stephen Crane – An Experiment in Misery
• Richard Harding Davies – The Death of Rodriguez
• Abraham Cahan – Can’t Get There Minds Ashore
• Abraham Cahan – Pillelu, Pillelu!
• Jack London from The People of the Abyss
• Morris Markey – Drift
• Hickman Powell from Ninety Times Guilty
• Walter Bernstein – Juke Joint
• John Hersey from Hiroshima
• W. C. Heinz – The Day of the Fight
• Lilian Rose from “Portrait of Hemingway”
• Norman Lewis – Two Generals
• Gay Talese – The Silent Season of a Hero
• Truman Capote from In Cold Blood
• Tom Wolfe from The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
• Piers Paul Read from Alive
• Tracy Kidder from House
• Sylvester Monroe and Peter Goldman from Brothers
• Bob Greene – So…We Meet at Last, Mr. Bond
• Gary Smith – Shadow of a Nation
• Richard Ben Cramer from What It Takes
• George Orwell – The Spike
• Marvel Cooke from “The Bronx Slave Market”
• A. J. Liebling from The Earl of Louisiana
• Al Stump – The Fight to Live
• Norman Mailer from The Armies of the Night
• Hunter S. Thompson from “The Scum Also Rises”
• Ron Rosenbaum – The Last Secrets of Skull and Bones
• Ted Conover from Coyotes
• James Fenton from “The Snap Revolution”
• John Simpson – Tienanmen Square
• Bill Buford from Among the Thugs
• Rosemary Mahoney from Whoredom in Kimmage
• Lawrence Otis Graham from “Harlem on My Mind”
• Dennis Covington from “Snake Handling and Redemption”
• Ben Hecht – The Pig
• Ernest Hemingway - Japanese Earthquake
• James Agee from Let Us Now Praise Famous Men
• Martha Gellhorn – The Third Winter
• George Orwell – Marrakech
• Joseph Mitchell – Lady Olga
• Rebecca West from Black Lamb and Grey Falcon
• John Steinbeck from Once There Was a War
• Jimmy Cannon – Lethal Lightening
• Jimmy Breslin – It’s an Honor
• Tom Wolfe – The Girl of the Year
• Joan Didion – Los Angeles Notebook
• John McPhee from The Pine Barrens
• Michael Herr from Dispatches
• Ryszard Kapuscinski from Another Day of Life
• David Simon from Homicide
• Svetlana Alexiyevich from Boys in Zinc
• Michael Winerip – Holiday Pageant: The Importance of Being Bluebell

Simon & Schuster | August 1998 | $20.00 | PAPERBACK | 560 PP | ISBN: 0684846306

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

*****

It’s taken me a while getting to the end of Kevin Barry’s debut short story collection, but it’s been a journey that has definitely thrilled and entertained me every step of the way. I began reading There Are Little Kingdoms way back in August of last year, in preparation for his EdBookFest event with Simon Van Booy (you can read my report on that event, HERE). It was, to be honest, my first exposure to the writings of Barry. Originally I only saw it as background reading for the event I was attending but very quickly, as I began to get drawn into Barry’s incredible rich and vivid storytelling world, I began to form a very high opinion of the Limerick-born writer.

Having now finished There Are Little Kingdoms I can state with complete conviction that Kevin Barry has gained a place in my exclusive pool of favourite short story writers, simply because I’ve seldom read anything as rich and character-filled as this collection (and if you think he’s impressive in print then you should see him live).

Before I go on to tell you a little more about the collection (outwith what I’ve already written in my forethoughts post), and discuss some of my favourite stories, I’ll share with you my review summaries and ratings for each of the stories in the There Are Little Kingdoms collection (links lead to my full review for each story):

• Atlantic City – “James [the story's main character] stands on a pedestal as a god among men (and women), and Barry exalts him magnificently” – Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars
• To the Hills - “a great story…Barry captures mood and moment brilliantly” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
• See The Tree, How Big It’s Grown – “I felt as though this was more of an opening to a novel rather than a standalone short” – Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars
• Animal Needs – “a quality story from Barry that’s full of wit and humour” – Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars
• Last Days Of The Buffalo – “I adored this story for the way in which Barry so well-roundedly paints one of his characters” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
• Ideal Homes – “Definitely the best Barry story I’ve read so far. Full marks!” – Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
• The Wintersongs – “this story resonates with the spirit of Maupassant (even though it’s set in Ireland)” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
• Party At Helen’s – “If Kevin Barry has a repository in his head for storing characters then it must look a lot like this story” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
• Breakfast Wine – “Barry expertly brings out little nuances and subtleties in character and surroundings” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
• Burn The Bad Lamp – “I left this story 100% chuckling and 100% satisfied” – Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
• There Are Little Kingdoms – “I adored Barry’s description of town life, but ultimately this story is all a bit bewildering” – Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars
• Nights At The Gin Palace – “A superbly entertaining tale from Barry, one that’s put me on the verge of dubbing him the Irish Chekhov” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
• The Penguins - “A real treat of a story, even if it does take something of a diversion from the other tales in this collection” – Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

So what can I say about the collection as a whole? Well I think I can state without fear of contradiction, that There Are Little Kingdoms is most definitely Irish in flavour. That said, if only Barry’s vision were to be believed, then Ireland consists of nothing more than drunkards and odd characters. And that’s because just as Chekhov often presents his characters in a largely exaggerated and humourous way to overly emphasis the theme/meaning of his stories, Barry specifically engineers overstated characters in order to magnify his observations of the more marginal aspects of Irish life (an area in which he takes obvious enjoyment in exploring). He does so with triumphant effect, and as such most of Barry’s characters are so well-rounded and so fully formed (within the confines of the short story form of course), that his stories could stand as the literary equivalent of the 3D movie.

I kid you not dear reader, Barry’s characters bring so much vibrancy and life to the page, that the book almost feels as though it has a heartbeat of it’s own. So it’s no coincidence perhaps that the stories which stood out most for me in this collection, were the ones which contained the most outrageous characters. Take my favourite story of the collection for instance, Ideal Homes, which follows the exploits of randy teenage twins Donna and Dee as they set out on a night out in their local village. The story is hilarious, not only because of the twins but also because of the kind of rockin’ night than can be had (or rather can’t be), in a sleepy Irish village.

Nights At The Gin Palace is also marked out as an outstanding story for me because this one is as close in style and quality to Chekhov, as anything I’ve ever read from any modern-day writer (regulars at RobAroundBooks know how much I admire and value the Russian master, so you can be sure that this is indeed high praise from me).

Finally I should mention Burn The Bad Lamp because this is another tale for which I awarded full marks, but this time it wasn’t so much about sparkling characters but more about Barry’s sharp humour. If anyone ever asked me which single story they should read in order to gain a real sense of Barry’s level of humour, then this would undoubtedly be the one I’d choose (followed closely by Atlantic City).

To be honest I can’t really praise There Are Little Kingdoms enough, so I’m going to stop trying. But in closing I really want ot say that this collection has depth, it has variety and it is has substance. But most importantly of all There Are Little Kingdoms has consistency. It’s often the case with single author collections that they turn out to be something of a mixed bag. The author mixes in his best stories with a few that are not so hot (I don’t know what the official term is but I like to call them ‘fillers’), and the collection ends up being fairly average. I didn’t really get a sense of this from this collection (with the possible exception of one story – See The Tree, How Big It’s Grown, which felt somewhat incomplete), and that’s an incredibly very rare thing to find. So my suggestion is not to even think about it twice. Pick up a copy of There Are Little Kingdoms at your earliest convenience, and prepare yourself for one of the most entertaining short story collections that you’re ever likely to read.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars

Stinging Fly Press | Oct 2007 | €9.99 | PAPERBACK | 154 PP | ISBN: 9780955015298

:: What others have said about There Are Little Kingdoms::

• “Reading Kevin Barry’s collection is like finding a shiny two-pound coin in a pile of muck. It brings unexpected pleasure.” – Elaine Chiew, The Short Review.
• “it’s George Saunders meets The League of Gentlemen! In Ireland!” - John Self, Asylum.
• “[Barry's] prose are exquisite and highly visual, and the pages teem with human wildlife, briefly captured sentiment and sidelong glance.” – Marc Goldin, Laurahird.com.

The first thing I have to make clear about this, my next read in preparation for this year’s Edinburgh International Book Festival, is that Atlas of Remote Islands (Particular Books; translated by Christine Lo) is NOT a work of fiction. True, Judith Schalansky has never visited any of the islands that she talks about in this book – and neither according to the book’s subtitle will she ever visit them – but everything she includes is supposedly based on fact (or at the very least, myth). So, Atlas of Remote Islands is very much a work of translated NONFICTION, but seeing as I don’t have a subsection on RobAroundBooks for such a category *blush*, I am quite unashamedly dumping it under the heading of ‘translated fiction’. For that I apologise unreservedly, and I can only hope that you will all one day forgive me for my blatant disregard for correct literary categorisation .

OK, so now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s crack on and take a first look at Atlas of Remote Islands, another debut which is in the running for the Newton First Book Award at this year’s EdBookFest. I’ll begin as always with the cover blurb:

Born on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall, the only way Judith Schalansky could travel as a child was through the pages of an atlas. Now she has created her own, which takes us across the oceans of the world to fifty remote islands – from Iwo Jima to Tristan da Cunha and from Easter Island to Disappointment Island. On one page are her perfect maps, on the other unfold cryptic stories from the islands. Rare animals and strange people abound: marooned slaves and lonely scientists, lost explorers and confused lighthouse keepers, mutinous sailors and forgotten castaways. Armchair explorers who undertake these journeys will find themselves in places that exist in reality, but only come to life in the imagination.

I’ll admit it, I’m attracted instantly by the promise of rare animals and strange people, marooned slaves and lost explorers, who wouldn’t be? I’m not so sure about confused lighthouse keepers. I mean how are they confused? Can’t they remember where they put the matches to power their lamps? . Whatever the reason, I’m sure it’ll be interesting one.

To be honest though, as far as the blurb goes, I’m most looking forward to discovering how Disappointment Island got its name. I’m imagining a bunch of half-starved sailors clambering ashore only to find that the island’s only tea shop is closed for the winter. I’m sure I’m wrong about that but regardless, the blurb conjures up the promise of a world of adventure, and that’s difficult for a guy who constantly has his head in the clouds i.e. me, to ignore.

The blurb is one thing of course – and it’s certainly does it’s job in piquing interest – but what first strikes you about Atlas of Remote Islands is how fantastic it looks. It’s clear that a heck of a lot of thought and attention has gone into the design of this book, and aesthetically it’s an absolute triumph; so much so in fact that Atlas of Remote Islands singlehandedly turns around any notion that physical books are pale and antiquated in comparison to their electronic counterparts.

On the back cover is the proud declaration that the Atlas of Remote Islands was the winner of the German Arts Foundation Prize for the most beautiful book, and it’s easy to see why. The powder-blue covers are offset with black cloth binding and vivid orange colouring on the page edges, making the book, at first sight, instantly covetable. It’s layout too is exquisite, coming with a lavish double-page spread devoted to each of the fifty featured islands. On the right-hand page is an illustration of the island, and on the left-hand side, along with Schalansky’s prose piece for each island, are the facts and figures about the island, which detail ownership, population, distances from other islands etc. There’s also a timeline showing key events relating to each island, and this, along with much of the other page features, is all accented with the same orange hue that adorns the edges of the page. Delicious!

Now it sounds I suppose, as though I’m completely and utterly seduced by this book already, even before reading it? I guess in an aesthetic sense I absolutely am, but there’s a nugget of doubt in my mind. When a book as luxurious as this in design is presented to me, I’ll always be a little wary. Like a garage trying to sell an old car with a brand a new paint job, I immediately wonder what lies beneath; why such an effort has been put into the aesthetics. Of course, there can only be one of two possible answers – either 1) the seller is trying to dazzle the buyer into picking up something that is essentially substandard, or 2) the seller is so proud of their product that they want to present it in the most glorious way. It’s too soon for me to say of course which of these is correct in relation to Atlas of Remote Islands but I’m inclined to go with the latter, especially after reading Schalansky’s introduction in the book.

In her introduction Schalansky shows that she has had something of a lifelong obsession with atlases. As a child she wasn’t able to travel (a major consequence of being born on the wrong side of the Berlin Wall, of course), and so she quelled her curiosity and thirst for wanderlust by burying herself in the pages of an atlas. And it is during these ‘voyages with her index finger’, that Schalansky discovered a love for islands and a passion for their remoteness and bizarre histories. Her obsession has never left her, and these ‘chamber pieces in the middle of nowhere’ have given rise to the creation of this unique atlas. What’s more, in creating this book, Schalansky was able to further fuel her love of atlases and armchair exploration. She states in an article written for The Guardian:

My work on the Atlas of Remote Islands took me on an adventure, an expedition through dusty tomes, travellers’ journals and obscure scientific reports on tiny islands.

A woman who is already obsessed with a subject, being further fuelled by discovery and exploration? I’d say that’s a recipe for success, or at the very least a bibliophile’s idea of heaven, what with her getting the opportunity to rummage around in all of those old, fragrant, dusty tomes and all that.

That brings me nicely to the subject of Judith Schalansky herself, and aside from knowing that she has a bit of a thang for atlases, what else can I tell you about her? Well given that she’s still relatively new to the literary scene (especially the English-speaking one), it probably comes as little surprise to hear that there’s not a great deal of information about her, floating around. I’ve already mentioned that she was born in East Germany (in 1980 in Greifswald, to be precise), and it’s here that she earned degrees in History of Art, and Communication Design.

Currently, Schalansky works as a freelance writer and designer in Berlin, where she also teaches courses in typography at the Potsdam Technical Institute, and that’s got me thinking. Is Judith Schalansky responsible for the design of Atlas of Remote Islands, herself? Nothing on the book either confirms or refutes such a claim, but given her professional qualifications and the fact that she stated in that aforementioned Guardian article that she “drew 50 maps all to the same scale”, such a thing might well be possible. I’ll endeavour to find out dear reader, unless of course you know the answer to that question already?

So there we have it, a short preview of Judith Schalansky’s Atlas of Remote Islands, a book which I’m very excited about diving into. And I’m excited mainly because of Schalansky’s obvious passion for the subject, but also because the whole thing about islands and thinking about them brings a kind of mystique, romantic image to my mind. When I think of islands I think instantly of Homer’s Odysseus and his epic island-hopping return to Ithaca (by far the most soul nurturing thing I studied at university), or Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island, and even Tom Hanks stuck on his island in the movie, Cast Away. All evoke a sense of exotic in me, together with a sense of being stranded, lost and helpless in places far off. And I think that Schalansky has that same feeling (albeit in a more profound way), and I think reading her book will only deepen my own attraction towards these small dots on the globe that look barely bigger than biscuit crumbs. How thrilling the reading prospect is, and I’ll be back as soon as to let you know how my armchair voyage turned out.

Particular Books | 07 October 2010 | £25.00 | HARDBACK | 144 PP | ISBN: 9781846143489

Judith Schalansky will be appearing at the Edinburgh International Book Festival, in a Newton First Book Award event with Alastair Bruce, on Friday 19th 6:45pm – 7:45pm. For ticket information and booking, please visit the event page on the EdBookFest website.

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.

So, I’ve established that Steven Amsterdam’s debut is a complete unknown to me, even to the point of not knowing whether it’s actually a novel or a short story collection. Certainly the book is split up into chapters, but each chapter has a title, and each chapter I’m told, reads as a stand-alone story. This immediately makes me think of David Vann’s 2009 ‘novel’ Legend of a Suicide (Penguin), where the debate about whether it’s a novel or a story collection still rages on. Thankfully however, I’ve managed to find an interview with Amsterdam on the Booktrust website, conducted by Evie Wyld, where it was agreed that the best term for his book was ‘a novel of stories’, so we’ll take that as gospel, and treat it as such. With that out of the way, let’s have a gander at the rather lengthy cover blurb, which may, as we all know, contain mild spoilers:

Opening on the eve of the millennium, when the world as we know it is still recognisable, we meet the nine-year-old narrator as he flees the city with his parents, just ahead of a Y2K breakdown. Next he is a teenager with a growing criminal, taking his grandparents for a Sunday drive. In a world transformed by battles over resources, he teaches them how to steal.

In time we see him struggle through strange, horrific, and unexpectedly funny terrain as he goes about the no longer simple act of survival – protecting squatters (while trying to sleep with them and steal from them) as a biblical rainstorm floods the land; travelling from disaster site to disaster site, giving out government grants to survivors while trying to find a little love; living the high-life in a three-way relationship with his girlfriend and a wealthy senator; leading adventure tours for the terminally ill. Despite the chaos of his world, he keeps his eyes on the exit door, his heart open and his mind on what he thinks is going to happen next.

Even as the world is spinning out of control, we learn that essential human impulses still hold sway – that we never entirely escape our parents, envy others’ success and, chiefly, that we crave love. Things We Didn’t See Coming is haunting and vividly imagined – a stunning, dark, and darkly comic debut.

When I read this blurb, Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (Picador) immediately springs to mind. The post-apocalyptic setting, the travelling, the act of survival and protection, it all sounds a bit, well, ‘Roadey’ to me. However, I need to get such a notion out of my head straightaway. In his aforementioned interview with Evie Wyld, Amsterdam tells us that his Australian publisher told him that people may try to compare his book with McCormac’s cataclysmic novel, and they’d be wrong to. So, I’ve taken that thought right out of my head.

That said it’s clear that Things We Didn’t See Coming is set in a post-apocalyptic period (one not in the too distant future it seems), and it looks to tell the story of one man’s journey – both mental and physical – not only into adulthood, but also during the direst of times. It also looks as though we see a degradation in the character, as necessity begins to tear away at his morality, as one might expect. It all sounds fantastically interesting, in theory. Here’s hoping the same holds true in practise.

What’s really piqued my interest though is the suggestion that humour is a big part of Things We Didn’t See Coming. This for me is unique because I don’t think I’ve ever read anything vaguely dystopian, that could be described as funny (here’s were you lot pipe up and give me hundreds of examples ), and so this is new territory for me. I’m particularly interested in discovering just how well Amsterdam has managed to inject humour into such a dire scenario. I guess it could go one of two ways. Either Amsterdam is going to thrill me with his genius wit, or he’s going to have me sitting poker-faced, desperate to reach the end of the book as soon as possible.

That leads me nicely on to Steven Amsterdam himself, and as I said at the outset I know nothing about this Melbourne-based writer aside from the fact that he is, well, Melbourne-based. Thankfully however, Toni Jordan has written a rather lengthy profile on the writer, which appeared in Melbourne’s The Big Issue magazine in the Spring of 2009. It would be wrong of me to completely plagiarise Jordan’s work to put you ‘in the know’ about Amsterdam, so I invite you to go and read the piece reprinted on Amsterdam’s website. For the lazy amongst you however (or those who want to steer clear of potential spoilers), I’ll summarise a few key bio points: Amsterdam was born and raised in the US and he has also lived and worked in Japan. However, a visit to Melbourne was to have a profound affect on him. He fell in love with the place, and he emigrated there for good in 2003.

Amsterdam has long held writer’s blood in his veins. His mother is a US-based literary agent and writing has long been encouraged in the Amsterdam household. Steven also holds a Masters in creative writing from Melbourne University, and a major in Far Eastern Studies, earned at Chicago University.

So as we can see, even from this short bio extract that Amsterdam is not only passionate about writing, he also has a love for traveling and culture too. I can only hope that much of Amsterdam’s traveling and cultural exposure has worked its way into his fiction. If it has, then Things We Didn’t See Coming is going to get really interesting, very quickly.

With little more to say, as is often the case when I scribe first impressions on debuts, I will close these forethoughts welcoming you to return in a week or so to read my final review on Things We Didn’t See Coming. Meantime, please check out the Steven Amsterdam links near the foot of this page. Oh and don’t forget, if you want to know how the upcoming Amsterdam/Barry event at EdBookFest turned out, then pop back soon after August 19th too, when I will be posting a full report on the event.

Harvill Secker | 5th August 2010 | £12.99 | PAPERBACK | 208 PP | ISBN: 9781846553660

Steven Amsterdam will be appearing at the Edinburgh International Book Festival, in a Newton First Book Award event with Kevin Barry, on Friday 19th August 3:30pm – 4:30pm. For ticket information and booking, please visit the event page on the EdBookFest website.

Find out more about Steven Amsterdam:

A note about forethoughts
‘Forethoughts’ offer an insight into what my initial thoughts and impressions of a book are before I begin reading it. Informal, and largely written as a stream-of-consciousness exercise in a single sitting, my ‘forethoughts’ capture an important stage of the reading experience for me – the anticipatory period before the book is first opened, when my excitement is piqued for the reading experience which lies ahead.

Blissfully ignorant my ‘forethoughts’ may well be, but when combined with my eventual ‘afterthoughts’, the result is a unique and comprehensive record of a very personal literary ‘journey’ through a particular book; a literary journey which will hopefully be of some value to other readers.