I picked this up on a whim, because it wasn't a Rebus novel. This one is about a female assassin, called Witch, the underlying motives that drive her, and the man obsessed with catching her.
I'm not going to call it briliant, but I quite enjoyed it. I enjoyed the fact that people in it were clever enough to understand when they were obviously being manipulated, I enjoyed that the main characters weren't perfect people with perfect morals. But it is fairly riddled with clichés all the same. I suppose it'd make a decent enough film, if they managed to tone down the "femme fatale" element. Because that has been Done To Death, no pun intended.
Showing posts with label Ian Rankin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ian Rankin. Show all posts
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Sunday, September 03, 2006
What I've read on my travels
I'm back from spending a week in Poland, a trip occassioned by my husband's cousin's wedding. Books where brought and read. I also fried my brain by talking Polish a lot.
Alexander McCall Smith: The Full Cupboard of Life
This is the one in which J.L.B. Maketoni evades a parachute jump and he and Precious Ramotswe get married. And that about sums it up. Still heart-warming books!
Harper Lee: To Kill A Mockingbird
I was recommended this by my good friend E, who sometimes comments on the blog. She is an editor so has to read a lot of shite for work, and said that it was a pleasure reading something so good. So mr Bani went and bought it and some other books (as is his wont), and I am pleased that he did, even though I despair at the state of our flat.
This is a classic story, and obviously I'd heard of it, but for some reason I'd always thought it was sort of a lad's book, sort of Hemingwayish. I will admit to not actually having read any Hemingway, for I am sorely prejudiced against him for some reason (the laddish themes I imagine his books have most likely), and I really should atone and go and immerse myself in his work right away.
Anyway, this is not a laddish book at all. It's a story about a lawyer in a small town in Alabama in the 1930s, who defends a black man accused of raping a white woman. The book is written from the point of view of his tomboyish daughter, who is about eight. A great part of the book does not concern itself with the trial at all, but tells about the girl's and her brother's childhood pastimes, and most of all their fascination with the next door recluse, Boo Radley. (This becomes important towards the end.) Harper Lee manages to show us the deep immorality of an apartheid system such as this, how it corrupts otherwise sane and reasonable people and poisons their souls. It's not always a case of telling people to feck off and stuff it, you may love them, respect them and like them even if they are beyond reason when it's a question of race. All this through the innocent eyes of a child - which leaves us with a feeling of hope, after all. I enjoyed it very much, and I'm glad I didn't read it earlier, as I think I actually appreciate it more now that I'm older.
Then I came home, and picked up the Ian Rankin novel I'd forgotten. I'd half finished it before the trip, and meant to bring it for the plane. Just as well that I forgot it, I had plenty to read anyway. This one is called A Question of Blood, and is about a shooting at a private school. One of the murdered boys is a relation of Rebus's, and the killer is ex-SAS, like himself.
It's not too bad, but I just can't take to Rebus. I have this feeling that Ian Rankin could've done a lot more with the character, but now he's just this maudlin alcoholic with a gift for punning. I can read it, but it doesn't really leave me wanting more. I only got this one because we went to this book-swapping day at mr Bani's colleague's house.
Alexander McCall Smith: The Full Cupboard of Life
This is the one in which J.L.B. Maketoni evades a parachute jump and he and Precious Ramotswe get married. And that about sums it up. Still heart-warming books!
Harper Lee: To Kill A Mockingbird
I was recommended this by my good friend E, who sometimes comments on the blog. She is an editor so has to read a lot of shite for work, and said that it was a pleasure reading something so good. So mr Bani went and bought it and some other books (as is his wont), and I am pleased that he did, even though I despair at the state of our flat.
This is a classic story, and obviously I'd heard of it, but for some reason I'd always thought it was sort of a lad's book, sort of Hemingwayish. I will admit to not actually having read any Hemingway, for I am sorely prejudiced against him for some reason (the laddish themes I imagine his books have most likely), and I really should atone and go and immerse myself in his work right away.
Anyway, this is not a laddish book at all. It's a story about a lawyer in a small town in Alabama in the 1930s, who defends a black man accused of raping a white woman. The book is written from the point of view of his tomboyish daughter, who is about eight. A great part of the book does not concern itself with the trial at all, but tells about the girl's and her brother's childhood pastimes, and most of all their fascination with the next door recluse, Boo Radley. (This becomes important towards the end.) Harper Lee manages to show us the deep immorality of an apartheid system such as this, how it corrupts otherwise sane and reasonable people and poisons their souls. It's not always a case of telling people to feck off and stuff it, you may love them, respect them and like them even if they are beyond reason when it's a question of race. All this through the innocent eyes of a child - which leaves us with a feeling of hope, after all. I enjoyed it very much, and I'm glad I didn't read it earlier, as I think I actually appreciate it more now that I'm older.
Then I came home, and picked up the Ian Rankin novel I'd forgotten. I'd half finished it before the trip, and meant to bring it for the plane. Just as well that I forgot it, I had plenty to read anyway. This one is called A Question of Blood, and is about a shooting at a private school. One of the murdered boys is a relation of Rebus's, and the killer is ex-SAS, like himself.
It's not too bad, but I just can't take to Rebus. I have this feeling that Ian Rankin could've done a lot more with the character, but now he's just this maudlin alcoholic with a gift for punning. I can read it, but it doesn't really leave me wanting more. I only got this one because we went to this book-swapping day at mr Bani's colleague's house.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Ian Rankin x 3
In an effort to understand the Ian Rankin phenomenon, I borrowed a book called Rebus: The Early Years, consisting of the three first Rebus novels; Knots & Crosses, Hide & Seek and Tooth & Nail. I can now say that I do get the fuss. Rebus, the way he is portrayed here, with his unfulfilled religious feelings and dysfunctional relationships is a much more appealing figure than I found him in Dead Souls. And btw, how the feck do you link when blogging anyway? It's driving me around the bloody bend, and I can find feck all useful in the so-called "help" section. Anyway, in these three I can even cope with the eternal whisky (sic).
This compilation comes complete with foreword by Rankin. He claims that when he wrote Knots & Crosses he had didn't have a clue that he'd written a crime novel. "When the book was published, I found to my astonishment that everyone was saying I'd written a whodunnit, a crime novel. I think I'm still the only crime writer I know who hadn't a clue about the genre before setting out. There were crime sections in bookshops and libraries - news to me - and a healthy number of practitioners extant." Two bones to pick with this though; firstly, if he has no knowledge of the genre, he could hardly have Rebus refer to the plot he finds himself in as something reminiscent of a "cheap thriller" somewhere half-way through the book (QED and all), and secondly, who in their right mind would call this a whodunnit? Beggars belief, dahlinks.
Methinks he is having us on a little. Well, not about other people calling it a whodunnit, but about himself knowing absolutely nothing of the genre. Although, he might be in earnest, and the cheap thriller comment only shows how much of the crime fiction what's-the-word-I'm-looking-for-can't-concentrate-worth-a-damn-here um, attributes perhaps have become such common knowledge that people refer to them without actually knowing them first-hand.
Anywhoo.
Knots & Crosses: Introduces Rebus, who is carrying some sort of dark secret from his days in the SAS. Young girls are being abducted and killed. Rebus is receiving crank letters. We understand in five seconds that the two things are connected, Rebus doesn't, because he is daft. Interesting homosexual theme, am left unsure if Rebus actually had sex with his army friend or not.
Hide & Seek: Junkie found dead, something not right, Rebus finds out junkie hid possibly incriminating photos.
Tooth & Nail: Least favourite novel. A bit complacent. Author looking for television rights? Rankin goes to London to help out on serial killer case. Portrait of killer not bad. Ends with pathetic car chase - God almighty, I do hate car chases. Better on paper than on film, but nevertheless.
This compilation comes complete with foreword by Rankin. He claims that when he wrote Knots & Crosses he had didn't have a clue that he'd written a crime novel. "When the book was published, I found to my astonishment that everyone was saying I'd written a whodunnit, a crime novel. I think I'm still the only crime writer I know who hadn't a clue about the genre before setting out. There were crime sections in bookshops and libraries - news to me - and a healthy number of practitioners extant." Two bones to pick with this though; firstly, if he has no knowledge of the genre, he could hardly have Rebus refer to the plot he finds himself in as something reminiscent of a "cheap thriller" somewhere half-way through the book (QED and all), and secondly, who in their right mind would call this a whodunnit? Beggars belief, dahlinks.
Methinks he is having us on a little. Well, not about other people calling it a whodunnit, but about himself knowing absolutely nothing of the genre. Although, he might be in earnest, and the cheap thriller comment only shows how much of the crime fiction what's-the-word-I'm-looking-for-can't-concentrate-worth-a-damn-here um, attributes perhaps have become such common knowledge that people refer to them without actually knowing them first-hand.
Anywhoo.
Knots & Crosses: Introduces Rebus, who is carrying some sort of dark secret from his days in the SAS. Young girls are being abducted and killed. Rebus is receiving crank letters. We understand in five seconds that the two things are connected, Rebus doesn't, because he is daft. Interesting homosexual theme, am left unsure if Rebus actually had sex with his army friend or not.
Hide & Seek: Junkie found dead, something not right, Rebus finds out junkie hid possibly incriminating photos.
Tooth & Nail: Least favourite novel. A bit complacent. Author looking for television rights? Rankin goes to London to help out on serial killer case. Portrait of killer not bad. Ends with pathetic car chase - God almighty, I do hate car chases. Better on paper than on film, but nevertheless.
Thursday, November 10, 2005
just remembered
By the way: that Rankin novel is almost worth reading only for the joke contained therein: "I feel like Gulliver on a Lilliputian toilet. I don't have a lot to go on."
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Lagging so so far behind
I made this blog to keep up with my reading. I'm already forgetting. Stupid stupid stupid.
Anyway, in brief then:
Dead Souls, by Ian Rankin. My first Rankin novel, I think. Not completely my cup of tea - I have an aversion to morose over-drinking grumpy male detectives. Might try a few more though (Rankin novels, not detectives, obviously, ha ha). Wasn't too keen on the story either - this is the one where a police friend of the hero (Rebus) commits suicide, the son of Rebus' first girlfriend goes missing, a serial killer come home to Edinburgh from the US. On the whole a bit meh.
Angel of Darkness, by Caleb Carr. This novel is written from the perspective of Stevie, Dr. Kreizler's young ward. I found "his way" of relating the events more interesting to read than the first book, The Alienist, and that in itself is amusing. That I should find the story-telling skills of the fictional Stevie character more entertaining than those of the equally fictional John Moore is a writing accomplishment in itself - I hope Carr keeps this up! The basket-case of this novel is a woman, cue much discussion of the sanctity of motherhood - real or imagined? Etc. Very enjoyable, although the ending is a tad too much. It appears to be written with the screenplay in mind - never a good idea. Shootouts on rooftops? Please, no. Although those were violent times...
The Fifth Rapunzel, by B.M. Gill. A serial killer has murdered four long-haired prostitutes, and Britain's best forensic pathologist has pinned a fifth murder on him, despite his protestations. Now the pathologist and his wife are dead, and their 18-year-old son is left alone in the world. Turns out that his father may have had his own reasons to lie about his findings in the 5th Rapunzel case.
Not a half bad book at all. No whodunnit, the ending is slightly unexpected as it features the sudden transformation of a minor character into a major one. Name of police hero: Maybridge - but he isn't a dominant part of the story, IMO. I'll try to find some more of Gill's work.
Marjaneh Bakthari: Kalla det vad fan du vill. Den här boken ska läsas om så bara för de lysande dialekt- och brytningsbeskrivningarna. Har man bara hört iranier prata kan man läsa mamma och pappa Irandousts repliker högt för sig själv och vips - man låter som en iranier! Råkul. Och malmöitiskan också - hur bra som helst. Som bok är den väl egentligen lite fragmenterad och hoppig att läsa. Däremot skulle det här kunna bli en riktigt bra film tror jag, om manuset lyfte fram historien om pappa Irandousts kompis, vars syster flytt, fastnat i Turkiet och tvingats prostituera sig. Den berättelsen, som jag gärna sett vara mer framträdande, ger hela boken en melankolisk klang.
Am currently reading a Dorothy Gilman book I bought for 5 kr at Myrornas. This is one of those rather no-name detective writers that exist in abundance and are never heard of. Not so bad though, so far. Better than Dan Brown... may his money turn to ashes. Although HUGE minus points for inventing an African nation. HUGE.
Anyway, in brief then:
Dead Souls, by Ian Rankin. My first Rankin novel, I think. Not completely my cup of tea - I have an aversion to morose over-drinking grumpy male detectives. Might try a few more though (Rankin novels, not detectives, obviously, ha ha). Wasn't too keen on the story either - this is the one where a police friend of the hero (Rebus) commits suicide, the son of Rebus' first girlfriend goes missing, a serial killer come home to Edinburgh from the US. On the whole a bit meh.
Angel of Darkness, by Caleb Carr. This novel is written from the perspective of Stevie, Dr. Kreizler's young ward. I found "his way" of relating the events more interesting to read than the first book, The Alienist, and that in itself is amusing. That I should find the story-telling skills of the fictional Stevie character more entertaining than those of the equally fictional John Moore is a writing accomplishment in itself - I hope Carr keeps this up! The basket-case of this novel is a woman, cue much discussion of the sanctity of motherhood - real or imagined? Etc. Very enjoyable, although the ending is a tad too much. It appears to be written with the screenplay in mind - never a good idea. Shootouts on rooftops? Please, no. Although those were violent times...
The Fifth Rapunzel, by B.M. Gill. A serial killer has murdered four long-haired prostitutes, and Britain's best forensic pathologist has pinned a fifth murder on him, despite his protestations. Now the pathologist and his wife are dead, and their 18-year-old son is left alone in the world. Turns out that his father may have had his own reasons to lie about his findings in the 5th Rapunzel case.
Not a half bad book at all. No whodunnit, the ending is slightly unexpected as it features the sudden transformation of a minor character into a major one. Name of police hero: Maybridge - but he isn't a dominant part of the story, IMO. I'll try to find some more of Gill's work.
Marjaneh Bakthari: Kalla det vad fan du vill. Den här boken ska läsas om så bara för de lysande dialekt- och brytningsbeskrivningarna. Har man bara hört iranier prata kan man läsa mamma och pappa Irandousts repliker högt för sig själv och vips - man låter som en iranier! Råkul. Och malmöitiskan också - hur bra som helst. Som bok är den väl egentligen lite fragmenterad och hoppig att läsa. Däremot skulle det här kunna bli en riktigt bra film tror jag, om manuset lyfte fram historien om pappa Irandousts kompis, vars syster flytt, fastnat i Turkiet och tvingats prostituera sig. Den berättelsen, som jag gärna sett vara mer framträdande, ger hela boken en melankolisk klang.
Am currently reading a Dorothy Gilman book I bought for 5 kr at Myrornas. This is one of those rather no-name detective writers that exist in abundance and are never heard of. Not so bad though, so far. Better than Dan Brown... may his money turn to ashes. Although HUGE minus points for inventing an African nation. HUGE.
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