Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx.

Proulx easily captures the dialogue, the time and the place of her characters. I love the way she leaves lots of spaces in her writing to make readers to fill in the emotional content; nothing is spoonfed.  It’s honest labour, and by the end of the story I was in that trailer with Ennis del Mar, burying my face in Jack Twist’s stiff, bloodied shirt and reheating stale coffee. 

The sadness of it.

Well, that was unexpected.

I’ve just finished ‘Subterranean’ by James Rollins.  The characters were so thin I gave myself papercuts and it was all rather improbable – and yet I liked it. I was ready to fling it out the window by page 82 but something stayed my hand.

I think it’s called a plot.

Which is weird, really, because I wouldn’t usually persevere with a book that paid lip service to its characters. I like my books peopled with rough-edged complex characters who are forced to take the long way round to get the things they want.  A plot sometimes gets them there too easily and they don’t have time to develop.  Like hothouse tomatoes: they’re red but you can’t taste the SUN.

‘Subterranean’ is about a group of scientists and marines who venture under the ice at Antarctica’s Mt Erebus to find out why an earlier expedition vanished. They learn two things: that there’s a treasure trove two miles under the mountain and, more significantly, that they’re not alone.  The place is swarming with nasty predatory beasts that are a cross between dinosaurs, crocodiles and huge scary kangaroos. Um, yeah. And there are albino sharks and a deadly mould. The biggest revelation, however, is the discovery of a tribe of people living far underground. If I’ve got my head around it correctly, turns out they’re related to the platypus and are mammals who lay eggs. They also happen to be a lost Australian tribe who taught the earliest Aborigines how to hunt.

Okay, I got a bit lost at this point. I just wanted the big scary kangaroo-crocs to attack some more people. That part was really cool.

But back to the paper-thin characters. There was the loose cannon Australian caver who shouted “bugger” all the time and who was very brave. There was the tough-ass single mum archeologist who was really a softie. There was a crazed Arabic terrorist with intense eyes who just wanted to blow up everything. And there was the  the mystical, noble tribesman who could see into the future.

So, not a lot of surprises with the characterisation. 

As I say, by page 80 or so I was ready to biff the blasted book. That’s how long it took to establish a way for the various characters to meet, engage in a bit of social jostling,and get themselves to Antarctica.  But then, something happened. A big squid thing tried to take off someone’s arm – and I was hooked. Dramatic event after dramatic event unfolded, and I couldn’t stop turning the pages.  

‘Subterranean’ is a triumph of plot over characters, best suited for the aeroplane, the train, the summer hammock. Nothing there that will help you grow as a person – but not half bad as a fast, light read.

A poem I love

and wanted to share, by Hone Tuwhare (1922 – 2008): 

Rain 
I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain

I’m annoyed, in a three-dimensional way.

I’m feeling all bitter and twisted about lending one of my favourite books to a nameless friend (all right, he’s called Mal) 15 years ago who clearly liked it. A lot, given that he’s never returned it.  Every now and then I get little wistful pangs…is my book snuggled up on a shelf somewhere between Ursula Le Guin and Alastair Reynolds? Or is it lying neglected down the side of the bed next to the single red sock and the Bounty bar wrapper?

It’s called ‘The Planiverse’ by A.K. Dewdney, and it’s the story of Yndrd and his amazing two-dimensional world.

Imagine the protocols of living in a world where you could never say “excuse me” and sidestep another person on the footpath.  Imagine what it would be like to have a flood every time it rained because there’s nowhere for the water to go. If you never had to look in the mirror and contemplate one eyebrow being higher than the other. If you could never dance except in a jumping up and down sort of way (which, admittedly, constitutes dancing in some New Zealand towns). Where would cake go when you ate it if you didn’t have intestines? Could you still draw circles if you lived in a world without roundness? How would you hug?

I read in Wikipedia that ‘The Planiverse’ was written in 1984 as a Sufi allegory. I just thought it was a great yarn. 

And I’d like it back, Mal.

Shaken, not stirred…

I’ve just finished Ian Fleming’s ‘Diamonds are Forever’, the fourth public outing for James Bond. The only other Bond story I’ve read is ‘Casino Royale’, mostly to see how it stacks up alongside the film of the same name.  I’ve never been a fan of the Bond movies, partly because I don’t find Sean Connery very interesting to watch and partly because I prefer thrillers to be menacing rather than farcical.

Daniel Craig injected something fresh into the lead role, however, with his portrayal of an emotionally complex tough guy capable of both brutality and tenderness. I know it’s still a “Bond” movie (car chases, explosions, high kill rates, drop-dead cool martinis) but I found Craig more convincing with his intensely physical rendering of the role.  Which is shorthand for saying that he was pretty damn sexy.

But back to ‘Diamonds are Forever’ – I have to say how much I’ve enjoyed it and how surprised I’ve been by the quality of Ian Fleming’s writing. That sounds stuck up but clearly my expectations were low: I thought it would be a shoot ’em up romp with little finesse.  Instead, James Bond is complicated, bedevilled by doubts, bogged down in paperwork, and far more ethical than I would have credited. And the writing is a real pleasure.  Here’s an example of Fleming describing a gangster eating in a restaurant:

He had a round bladder-like head in the middle of which the features were crowded together – two pin-point eyes, two black nostrils, a pursed wet pink mouth above the hint of a chin, and a fat body in a brown suit and a white shirt with a long-pointed collar and a figured chocolate bow tie. He … concentrated on his food, occasionally glancing across at his companion’s plate as if he might reach across and fork something off it for himself.

What a great image of a man who is greedy, weak, mean and vain!

Other parts of the book reflect the casual racism of the time.  Bond refers to “that damned nigger” and Fleming’s description of a Black attendant at the mud baths made me cringe. 

Overall, though, it’s an engaging read. My only dilemma now is whether to read the books in order or just jump around the series – either way, I’m definitely going to check out more of 007, licensed to thrill.