Sociopath

I heard Patric Gagne speaking on the radio one night and was intrigued by the sound of her memoir, Sociopath -- there was a very long wait on the library reserve list before I finally got my hands on it.

Honestly, Sociopath was a strange and unsettling read. At times it comes across almost like a novel, with reconstructed scenes and dialogues. Gagne makes the excellent point that there is a lot of grey around the diagnosis and even the definition of sociopathy. Is it the same as psychopathy, just further down the spectrum? The same test is used for assessment, but there is apparently a vast gulf between psychopathy and 'normal,' which is presumably where sociopathy sits. Gagne likes to define sociopathy as a kind of learning disability, but for emotions -- empathy, jealousy, compassion can be learned, but with difficulty (anger and happiness come more easily, at least for Gagne). 

Gane talks al lot about 'apathy,' which I found quite confusing -- sometimes it's good, sometimes unbearable. I must admit I became a bit lost at times as Gagne described her strategies for relieving the weight of apathy, though her descriptions of the rising tension, which could only be relieved by 'bad' actions (stealing a car, stabbing a classmate with a pencil), reminded me a lot of Gabor Matè's account of the unbearable tension of distress experienced by the drug users he works with. Whatever the origin of these impulses, it seems clear that the brain uses a similar mechanism to try to relieve its pain.

By the end of Sociopath, I can't claim that I understand sociopathy much better than I did, but I do have more sympathy for this maligned minority.
 

Ramona and Her Father

I was very happy to add Ramona and Her Father to my Beverly Cleary collection. I just love the Ramona stories, they have never lost their charm, and they are so much fun to read aloud. (My younger daughter has just reminded me that she loved Ramona and Beezus because they were sisters like her and her big sister, and that Ramona, Harry Potter and 101 Dalmatians were the only books they really shared.)

Cleary's stories are set firmly in the real world, and she doesn't shy away from real life problems. In Ramona and Her Father, Ramona's dad has lost his job and he's moping round the house, getting depressed because his job hunt is unsuccessful, and being quite grumpy. Ramona's mum has to start working full time to make up for the loss in income, and money is tight. None of this is Ramona's problem to solve, but it's always there in the background. I loved the sisters' campaign to stop their father smoking, and Ramona's humiliatingly half-hearted sheep costume for the end of year Nativity play (because Mum doesn't have time to sew a full suit -- hm...)

One thing that reliably makes Ramona feel better is making a ruckus, and there is a wonderful chapter where she and her friend Howie clomp around on tin can stilts, singing at the tops of their lungs. Unbearable for everyone else, but fantastic for Ramona. 

I am fully confident that if/when I have grandchildren, they will love Ramona as much as we all do.

Amy Amaryllis

The silver lining to being felled by this terrible lurgy that's going around is that it's opened up hours of guilt-free reading time, and I have been racing through my Too Be Read pile. I spotted Amy Amaryllis on Brotherhood Books and couldn't resist its cute premise. Amy, an ordinary suburban Australian girl, begins to write a story in her green book, a story about Amaryllis from magical Ankoor, who lives in a castle amid the crags where reinbeast roam... Meanwhile, Amaryllis, in her own world, begins to write the story of Amy, a girl with freedom to explore and few duties to perform. Inevitably, the girls swap places and have to deal with each other's problems in very different realities, as well as figure out how to return home.

Apparently Amy Amaryllis is the first in a 'loosely linked' series, which from the titles, seems to be set in Ankoor. I think I might have come across Candle Iron in the past, but haven't read it; I might have to remedy that. I did enjoy Amy Amaryllis a lot, but it's weird how a book written in the 1990s has dated more obviously in some ways than some written in earlier decades. They always warn you that nothing dates a book more quickly than slang, and Amy and her brother's exclamations of 'Grossisimo!' and 'Blastissimo!' (not sure that was ever genuine slang, actually) did grate slightly after a while. But despite that quibble, this was a very enjoyable world-swap story and one I would have adored as a kid. It's like Charlotte Sometimes, but with more action and humour, rather than Charlotte's eerie solemnity.

A Fence Around the Cuckoo

Ruth Park's two volume autobiography, A Fence Around the Cuckoo and Fishing in the Styx, has been on my radar for a while -- as with any very popular books, they keep popping up on Brotherhood Books. Is Ruth Park an under-rated author? Unusually, she was extremely successful in three strands of fiction. Her children's books about The Muddleheaded Wombat were huge favourites of my kids (though I never read them myself as a child); her young adult book, Playing Beatie Bow, was possibly the seminal Australian time slip story; and I studied at least one of her adult novels, Poor Man's Orange, in Year 9 at high school (I wonder why they didn't choose the first book about the Darcy family, A Harp in the South? The prequel, Missus, wasn't published until after I'd left school.)

Anyway, to those achievements we can add autobiography, because A Fence Around the Cuckoo is a tremendous piece of writing. It covers Park's childhood in the New Zealand bush, her family's struggles during the Great Depression, and her first jobs in journalism before she emigrated to Australia in 1942. From Park's account, the Depression hit New Zealand slightly less hard than it hit Australia, but it hit hard all the same. It was sobering to read about the same era as Weevils in the Flour from the perspective of one family. The Depression must have left psychological wounds just as deep as the two wars, at least on the poor, and yet it's rarely discussed -- I guess it was less dramatic.

A Fence Around the Cuckoo ends with Park's arrival in Australia, greeted by her pen friend D'arcy Niland, who was to become her husband. I gather Fishing in the Styx picks up where this volume leaves off, and I cannot wait to read it.

The Explorer

I found Katherine Rundell's 2017 The Explorer in a street library -- prize winning and acclaimed, it's a classic, timeless adventure story of four children whose plane crashes in the middle of the Amazon. The first part of the book is like Alone, as the kids find ways to survive in the jungle, but for me the story took off about halfway through, when they encounter another person who arrived in the wilderness long before they did.

The Explorer is packed with action, but it's also thoughtful about what 'exploring' means -- not just the thrill of discovery, but also dispossession, exploitation and destruction, and the battle between those competing interests. It's also a story about friendship and family. I liked the way that Fred's motivation to explore was nuanced: he is genuinely excited about uncovering 'new' places, but he's also desperate for his father's approval and love, and he would kind of like to be famous, too...

Coincidentally, this is the second children's book in short order that I've read set in the Amazon. When the children in The Explorer finally head for home, they are instructed to navigate using the Opera House in Manaus which was such a huge part of the story in A Company of Swans (which I had to google to check if it was real, it sounded so unlikely). The Explorer is hugely enjoyable and I'm not surprised it was such a hit with young readers.
 

Everyone This Christmas Has a Secret

Not a full length novel this time; Benjamin Stevenson himself calls this a Christmas special, a nice slim stocking filler which still hits all those fun, knowing Ernest Cunningham marks. This time Ern is called to assist his ex-wife Erin, who has woken up covered in blood and with the murdered corpse of her partner downstairs. She doesn't think she did it, Ern doesn't think she did it, but can he prove it? 

Stevenson structures Everyone This Christmas Has a Secret like an advent calendar, with each 'door' comprising one short chapter, each containing a clue to the solution -- he even helpfully tells us what the clues are, though not exactly what their significance might be. I raced through Christmas and was proud of myself for figuring out one element of the mystery before I was told (I'm not very good at solving mysteries). It was a nice change to read a Christmas story set in an Australian (ie sweltering) Christmas; this time the setting is the Blue Mountains.

Weirdly I finished Christmas exactly a year to the day after finishing Stevenson's last novel; I hope he's working on something new because these books are so much fun.
 

The Morning Gift

Wow, I have certainly done a massive binge on Eva Ibbotson -- I reserved all the available titles from the local library and I've been reading them as they come in. The Morning Gift was the last one, though I have also bought a couple of books and added them to my pile. I might take a rest for a while. The good thing about Eva Ibbotson is that you know exactly what you're going to get. Our sweet, funny heroine this time is Ruth, a refugee from Vienna at the beginning of the Second World War. Our reserved, masterful older man is Quin Somerville, professor and paleontologist. This time, the plot starter is that Quin secretly marries Ruth in order to extract her safely from Austria. There are, as usual, complications galore, mostly in the shape of classical pianist Heini, to whom Ruth is officially devoted, and ruthless student (ha ha) Verena Plackett, who has set her marital sights on Quin.

One thing I love about Ibbotson novels, apart from their comforting reliability, is the large cast of eccentric characters that she manages to so deftly create and move around the chess board of the story. Though our hero and heroine tend to be very similar characters from novel to novel, our minor characters are delightfully varied and vividly sketched in such an endearing way that we can't help becoming invested in their fates. In The Morning Gift, we meet passionate gardener Uncle Mishak, horrible snob Lady Plackett, free spirit Janet, floundering biology student Pilly, and many others.

I seem to be declaring each Ibbotson my favourite as I make my way through them, but I really think  The Morning Gift (named for the symbolic gift that defines a morganatic marriage, freeing the husband from any future marital obligations -- I always wondered where that came from) might be my actual favourite!

Naarm/Melbourne Neighbourhoods

Naarm/Melbourne Neighbourhoods was a Mother's Day present from my elder child: probably not something I would have bought for myself, but it's a fun and useful book. The cover is very misleading, because the suburbs labelled there are definitely not in the correct geographical positions! But inside it's divided into City, East, South, North etc, with bite sized paragraphs about historical anecdotes, interesting buildings, urban myths, significant persons, landmarks and festivals. I've lived in Naarm almost all my life but I still learned some weird and wonderful facts, like Prahran probably being a corruption of Birrarung (the Yarra's proper name), and that Bertie Beetles were first invented to use up broken bits of Violet Crumble.

Each section includes a suggested walk around the chosen area, which look like a lot of fun, and something I'd really like to do one day. This book would be an excellent present (or loan) to a visitor to the city, but it's also got lots to offer even to long-time residents.
 

The Leopard

I don't know what happened to my original copy of The Leopard, which I studied in HSC a looong time ago, but I replaced it some time ago with the one pictured above. I was prompted to re-read Guiseppe di Lampedusa's 1958 classic novel partly by Susan Green, and partly by watching the sumptuous Netflix series based on the book.

Watching the series, I marvelled that I'd forgotten so much of the story -- well, it's not that surprising, because the script writer fleshed out some episodes with invented scenes. But in fact there was quite a bit that I'd genuinely forgotten. I remember how much I adored The Leopard, but what I mostly retained was the atmosphere of languid, lush sensuality, mingled violence and torpor that gave me my first impression of Sicily. My most vivid recollection, skimmed over in the adaptation, was of young lovers Tancredi and Angelica exploring the long-neglected corners of the family's immense villa, trembling on the dangerous edge of desire but never quite giving in -- it was the sexiest thing I'd ever read!

Now I'm old and grey, it's Prince Fabrizio's musings on aging and regret that speak to me most powerfully. There really isn't much plot in The Leopard, but it's still amazingly atmospheric, and the Netflix version succeeded in bringing that atmosphere to life; also, Kim Rossi Stuart is superb as the Prince. At seventeen, I had a huge crush on Tancredi, but now I find him merely irritating. The Leopard was well worth a re-visit.
 

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Going back over some familiar ground here -- this is the third of Gabor Maté's books I've read, and I've come to greatly respect his insights. In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts deals specifically with addiction. Maté has worked for many years among drug addicts in one of Canada's most deprived urban areas; he also (somewhat controversially) counts himself as an addict, though his personal addiction is not to a legal or illegal drug, but rather to overwork and to the compulsive purchase of classical music CDs.

There is some overlap between this book and Maté's previous work on ADHD -- many addicts are trying to soothe their restless minds with the help of illicit substances (as well as traditional drugs like alcohol and nicotine) -- but his central point is that all addicts are fundamentally seeking to calm minds disordered by trauma. Sometimes this trauma might be inter-generational oppression, or childhood sexual abuse, but it might be a deep inner disconnection caused by loving but distracted parenting -- anything that prevented the parent from closely bonding with their infant. Maté admits that he himself has often been a less than perfect parent, and that though his own parents were loving, he was born into the profound misery and dislocation of war, and was fostered out as a baby for his own safety.

The most moving sections of this long and scholarly book are the personal stories of the addicts with whom Maté has worked. Often difficult to deal with, unreliable, violent and bitter, Maté brings us close to their pain and their longing for connection. Maté's work makes a mockery of the simplistic solutions often proposed for dealing with drug addiction, or indeed for troubled youth or dispossessed minorities, or any number of 'problem' populations. Maté's compassion and reflection should be essential reading.
 

An Expert in Murder

Regular readers will know that I'm cautious about novels using real people as characters -- it can be quite poorly done. But I was intrigued by the idea of using a mystery writer as a protagonist, so I thought I'd at least check out the first volume of Nicola Upson's Josephine Tey series, and I'm relieved to say that I enjoyed it very much indeed.

Set in 1934, An Expert in Murder centres on Tey's hugely successful play, Richard of Bordeaux, which catapulted John Gielgud to stardom. The novel features a young super-fan of the play (some patrons returned thirty or forty times), and many participants in the theatrical world, some of whom are based on real people (like stage designers, the 'Motley' sisters), and theatre manager Bernard Aubrey (based on Bronson Albery). I had no idea that Josephine Tey (real name Elizabeth Mackintosh, though she wrote her plays under the name Gordon Daviot) had even written for the stage, let alone had a massive hit -- plays don't seem to have the longevity of even half-forgotten novels.

Upson said that after discovering Tey's novels for herself and deciding they were criminally overlooked (not by all of us!), she became fascinated with the theatre and literature of her times. It was a strange experience to find myself half-recognising people and places from Dodie Smith's theatrical career at much the same time, like the New and Wyndham theatres, and the leading lady based on Gwen Ffrangcon-Davies, who also starred in some of Smith's plays. I wasn't expecting to be plunged back into this semi-familiar world, but it was a pleasant surprise, and I suspect I'll be back for more of Upson's work.

The Invocations

I'm not a fan of horror. I can't watch horror movies and I steer clear of horror in my reading, too. But I make an exception for Krystal Sutherland. To my own astonishment, I really enjoyed her House of Hollow a couple of years ago, and now comes The Invocations, which made the CBCA Notables list, but not the shortlist. In my view, it belongs on the shortlist, just because it's so well written. It might be filled with demons and gore (so much gore! Such a high body count! Such disgusting decomposing undead gloop!) but Sutherland keeps the plot galloping along so fast that there's no time to dwell on the revolting detail.

Meanwhile, there is lots of other stuff to enjoy. A strong friendship between three very different young women, an unflinching stare at male violence against women, a celebration of female power ('of course I do spells for trans women,' says Emer the witch at one point, 'magic doesn't care about bodies, it cares about souls.' Beautifully put...), a sprinkle of dark humour and a cracking plot all add up to a hugely enjoyable read, despite the horror elements. And if you do like horror, you will be in heaven.
 

Unsettled

Kate Grenville's non-fiction meditation, Unsettled, is one of the best books I've read this year. Grenville is well-known for her novels based on her family's history: The Secret River, Sarah Thornhill, Restless Dolly Maunder. She's also written Searching for the Secret River, which is an account of the research process she went through while writing the first of those novels. Unsettled is a different kind of journey, though she often refers to that research and ancestral history. But this time, she's looking at the bigger picture -- not just the individuals of her family and the choices they made, but how those choices fitted into a broader colonial narrative.

Grenville takes a simple but effective structure, retracing various ancestors' movements, from that first settlement on the Hawkesbury, further and further out from Sydney, finishing with the farm where her own mother was brought up. Along the way, she reflects on the way 'settlement,' or more bluntly, stealing land from First Nations people, must have felt for both the colonists and the dispossessed. She brilliantly examines the way our language serves to obscure the reality of what happened -- how we speak of settlers 'taking up land', when we really mean 'taking land.' Squatters 'got' land, women 'were never left without a gun.' What horrors are those bland words hiding?

There are plenty of challenging ideas here, but Grenville leads us through the landscape and her own thoughts gently but firmly, never allowing us to turn away completely, while acknowledging the strong urge to hide from the truth that has gripped our nation from its beginnings. She ends on a hopeful note, visiting the memorial to the Myall Creek massacre, the only occasion when white men were hanged for the murder of Aboriginal people -- a memorial that was constructed after local inhabitants, Black and white, sat down together to commemorate their shared, painful history.

Unsettled would be a perfect book to give to someone just learning about Australian history, or someone who grew up when we weren't taught the truth. It is confronting, but it's not sanctimonious or preachy, and it's engagingly easy to read; we travel beside Grenville as she works through her own feelings and thoughts. Yes, it's written from a white person's point of view, but as a first hand struggle with accepting and sitting with our shameful past, it's intimate, valuable and powerful.
 

American Wife

I'm such a dill, I borrowed Curtis Sittenfeld's most acclaimed novel, American Wife, from the Ath, completely forgetting that I'd ordered a copy from Brotherhood Books. So I read half of it in the library's copy and half in the one that eventually arrived (it took ages, it went via Brisbane for some reason, no wonder I lost track). But I'm very happy to own a copy.

There is definitely a recurring theme in Sittenfeld's work, where a quiet, bookish woman is taken up by a charismatic, out-going man. Sometimes this leads to a fairytale romance, as in Romantic Comedy; sometimes it's a disaster, as in Rodham or Prep. In American Wife, the outcome is more ambiguous and for that reason, all the more interesting. Modelled on the life of Laura Bush, wife of President George, American Wife follows Alice Blackwell from rural high school to the White House. After a tragic event in adolescence, Alice marries rich, happy-go-lucky Charlie, who makes her life more fun and carries her into a milieu of immense wealth and privilege. But Alice retains her watchful introspection. She sees both Charlie's charm and his shallowness clearly, but perhaps less clearly than she thinks she does.

American Wife is over 600 pages long and I was riveted all the way through. How much do I love Curtis Sittenfeld? At some point I will have read everything that she's written and that will be a very sad day in my life. There's something about the granular detail of her writing that I find completely absorbing. It might not be for everyone but I love it.

The Dragonfly Pool

One of Eva Ibbotson's children's books -- yes, I am on an Ibbotson splurge -- The Dragonfly Pool came from the local library and has obviously been well-read, which I'm happy about. It's not unlike her adult books in flavour, but the two main protagonists are twelve years old: a thoughtful girl, Tally, and an oppressed prince, Karil. The libertarian school of A Song for Summer reappears, this time in the Devon countryside, but again we are in the years just before the outbreak of the Second World War, and again Hitler and his henchmen are causing havoc in the lives of our characters.

The Dragonfly Pool is definitely for younger readers, because there is no sex; however, there is an assassination and real danger even for the most vulnerable of child characters. And there is real cruelty, too, albeit meted out by cartoonishly wicked adults.

There is a very European sensibility to Ibbotson's novels, even when they are set in South America or England. There is often some kind of pivotal performance, whether it be opera, a religious procession, a ballet or a play. There will be idyllic countryside. There will be an enigmatic, accomplished man. There will be artists and teachers and aristocrats. There will be misunderstandings and selfless sacrifice, but things will work out all right in the end. This is Ibbotson's universe, and it's one I'm happy to spend time in.