I'm going to join the 2nds challenge. The challenge is to read 4 books by authors I've only read once before. So, here's my 4 books:

• Ludmilla's Broken English by DBC Pierre. I've read Vernon God Little twice and really enjoyed it, so hopefully this should be just as good! I already have a copy of this book, so I'll have no problem reading it.
• The Little Friend by Donna Tartt. I've read The Secret History by her and I loved it, so I thought I'd read this book, which I found on another shelf a couple of months back. I own the copy, so I'll have no problem with this one.
• Big Sur by Jack Kerouac. I've read On the Road, which I very much enjoyed, and I'd be interested to see how it relates to his other works. However, I don't have a copy of this book and my library situation is currently limited, so I'm unsure if I'll be able to get a copy of it. Nevertheless, I will try my hardest, and if all else fails, I will replace it with something else.
• Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs. I've read Junky, which was strange but nevertheless interesting. Once again, I don't actually own a copy of this book, so I may have to change it if I can't get ahold of one.

But as I scavenged the entire library for stimulating reads, I kept looking down at the book. At various moments, I picked it up and skimmed paragraphs here and there. I kept thinking, "It looks so boring, so dense yet empty. Maybe I should put it back?" Then, I rebuked myself and said, "Just give it a chance...maybe it'll be interesting." Finally, I returned it to the "New Books" shelf.

I've been stuck in a literary funk for quite some time now. It seems like every book that I've read in the past month has left me dissatisfied. And these are not unknown books; they've been lauded by critics for being all sorts of world-smashing things, like thought-provoking, witty, intelligent, and so on.

Take for instance Don DeLillo's White Noise. While I appreciated the book's criticism of academia, society, and drugs (something about this book reminded me of Kurt Vonnegut, another writer who is heralded as an icon by critics, but whose black humor I don't find so appealing) some of its themes were flat-out boring, like Jack and his wife Babette's unrelenting fear of death. I remember stopping at page 130, flipping through the remainder of the book, and incredulously asking myself, "There are still about 200 more pages to go?!"

Or Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook. In the most recent introduction, Lessing says she received letters from female readers who said that the book "changed" either their or someone else's life. I then embarked on the 672 page book set in England and Africa. I desisted around page 300-something.

Then I read Ian McEwan's Amsterdam. I thought it was a good read, but not a Miracle of Madonna that merited a prize. I recently finished Paradise Travel, and while I thought it was extremely interesting and refreshing, I suspect that I would have liked the book more if I had read it in Spanish. Currently, I am in the middle of the Man Booker Prize-winning The Sea. I am forcing myself to forge ahead, hoping that somewhere along the line, I'll be snagged by an unexpected hook.

What am I looking for?

In The Golden Notebook, Anna, the narrator, says that the

function of the novel seems to be changing; it has become an outpost of journalism; we read novels for information about areas of life we don't know- Nigeria, South Africa, the American Army, a coal mining village, coteries in Chelsea, etc. We read to find out what is going on.

This opinion rings true to a certain extent for me: I'm attracted to books which accurately capture another time and place. But I'm not exactly looking for reportage on, say, Egypt (though greatly appreciated); I'm looking for a book that makes me turn the next page, has vivacious and robust language, and makes me want to not put the book down. And it's not literary snobbery that makes me cry out for good books. I'm not receiving all literature with the attitude that every piece fails to satisfy my unreachable standards. Great fiction and non-fiction does exist. I know This Much Is True touches on schizophrenia, immigration, social ostracism, love, sex, and racial politics in the US. Lolita is one of the most arresting reads I've had. The Poisonwood Bible shows how the lives of four sisters living in Africa took four different directions. Barney's Version is marked with satire, political takes, and wit. Notes on a Scandal is one of those books which successfully creep you out, which exemplifies good writing (NOTE: I read this book when it first came out, not after the movie was made, which I haven't seen yet). The Guide's quiet humor and social criticism is some of the best writing I've come across. The Moor's Last Sigh takes you on a magnificent voyage through India and Spain, while interweaving history and religion. Vernon God Little brilliantly crafts a story around the death penalty, homophobia, paedophila, and American society. Gomorrah is the author's nitty gritty tour within the shadowy worlds of the mafia in Italy. And A Fine Balance needs no summary. It's those books that I'm reminded of when I rhetorically ask, "Where has good writing gone these days?"

In fact, I never asked that question when I was in Italy and I read to my heart's content. I usually bought my books at Feltrinelli, and there was never any dearth of great titles ranging from science to literature, both in English and Italian. There was Salam Maman in Italian, which is a touching story about Ali, who grows up during Pahlavi's rule and lives through the revolutionary period of Iran. I read everything from humor (British and American) to sexual evolution. I immersed myself in heavier reading, like Pity the Nation, a book on the Lebanese civil war, End of the Peace Process, and A History of the Arab Peoples. Maybe because this Feltrinelli branch wasn't a giant five-story, nightmarish maze to navigate through (like to Barnes and Noble and Borders), I didn't have a hard time unearthing books that I enjoyed (I have to point out that Feltrinelli's English language books were obviously mined from British reviews; perhaps the British are better evaluators of literature than we Americans are?)

Instead, the local library here-- the closest access to books that I have-- holds bestsellers, Western classics, award-winning books, and other beneficiaries of rave reviews dispensed by heavyweight critics like the New York Times,  which speaks more to the politics of publishing (read: formulaic books that make huge profits) than great writing. It reminds me of how important it is to have public libraries and good bookstores which house a variety of books that might even be better than the more popular ones. Libraries in particular can often be one of the few democratic public spaces we have, which provide an opportunity to both low and high-income people to engage in literature, knowledge, and education (though you have to think about the location of the library- some libraries in affluent suburbs are like amusement parks, while those in poorer neighborhoods are underfunded).

But maybe there's a book that's sitting on the shelf at the public library whose existence I am unaware of. There are also well-known books that I've never read and are easily available, such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Howl, and The Catcher in the Rye. I want to revisit some books I've read in the past, like The Grapes of Wrath and On the Road, with a fresh eye. Pride and Prejudice is also on my list.

Are there any books you recommend? Any suggestions for sources that I can refer to for smart reviews?

UPDATE: Via Sepoy, I just learned that David Foster Wallace, author of the sharply and insanely funny collection of essays in A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, was found dead Friday evening.

Number two: the head of English gave me and Danny our holiday reading yesterday, so that when we get back in September we’ll be all knowledgeable and ready to start our English Lit. course post haste. I’d forgotten how much I hate that teacher till yesterday. She taught me in Year 9… we had an infamous run-in resulting in a ‘little chat’ and me snapping a load of pencils in half because I was scrawling all over my diary that ‘I hate you I hate you I hate you die I’ll kill you’ and applying a wee bit too much pressure. That’s not why we had to have the ‘chat’, by the way. That’s a result of the chat. Anyway, sitting next to me on the floor are Jane Eyre, The Wide Sargasso Sea, The Mill on the Floss, and Silas Marner. I read Jane Eyre in Year 4. If I tell the English teacher that we’ll probably have to have another chat about me trying to humiliate teachers in front of the class. I’m bitter and twisted over this because we had a vote: does the AS-level English Lit. class do Modern literature (Vernon God Little, The Colour Purple, that kind of stuff, the kind of stuff I’ve already read and liked and wanted to do and voted for) or Victorian literature (the kind of hideously boring stuff listed above)? It was a draw. So the teachers chose. Sheesh… no offence to the hundreds of people who love Victorian writing but I hate it. I get carsick from looking at it. All those long, long sentences… ‘how long-winded can you get’ is the name of the game.

Number three: me and Rhiannon were discussing the worst-possible A-level combination and I chose Maths, Physics, Chemistry, and Further Maths. And whaddaya know? That’s what she’s taking… She chose French, Spanish, English, and ‘a writey subject’, plus the option of doing Japanese and Italian GCSEs. And whaddaya know? Substitute Latin for French and German for Spanish, and that’s what I’m taking (the ‘writey subject’ I’m doing is History). Polar opposites, for sure.

Number four: a friend of Emma’s gave us a lift back from school today, and it was me in the back, next to Emma, next to Emma’s friend (she’s called Susan May. I’m Suzanne May. We don’t get along). Louis was in the boot pretending we didn’t exist. So anyway,  was sitting there with an iPod cable in my ear also pretending I wasn’t listening to them, but really eavesdropping for all I was worth. 

And that girl is like a carbon copy of me. She got in and she was all, Oh, hey, Susan, let’s go crazy! and they jumped around in their seats and she kept falling into my lap and giggling hysterically, pulling faces and dropping crisps in Louis’s hair, dropping crisps down the back of Susan’s collar when she looked away, pulling out my headphone (I only ever have one at a time so I can hear if people are behind me) and going ooga-booga! like a little kid who just read Where The Wild Things Are. Then Susan, totally hyper too, partly from Emma’s influence and partly because it was Friday and school was out for the weekend, put a crisp in Emma’s hair and Emma glared at her – if looks could kill Susan would be in a pot on her parents’ mantelpiece right about now.

“Don’t do that!”

“Eh?” Susan pulls her hand back and looks confused.

“Get off –” Susan tries her luck again and starts giggling, “Get off!” And Emma hits her arm and slumps in her seat and glares out the front windscreen.

“Hey, hey, let’s get Louis!” Susan tries to figure out where she went wrong and hovers over the back seat looking hopeful, starting to giggle again.

“No.”

“Are you moody?”

“Shut it.”

Now Susan realises it’s more fun to tease Emma, which she does until she picks up Emma’s drop dead vibes and realises it’s safer not to. They sit in silence.

Ten minutes later Emma drops a crisp down Susan’s shirt and they’re at it again, until Emma decides it’s not funny and snaps at Susan and then totally blanks her, and Susan gets scared and shuts up and then Emma starts giggling and gossiping and talking crazy rubbish about canoes – and then we got home. And I left ‘em to it. Am I a bad influence or was she always gonna end up that weird?

Number five: I’ve made a wonderful discovery, which was probably made by all other internet users a few years ago, but in case there’s someone reading who hasn’t made it yet, I’d like to share it with you. It’s last.fm’s list of free music for the week. It’s actually great… And my newest musical obsession is also free on last.fm - it's Telekinesis! – here’s the link, and my favourite one is Coast of Carolina. It’s been on repeat for about a week on the ole iPod…

Have a good weekend!

1. Grijp het dichtsbijzijnde boek dat meer dan 123 bladzijden telt.

Omdat ik in de zetel zit, ligt er een stapel boeken naast me... Ik ben een stapelmens.
Bovenaan ligt "Vernon God Little" van DBC Pierre.

Eén van de boeken waar ik ooit aan begonnen ben, halverwege even ben gestopt, dan niet meer wist waar het boek lag en aan een ander boek begon. Laten we het op -nog uit te lezen- houden.
Het boek (paperback) telt 279 pagina's, is in het Engels en heeft allerlei goede recensies gekregen van oa. Daily Mail, Independent, Sunday Telegraph,...
Ik zat ongeveer aan de helft toen ik hem opzij legde, en vond het tot dan toe een boek 'right up my alley"!

Op de achterflap:
Named as one of the best 100 things in the world by GQ in 2003, the riotous adventures of Vernon Gregory Little in small-town Texas and beachfront Mexico mark one of the most spectacular, irreverent and bizarre debuts of the 21st century so far. Its depiction of innocence and simple humanity (all seasoned with a dash of dysfunctional profanity) in an evil world is never less than astonishing. The only novel to be set in the barbecue sauce capital of Central Texas, Vernon God Little suggests that desperate times throw up the most unlikely of heroes.

WINNER of THE man BOOKER PRIZE 2003

Fit to rank with Catcher in the Rye... the outstanding literary debut of 2003!' SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

2. Open het boek op bladzijde 123 en zoek de 5de zin.
Music's a crazy thing, when you think about it.

3. Post nu de volgende 3 zinnen.
Interesting how I decided which discs not to pawn. I could've kept some party music, but that would've just tried to boost me up, all this thin kind of 'Tss-tss-tss,' music. You get all boosted up, convinced you're going to win in life, then the song's over and you discover you fucken lost.

Mijn excuses dat het allemaal in het Engels is, maar ik lees bitter weinig Nederlandstalige boeken, tenzij non-fictie. Engelstalige schrijvers liggen me gewoon beter. En Nederlandstalige vertalingen zijn nooit zo goed als het origineel.

Het stokje zelf ga ik niet verder werpen. Het ligt hier, vrij om op te rapen.

How I never got around to reading the book…..till recently:
            I stumbled upon the name of this book back when I was in school quizzing at my friend Hari’s place. It was a book by the Man Booker Prize winning author for that year. D.B.C. Pierre. (Dirty but Clean).
            However back then I was still into reading Jeffery Archer and still stuck with Hardy Boys. I always have this issue trying out new books because a book makes you change in a way that’s irreversible. So I am always wary about propaganda and hate those self improvement books. I hate to read a bad book because u change in a way you don’t want to. (Don’t worry, the change is infinitesimal, but in the long run you will accumulate the changes and you might not want that.)
 

How I got around to finally reading the book:
            So it’s almost three years from the day when I heard of this book. Meanwhile I am in college doing an engineering degree. My friend Venkat takes me to the British Council library in Mount Road, near Spencer Plaza. If you haven’t figured yet, I stay in Chennai (I still prefer the name Madras). So I was browsing for books I could borrow from the library. I found a lot of Agatha Christie (I am guessing she’s a Brit. That’s why the library has a load of her books), but somehow I have never read a single book of hers. So I didn’t want to experiment what with the exams near the corner. I was looking for other interesting novels, but to my dismay, the British Council Library is no Landmark (a book store in Chennai), and the collection of fiction books that I can identify is pretty lean. So I am browsing the shelves trying to find a book whose author I have heard of or the title looking familiar from maybe a Outlook (a magazine) review or something. Bam I come across Vernon God Little. It’s a small book, but I found it somehow.
 

The Book:
Guess when I started reading the book? One day prior to one of my exams. I have found that I anyway don’t study for the exams. So if I sit idle, ill only fret about the fact that I am not studying. (For the previous two exams, I was reading Harry Potters last two installments, but that’s hardly worth writing about.). When I started reading the book, I was confused whether the writer knew any English at all or whether it was my limited vocabulary that didn’t allow me to understand much of what was being said. Honestly I wanted to throw the book and say Pathetic. But somehow, I kept reading and reading and to my surprise, I found the book rather funny and oddly interesting.
 ……….more on the book later (I have to go have my bath)
 

Synopsis (from back of book):
Named as one of the 100 Best Things in the World by GQ magazine in 2003, the riotous adventures of Vernon Gregory Little in small town Texas and beachfront Mexico mark one of the most spectacular, irreverent and bizarre debuts of the 21st century so far. Its depiction of innocence and simple humanity (all seasoned with a dash of dysfunctional profanity) in an evil world is never less than astonishing. The only novel to be set in the barbecue sauce capital of Central Texas, Vernon God Little suggests that desperate times throw up the most unlikely of heroes.

Review:
Well, although I wouldn’t necessarily go as far as saying this was one of the 100 best things in the world, this was quite an enjoyable piece of escapism. It explores exactly how badly things can go wrong when people are quick to lay blame at the feet of others without examining all available information and how the situation can be made even worse if the accused is not allowed to stand up and have his or her say. Of course, it’s also a portrait of a person who is permanently in the wrong place at the wrong time and does absolutely nothing to better his situation with any of his subsequent actions.

A little of the shine was perhaps dulled for me, as I’d so recently finished We Need to Talk About Kevin (which I hated) and this had similar themes – both had a fifteen year old boy accused of murder as the main protagonist and both examined the effect this had on those around him. However, D C Pierre displays far more wit and humour, making Vernon God Little far easier and much more enjoyable to read.

A lot of the action is more than a little far-fetched and one can’t help thinking that a hero who is unlucky enough to live in a town where the local law enforcement is slightly nutsy-cuckoo and in no way fit for duty is nothing short of fantastical, but the extremes illustrate how easy it is for a situation to go off the rails.

If you’re going to read a book about a teenager accused of massacring his classmates, pick Vernon over Kevin – you might just survive with your sanity intact and have a few laughs along the way.

Reviewed by Kell Smurthwaite

Given the curse on this production, Liddle might have made a happier source of material for the Young Vic.

Based on DBC Pierre's Booker Prize winning novel, Vernon God Little is set amid the aftermath of a high school massacre which - as previously reported by the Whingers - has bestowed some unwelcome topicality on the production and one or two marketing headaches.

By the end of the very long evening Phil also had one of his heads coming on.

Anyway, first things first. Entering the newly re-vamped Young Vic (its outside now resembling a rather large cheese grater - you can't miss it) their attention was caught by the fact that the seats were for some reason bizarrely positioned at a 60 degree angle to the stage. Even more mysteriously, the seats on the other side of the aisle were positioned differently - at 30 degrees. The Whingers were beside themselves trying to decide on which side to sit, the glee almost neutralising the indignation afforded by the discovery that this was unallocated seating (see posts passim, ad nauseum).

Choosing the less sensible seating (60 degrees) gave the Whingers an excellent view of the profiles of the audience across the aisle, and if they turned their heads as far to the right as they would uncomfortably go, they could see most of the stage too. Some of the blocking (that's a technical term) necessitated a further twist from the waist to catch what was going on at the extreme edges, but luckily Phil's head turns all the way round, so he was fine (see right).

By this time the Whingers were fair moist with anticipation, of course. Their eagerness to attend had already been stoked up to the max by another episode in the story of the curse of VGL: a few days ago, one of the actresses in the production (Siân Reeves) fell through a stage trapdoor which had been left open by mistake by "someone" and broke five ribs, something which is really, really terrible and NOT AT ALL FUNNY IN ANY WAY, PHIL.

The theatre's artistic director David Lan is reported in The People as saying just "We wish Sian a full and speedy recovery" but presumably most of the communication going on is between lawyers and insurance companies. The Whingers have also subscribed to the Health & Safety Executive's website in the hope of further updates.

Phil was eying the stage to see if he could spot that infamous trap door. Concerned for the well-being of the remainder of the cast, he wondered if he could persuade Andrew to test it out by hopping on stage and perform his party piece tap dance from Thoroughly Modern Millie (the movie, not the theatrical travesty, obviously).

Spotting what he thought must be the offending trap he asked one of the programme sellers (who are actually giving away a photocopied production list - the programmes also aren't ready) for clarification. "I just don't know" was her rather terse response. Unnecessary, he thought.

Anyway, after all this build-up, the production was destined not to live up to the promise and so it turned out to be.

Tanya Ronder's adaptation, Rufus Norris's direction and Ian MacNeil's set work seamlessly together to transform Pierre's dar, wry, thoughtful, hard-hitting, amusing satire into a piece of clumsy, over-staged farce - John Waters re-located to the deep south with a bit of Orton thrown in for good measure (note to Mr Norris: watch Ace in the Hole to see how it should be done).

This is no reflection on the excellent cast whose hard work playing multiple roles, singing and playing the occasional banjo is quite breathtaking and you would never guess that this was only the second preview (delayed to assimilate Ms Reeves's understudy).

No doubt Ms Ronder worked just as hard cramming every scene from Mr Pierre's novel into the script. So much so that we were still there three hours after the curtain had gone up (or hadn't, actually, but that's another story)

Interestingly there is an interview with DBC Pierre in today's Independent:

Apart from offering "Mexican swearing tuition", [Pierre has] given director Rufus Norris a completely free hand with adapting the book. He hasn't even read the script. "I'm not possessive of the content and I really don't think you should put more than one artist on a job."

Well, perhaps he should have read it as it might have restored his dwindling sense of ownership. Anyway, it goes on...

But he's thrilled by the young actor Colin Morgan, who plays Vernon. "He's absolutely spot on. I think it's the first time I've had an image in my head of Vernon. I didn't really picture him for the book. If you look in the text, all you know is that he has long eyelashes and dodgy hair."

Whether Mr Pierre had actually met or even seen Colin Morgan (left) is not recorded but on this occasion at least Mr Pierre is spot on. Morgan (who has yet to graduate from drama school) gives a remarkably assured performance and manages his role as the dramatic centre of the piece with terrifying aplomb in one so young.

But back to the negatives: the ugly set seemed to be constructed from MDF, clingfilm and whatever was left over from the Young Vic's new cladding. Its scrappy look seemed to cause many of the production's problems. Like the direction it had far too much going on - sofas, door-frames and screens being pushed around, all adding to a general lack of cohesiveness. At times you just didn't know where to look. Or why.

If it resembles anything else in the West End at the moment, it's probably The Hound of the Baskervilles. The text seems to be treated as no more than a convenient base on which to drape endless visual and self-mocking conceits -imagine a week of Zandra Rhodes' outfits flung onto a single wire coathanger.

There were so many times when the play teasingly seemed to finally be coming to an end that Phil was put in mind of the interminable Lord of the Rings : The Two Towers. When release eventually came after almost three shambolic hours it couldn't have been soon enough.

There was one particularly unfortunate moment towards the end when Vernon was dramatically flown towards the flies but was forced to deliver his big speech to the back of the stage, the single chain from which he was suspended having spun him away from the audience (note to Mr MacNeil: try two chains before the opening).

The Whingers went to this production with pocketsful of goodwill. What little was left by the end goes to Lorraine Bruce, Andrew Clark, Mariah Gale, Penny Layden, Mark Lockyer, Colin Morgan, Nathan Osgood, Joanna Scanlan and Ray Shell (the performers) and possibly the odd farthing for Mr Norris for not suppressing their talent and energy.

The rest was prodigally thrown away and we still have no idea what was supposed to have happened at the end.