Applause.

The Sacred Art of Stealing - Christopher Brookmyre

Basically, before I begin, I should probably admit to my unbridled adoration of Brookmyre and everything he creates. He’s a pretty spectacular human being and an even better writer, and pretty much the only author I’ve ever met that I’ve gone all ‘fangirl’ on. 

We’ve been to the pub a couple of times, and every time I speak to him I’m astounded by his mind and how it works. He is exceptionally intelligent, to the point that no matter how much I think I know, I’m always two steps behind. 

ANYWAY.

The Sacred Art of Stealing is in my top three Brookmyre’s. It centres around recurring heroine Angelique De Xavia; black Glaswegian cop and kick-ass extraordinaire. She is embroiled in a case when an armed, masked gang walk into a bank in broad daylight, and proceed to crack the safe. I’m telling you - if Brookmyre decides to pack in the writing and turn to devising heists of his own, we’re in serious trouble. Angelique is drafted into the building and comes face to face with the literary love of my life, Zal Innez, a beautiful American showman who’s plots are the work of genius.

Enter the requisite love story between good girl and bad guy, lots of guns, a Mexican drug baron and a couple of magic tricks and you’ve got top-form Brookmyre through and through.

A glorious, glorious book, and the love scenes aren’t even too cringey. Well, not as bad as All Fun And Games Until Someone Loses an Eye, anyway. Fresh linen - need I say more?

The Buddha of Suburbia - Hanif Kureishi

So by now you’ve probably realised that my reviews aren’t of up-and-coming novelists, or even particularly new novels (apart from when they are). They’re just things that I enjoy, or that have absorbed me completely.

The Buddha of Suburbia falls under that category. Written in 1990, it won the Whitbread Award for first novel. Probably better known for My Beautiful Launderette (with a particularly beautiful Daniel Day Lewis), Kureishi gives a first hand account of growing up in England with a dual ethnicity, set against a deliciously lurid backdrop of London in the 1970s. 

Necessary for all good novelists is a dash of reality, and BOS has it in bucket loads, along with dry humour and political intent. The novel is centred around Karim, “an Englishman born and bred, almost.” His experiences of racism, music, high-society and prejudice are exquisitely written, detailing a world near forgotten of drugs, conflicts and sexual exploration. 

The whole book centres around the idea of identity, and the notion that the common ground with all races and ethnicities is that no teenager knows who he is. 

The moral of this? Read Kureishi’s stuff. It’s good. You can’t not find something to identify with. Promise.

4.5 Kangaroos.

Room by Emma Donoghue

Anything taking inspiration from Josef Fritzl is not cool with me.

Room is written from the point of view of five-year-old Jack, a little boy who has never been outside the confines of an 11ft by 11ft shed; a purpose-built dungeon. His mother was kidnapped when she was just 19, continually raped by her captor, and impregnated.

Whilst the subject matter doesn’t sit easily with me to start with, the writing style is immature, soulless and brittle. It’s only saving grace is the depiction of the bond between mother and son; showcasing an adequate appreciation for that secret world. But who wants to be adequate?

And who wants to be stuck in a room, even if only while you’re turning these pages?

I don’t even got no funnies for this one.

2 Kangaroos. 

For a more comprehensive (and fairer!) review, check out my friend Emma’s version of events: Book Monkey

The Waterproof Bible by Andrew Kaufman

After the surge of interest in Andrew Kaufman following my review of All My Friends Are Superheroes, I thought it would only be polite to add my thoughts on his novel, The Waterproof Bible.

In true Kaufman form, this book relies heavily on gritty emotion, dealt with in the bizarrest of situations. Covering loss, grief, forgiveness, anger and emptiness, it should by all probability be a pretty gruelling read, but in true Kaufman style, he’s thrown in a frog-woman for good measure.

Aberystywth is a devout follower of Aquaticism, a tenderly described religion falling somewhere between Buddhism and Christianity, only substantially reliant on water. Her journey to save her mother from a ‘dry-death’ takes her through the arduous challenges of learning to drive, with legs three times the length of the rest of her body. 

Along the way she meets Rebecca, a young woman born with the profound “ability to push her emotions into the world as surely as her lungs pushed out her breath,” who has learned to manage her predicament by forcing her emotions into shoeboxes, which she then stockpiles in a storage unit. This novel questions just how much emotional baggage can one person handle, and what happens when it just becomes too much, but also what becomes of us when we let it go? 

Enter a 59-day drought, rainmakers and a colossal flood; talking flames, random bouts of blindness and the literal disappearance of limbs; and a momentous climax aptly titled The Book of Doubt and Endings – and you’ve got the Scripture according to Kaufman.

As breathtaking, bizarre, poignant and downright weird as AMFAS, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

5 kangaroos, without doubt.

GUEST BOOK REVIEW: Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig

I’m going to start posting guest book reviews from those select few people I know who read more than chick-lit. Not that that’s an issue… just I’m not going to be your friend.

So, introducing John Lucas - pretentious reviewer extraordinaire and the source of many of the literary-related arguments in my household:


After been somewhat perturbed by Hannah’s request for a pretentious blog post from yours truly (such an inference regarding my personality almost made me choke on my breakfast, which incidentally consisted of quail eggs, half a smoked kipper and was pleasantly washed down with a fine port…don’t you know) I decided to entertain Hannah’s request by choosing a novel with the word ‘zen’ in it, so to fulfil the pledge of pretention, to which I am now apparently bound.

Anyway, enough Tomfoolery: Robert M. Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle maintenance is a brilliantly insightful and even- dare I say it- life-changing read. On the surface, it is a story following our narrator (Pirsig) and his son on a motorcycle journey across America, capturing the special and complex relationship which exists between the two. In addition to illustrating their increasingly strained bond, Pirsig regularly shifts the reader a number of decades into the past, when our narrator was, at least in his opinion, an entirely different individual altogether- reffered to as “Phaedrus”. 

Pirsig’s account of this character is captivating, portraying a man gripped by intense motivation and a voracious thirst for knowledge. Phaedrus finds himself precariously balanced on the borders of genius and insanity, a mental state which he struggles, and ultimately fails to keep stabilised. 

Studying oriental philosophy, rhetoric and engaging in a host of other academic pursuits, Pirsig brilliantly embeds his own philosophical, scientific and spiritual experiences into the heart of the text, retaining a strong sense of optimism, even in the darkest of places. While Pirsig’s insights prompt one to enter great speculation upon each meaningful gem, his captivating and beautifully poetic prose drags the reader back to the page, ensuring that when the book is finally layed down, many questions will still continue to bustle in one’s mind. 

It would be unfair to suggest that this is a straightforward read, and while the language is very accessible, some of the philosophical arguments which Pirsig states may be viewed as rather weighty, especially by those not familiar with philosophical writing in general. However, I really feel it’s worth persevering through these brief moments of intellectual bombardment, as the book is greatly rewarding, and retains its humanity even in the densest of logical discourse.

Rating: 4 Kangaroos and half a dingo.

P.S If you’re interested in doing a guest review, contact me at assorted_chocolates@hotmail.com

Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

I don’t think you can impartially review books without chucking in a couple of your favourites, and whilst this may be a cliché, DAMMIT, IT’S A GOOD BOOK.

If you’ve been put off reading this classic from it’s frankly romanticised publicity, then you have it SO wrong. Wuthering Heights has got it all; incest, murder, necrophilia and ghosts to name but a few. There’s even a scene where a little dog gets strung up to a tree. What more could you want?

WH follows the story of Cathy, a pompous, well-heeled young girl of about seven, who falls in love with the unnattractive and wholly unappealing stray that her father brings home; Heathcliff (effectively her step-brother, I told you it got messy). Cathy in her infinite wisdom decides not to marry Heathcliff (they’re slightly older by this point) and heads off to marry the wet and weedy Edgar, who utterly adores her but is quite ridiculous.

Anyone who has ever titled Heathcliff as a romantic hero hasn’t read this book. I’m not even joking - he’s scarier than Dracula. And Noel Edmonds. Put together.


Heathcliff vows his revenge, tries to kill pretty much every other character, and then lots more happens, but I’m not going to tell you what because that’s cheating. Basically, most people are murdered or die in horrible circumstances, there’s some forced marriages, a bit of rape, a whole new generation and a few ghosts thrown in for good measure.


Literally, this novel is an anti-romance. It couldn’t be more brutal. Buy and read it NOW, or Cathy will get you.

If I could, this would get 11 kangaroos out of five, but that’s not mathematically possible. 

Actually, hell, this is my blog. I’m giving it 11.

Mini Review - Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov

This is one of the darkest, mini tragi-comi masterpieces I have ever come across. Set in post-Communist Russia, protagonist Viktor and his pet penguin Misha (it’s not as bizarre as it sounds. Well, it is, but it’s endearing nonetheless) become entangled in a web of serious organised crime.

Kurkov’s deadpan style immediately appeals, and his depiction of children (and penguins) is simply stunning. The Soviet cityscape is as bleak and stark as any Orwellian world, sucking you in to the absolute desolation, where the American Dollar is the only thing of strength.

Definitely the best book to come out of the modern-Ukraine in recent times…

Slightly too implausible to be billed as a genuine thriller - this gets a decent 4.2 Kangaroos(the 0.2 is made up of an ear).

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

In a slightly better played hand by the English Literature department of Glos, we were given ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ to read for the second week of our Crime Fiction module. 

Now, I first read this novel when I was about 10, and couldn’t sleep for nights afterwards. 
I have now read it for the second time at the age of 20, and still couldn’t sleep (especially with any limbs hanging outside of the covers, you never know when a phosphorescent hound is going to come looking for a nibble of your toes). 

I’m not of weak constitution, I can sit through most gore without flinching, but there is something in this book that genuinely did unsettle me. I might just be being a girl, but there you go.

The story is one of Conan Doyle’s, and indeed, Sherlock Holmes’ better known adventures, traversing the moors of… well… Dartmoor. Holmes’ idiosyncrasies and eccentricities really come to light in this mystery - making him literature’s steadfastly most loved detective. 

When Holmes and Watson are accosted by a Doctor who is worried about what to say to his new guest, Henry, the recent beneficiary of ‘murdered’ Mr Charles Baskerville’s estate. It is told that the Baskerville family have long been the victims of a supernatural curse, where a distant ancestor through his vile misdeeds unleashed a real ‘hound of hell’. Many of the family have met their gruesome end in mysterious circumstances, sparking the interest of Holmes and his protege. 

With a cast of bizarre characters, including a selection of enthusiasts of everything from butterflies to ancient skulls, this is without a doubt one of the most intelligently constructed crime novels I’ve ever read. And yanno’, you’ve got to start with your classics… 

This gets a rating of 4 kangaroos.

And no, the Butler didn’t do it.

All My Friends Are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman

HEADS UP: This was originally posted about 2 weeks before Valentines Day, so read in context.
Okay, so with the smooshiest ‘holiday’ looming imminently, I felt it was only right to review a ‘romance’ novel. Now, for those of you who know me, romance isn’t really my forte, so I’m slightly limited for choice on this one. 

However, if I could pass one law, it wouldn’t be that people could never wear bandanas, or that cauliflower should be banned in every sense; it would be that instead of sending valentines cards, everyone should send a copy of this book to everyone that they love. (I mean that in the sense of partners, parents and best-friends, not serial polygamists. You should be buying counselling, not books).

This book is one of the most spectacularly charming things I have ever read, even as an English Literature student (not that that counts for much; they make us read Medieval plays - there’s nothing charming about them…) and at only 108 pages long, you can zoom through it before your kettle’s even boiled.

This is the story of Tom, and his wife ‘The Perfectionist’ - a superhero whose power does what it says on the tin. At their wedding, a jealous ex of The Perfectionist puts a curse on Tom… and I’m not going to tell you any more because the unravelling of this story is purely magical. With characters such as Hypno, The Clock and The Broken Heart, you might be forgiven for thinking that this is simply fantastical - but I can guarantee that every single hero will relate to somebody in your life. After all, everyone’s a hero (especially me). 

So if you’re stuck for something to send this Valentine’s Day, look no further.

And you know what? I’ll even let you take the credit for this one.

New Home (forever home)

Hello Tumblrs!

I’ve been writing book reviews for quite a while now. I read a lot; incessantly some may say, but keeping track of what I’ve read isn’t one of my strong suits. 

I started a little bit of a blog way back when, and then another one, and then another. So slowly but surely, my words of non-wisdom have spread themselves far and wide (albeit thinly, like stingy butter) across the internet.

HENCEFORTH. I shall be collecting and collating and construing all of my previous reviews and collaging them into something culminating in this wondrous (to be) page, the new home for all of my reviews past, present and future. 

I’m open to suggestions (as long as I like them) and kind words. Anything you think I should read? Whack it in a message. 

I should probably explain my rating system; it’s out of five kangaroos. Less of an explanation, more a statement.

Enjoy. Or don’t. Whichever you please.