The Black Album - Hanif Kureishi (1995)

Rating: Excellent

I've long been aware of Hanif Kureishi due to his association with David Bowie and the music he made as the soundtrack to the BBC adaptation of Kureishi's Buddha of Suburbia (1990). I've long had that novel sitting on my shelves, but I spied The Black Album at the fantastic second hand bookstore, Bella's Books, the kind of second hand book store that is crammed with books and goes on forever. I decided to read The Black Album now rather than sit on it for ages, and I'm pleased that I did. Published during the thick of an upsurge in youth culture in the mid nineties, Kureishi captures the beginnings of that era (1989) and expands on it by exploring ethnic identity in multicultural Britain, and religious tensions, in particular the fatwa on Salman Rushdie due to the publication of The Satanic Verses (1988). College student, Shahid Hasan, meets Riaz Al-Hussain on the first page, thus begins Shahid's entanglement with the forces of radicalisation that causes the somewhat youthfully naive Shahid to confront the cultural and religious forces swirling around him. Shahid is a convincing and compelling character, who is also a budding writer, which allows Kureishi to explore the literary struggles and pretensions of his craft, perhaps inspired by his own experiences studying at Bromley College of Technology in the 1970s. Shahid falls into a romantic relationship with one of his teachers, the inspirational Deedee Osgood, an older woman going through her own transitions. Their adventures together include taking ecstasy at raves and sex fuelled nights together whilst avoiding her politically principled semi-estranged husband. 

Bowie and Kureishi circa early 1990's

Shahid's life trajectory collides with his involvement with Riaz and his band of followers, including the intense former drug addict, Chad, who pull him into situations that are diametrically opposite to those with Osgood. In-between them stands Shahid's brother, Chilli, who is buckling under the pressures of being caught between the pleasures on offer in London and the demands of family life, of which he's trying to escape; he's a deeply flawed, yet sympathetic character. Kureishi cleverly uses Chilli's and Shahid's double lives to explore the tensions between the temptations of secular life in the heart of the decadent West and the supposedly pious life of religious extremism. The two worlds end up clashing towards the end of the novel in spectacular fashion. The novel is rich in both action and discourse, with multiple themes intertwining. The Black Album is sophisticated literary fiction that engages both the brain and the emotions. On the evidence of this novel Kureishi is a superb writer, different to Rushdie, whom is name-checked throughout the novel, yet definitely up in the same literary category as the author who famously suffered under the threat of the fatwa. Kureishi unfortunately has his own torments, having become a tetraplegic from a fall in Rome in 2022.  Fortunately he is still producing work, via the memoir, Shattered (2024), and recently he appeared in the latest Bowie documentary The Final Act (2025). I'll be definitely reading more of his work, and god speed Hanif Kureishi, I wish you well.

Wild Dark Shore - Charlotte McConaghy (2025)

Rating: Admirable

Charlotte McConaghy is an established Australian writer, and Wild Dark Shore is her third novel. Although the novel could be defined as a thriller, it is essentially another contribution to the ever-growing climate change fiction genre (Cli-Fi). Set on a remote sub-Antarctic island between Tasmania and the Antarctic, called Shearwater (based on Macquarie Island) in what seems like a near future scenario in which sea levels are surging, the novel is a bleak and claustrophobic read. The Salt family are the only inhabitants left on the island after the researchers left on the last boat. The Salts are a damaged family unit, with single parent, Dominic (the strong, silent type), overseeing three teenagers, Raff, Orly and Fen, who improbably lives in a small shack near the thousands of seals and penguins on the rugged shoreline. It is Fen who pulls Rowen out of the water, injured and close to death after her boat is wrecked. Rowen is the mysterious stranger who creates tension among the Salt family and supplies the narrative drive at the heart of the novel. Shearwater is also the site of an important seed vault that is under threat from the rising waters. The island is due to be completely abandoned, and the seeds removed before it is taken by the ever-threatening waves. 

Wild Dark Shore was described as Gothic by one of my book club members. I’d definitely agree with that assessment, as it has many elements of the Gothic genre; a dark brooding setting, death, intense psychological states, grown men conversing with their long dead wives, teenagers muttering in underground spaces to the spirits of dead animals and a character who resembles the Selkies of Celtic myths, I could go on. It’s an intense novel all right, yet about halfway through I began to feel a certain level of indifference. I’m not completely sure why, the writing is vivid, the characters interesting enough and the environmental themes are resonant. Perhaps the novel’s over the top nature wore me down, in particular the romantic intensity between some of the characters became a bit much. McConaghy generates a great deal of genuine suspense throughout, and the mystery surrounding Rowan’s presence on the remote island is intriguing. The chapters are mostly short and told from the perspectives of Rowen and the Salt family (yes, the salt of the earth…), with the adults ruminating in first person and the children given the wider third person perspective. It’s a real emotional rollercoaster ride throughout. I have to conclude that Wild Dark Shore, whilst displaying a range of quality characteristics, simply just wasn’t for me. About half the book club members loved Wild Dark Shore, and the other half felt a similar level of indifference that I did. A worthy novel then, but perhaps not for everyone.

Chess - Stefan Zweig (1942) AKA Chess Story, AKA The Royal Game

Rating: Excellent

I found my copy of Chess in my local street library, a well-loved source of great finds in the neighbourhood. The book’s eye-catching cover stood out, despite its slender 104 page-count. Stefan Zweig was a name I vaguely recognised, but I didn’t realise that the Austrian writer was one of the most popular writers in the world during the 1920’s, through the 1930s. Zweig’s story is unfortunately typical of Jewish born artists and intellectuals in central Europe during the time of the rise of Nazism in Germany. Zweig emigrated to England in the mid-1930s to escape Nazism, eventually settling in Brazil, where he was initially happy. Unfortunately he and his wife became so depressed by the state of war-torn Europe and humanity that they committed suicide by barbiturate overdose in 1942. Chess was the last work Zweig submitted for publication, emerging just before his death. An anonymous narrator recalls his experience aboard a passenger liner travelling from the USA to Buenos Aires, where he recognises world chess champion Mirko Czentovic. The narrator first establishes Czentovic’s background, his emergence from obscurity to being a world-renowned chess genius – an idiot savant basically. The narrator very much wishes to play Czentovic and engineers a situation, the playing of a chess game in the bar on the liner, in which to attract his attention. This ploy works, but it also attracts the attention of one Dr B., who, before long, takes up the challenge of playing the champion, with alarming results.

Stefan Zweig, contemplating the future

It is the background story of Dr B., who recounts his past experiences to the narrator during the middle section of the narrative, that is the crux of this short but affecting novella. Dr B., when living and working in Austria, is arrested by the Gestapo in order to find the whereabouts of Church assets he had helped to hide. Dr B is imprisoned in isolation for many months, with his only respite coming from the stolen contents of an instructional book on chess, which also outlines a number of famous games. Dr B., in attempting to survive captivity, plays games of chess in his mind, becoming highly skilled in the process. Such a premise allows Zweig to explore the insidious reach of Nazism, which caused untold physical damage to the world, but also emotional and psychological damage as well. The suicide of Zweig and his wife, Lotte Altmann, indicates that they very much felt the terrible psychological effects of having been driven from their home country, only to helplessly watch as Nazi Germany threatened the world with their tyranny. Dr B., who is physically safe from the Gestapo, still suffers from psychological trauma, something that emerges during his games with Czentovic. It’s a clever device; one made all the more affecting by Zweig’s precise style and the exacting brevity of the novella. Easily read in one sitting, Chess remains in your mind long after, making it a powerful artistic statement from a dark era in modern history.

Cinema Speculation - Quentin Tarantino (2022)

Rating: Excellent

Quentin Tarantino has always come across as someone who can’t keep his mouth shut, most recently he’s been rounded on for his description of Paul Dano as the worst living actor in America, among other more colourful insults. If you’ve heard Tarantino talk then you know that he is an enthusiastic and opinionated motormouth and when you read Cinema Speculation you can’t help but hear his voice, which, ultimately, is a good thing. Cinema Speculation is a blend of memoir and critical appraisal, beginning with ‘Little Q Watching Big Movies’, in which he talks candidly about his childhood brought up by his mother and being taken to the movies by her and his stepfather, and then a succession of boyfriends. Basically, Tarantino was taken to see movies in the 60’s and 70’s that he was far too young to see, and this then informed his approach to making his own movies. It’s a fascinating opening chapter, setting the scene for a foray into his favourite movies between 1968 and 1981. This is film theory, but not the kind you’re used to, it’s fast paced, both irreverent and reverent, taking no prisoners with opinions blasted from the gun used by Clint Eastwood in Dirty Harry (1971). Tarantino starts with Bullitt (1968), a Steve McQueen feature, in which he riffs on the leading male actors of the time, claiming that Elvis could have been up there with the likes of McQueen and Paul Newman if he’d taken his movie career more seriously. Such conclusions are a feature of Cinema Speculation. Dirty Harry (1971) is next and there’s no stopping Tarantino’s motormouth and at only the third chapter in you are caught up in his endless enthusiasms, wanting to see these movies again, to see them through his eyes, with his voice running through your addled brain.

Steve McQueen as Bullitt - 1968

During each chapter he references many other actors and movies, most of them obscure and lost to time, but kept alive by cinephiles just like Tarantino. This is the kind of book to have a notepad by your side to write down all the obscure movies he mentions for later viewing. Cinema Speculation is totally digressive, but all the better for it. It’s an invaluable insight into what became known as ‘New Hollywood’, when actors and styles that had been rusted on were swept away by the likes of Brian De Palma, Martin Scorsese, Steven Spielberg (whom Tarantino refers to as a genius) and Francis Ford Coppola. There’s a chapter entitled – 'New Hollywood in the Seventies' that is brilliant. Tarantino loves these directors, but throughout the book he really champions the ‘Grindhouse’ and the ‘Revengeorama’ sub-genres that existed in the darker realms of movie-houses. He writes great pieces on the likes of Deliverance (1972) and Taxi Driver (1976), but also on the more obscure likes of Rolling Thunder (1977) and The Funhouse (1981), movies made by smaller studios and risk-taking directors. It’s these movies that Tarantino talks about that really make Cinema Speculation something special, to the extent that I’m going to try and watch as many of these movies as possible. They are out there, existing in the search engines of lesser streamers like Tubi or floating around in the piles of DVDs that are filling up op-shops these days (people are dumping their physical media in their droves). Ultimately Cinema Speculation leaves you with a deeper understanding of where Tarantino came from and what informed his stylistic choices when it came to his own movies. I don’t love all of Tarantino’s movies (I’m one of the few people who aren’t partial to Reservoir Dogs (1992), for example), but I do believe that he is one of the most significant writers and directors around. If you have any interest in cinema history or Tarantino, then Cinema Speculation is well worth the read.

2025 Reading Round-Up

 

Ten years since Bowie died

Last year was a curious year, with 90% of my books packed away in piles of boxes while our new house was being built. I kept a select few out, ready to read, but, of course, quickly added to that number via digs in second hand bookstores in Perth and Melbourne and in op shops in Subiaco. This situation led to me reading one of my many long-held books, A Landing on the Sun (1991) by Michael Frayn, which I deliberately left out of the boxes in order to finally read it, and I’m pleased that I did. This novel didn’t end up as the best book of the year, however, that honour goes to what is considered to be a perfect novel, Stoner (1965) by John Williams. A beautiful, brilliant novel that everyone should read. Another great discovery was Paul Auster, an author I had long known about, but it took finding Leviathan (1992) in an op-shop for me to finally read him. Once again, thoroughly recommended. I also managed make progress in my Martin Amis project, with Money (1984) coming close to being my book of the year, and the short story collection, Einstein’s Monsters (1987) being a worthy read. I finally got around to reading one of the classics I’d long wanted to read, Childhood’s End (1953) by the great Arthur C. Clarke, which didn’t disappoint. City (1952) by Clifford D. Simak also falls under that classification.

Stoner - book of the year

It was great year for reading generally, with some great books resulting from the library book club; Our Evenings (2024) by Alan Hollinghurst, There are Rivers in the Sky (2024) by Elif Shafak and Stoner being notable examples. As aways there were some lesser books, with Dark Magus (2006) by Gregory Davis being the worst, a poorly written account of being Miles Davis oldest son, which was fascinating, but hamstrung by repetition and cliché. Stars in my Pocket like Grains of Sand (1984) by the eccentrically brilliant Samual R. Delany was a mild disappointment; it was complex and unique, but ultimately a bit pedestrian. Still, I’m pleased to have read it and the same can be said for many of the others I read in the last year, an adventure as always. This year promises a better organised personal library when I unpack all of my books and organise more shelving, you can’t just have piles of books balanced against walls in the corner of the room in a new house can you? Who knows what literary adventures await…?

Addenda: So, why a picture of Bowie on this post? Well, it's the ten year anniversary of his passing - 10th January 2016, he was a renowned lover of books and literature, a great lyricist and cultural mavin. Besides, I read a Bowie book this past year, We Could Be...Bowie and his Heroes (2021) by Tom Hagler, so that makes it legit!

Three Boys Gone - Mark Smith (2025)

 

Rating: Admirable

This is not going to be a typical book review, as, frankly, I’m just too knackered to concentrate on something like that. I’ve just spent the last two weeks (and it is ongoing) moving into my newly built home (a modern wooden Federation style weatherboard house). This involved lots of logistics, packing and then the actual shifting. Such is my dedication to physical media we moved forty-five boxes of books, twenty boxes of CDs and then packed, with the help of some friends, fifty-two boxes of vinyl records, which were then shifted by specialist removalists. Given it is also the end of the year (with all that December entails), and we are still setting up the new house, this will be brief.

Three Boys Gone is a library book club read and to make sure I was ready to lead the sessions I read it in advance, before all the house moving craziness begun. Therefore, I’m a bit hazy on the details, even though one of the meetings is today (I’ll fudge my way through if need be). The novel is the first adult fiction written by Mark Smith; he usually writes acclaimed YA fiction. It is a thriller about a school camping trip that goes terribly wrong. Whilst trekking along a remote beach three boys are separated from the main group and, for reasons never explained, run into the sea and are drowned. The teacher in charge, Grace Disher, is a witness, and as she decides to protect herself, she does not attempt to rescue them. The resulting outrage, hounding and bullying that follows makes for realistically harrowing reading. The novel is, in part, an examination of the pressures that can be brought to bear in our hyper-connected world. It is also a reasonably traditional thriller in that there is, of course, more to the story, typically leading to an extreme denouement. Three Boys Gone is quite well written, although Smith is not a great stylist, the writing is taut and impactful. Smith makes it easy to connect with Grace and her partner, Louise, who bear the brunt of the aftermath of the tragedy. If you are after a decent thriller written by an Australian author, then you could do far worse than Three Boys Gone. Now, it’s getting time to start unpacking those boxes of books, after I buy some more book shelves…

A Landing on the Sun - Michael Frayn (1991)

 

Rating: Excellent

This rather intriguing looking novel was gifted to me by my brother Barry, about twenty or more years ago for Christmas, and, of course, I have only just got around to reading it, which is all too typical of me. So, who is Michael Frayn? Frayn is an English novelist and playwright, as well as a reporter and columnist and A Landing on the Sun was the winner of the Sunday Express book of the year, which was quite a significant award at the time. The novel is certainly a fine piece of work. Frayn’s style is spare and restrained, nicely mirroring the civil service approach of main protagonist Brian Jessel, as he undertakes an investigation into the mysterious death of fellow civil servant Stephen Summerchild, who fell to his death from the Admiralty building. Set in the early seventies, the novel exudes old school public service sensibilities, something I appreciate, being a public servant myself. Jessel is a fantastic creation, a public servant through and through, following proper procedure, grimacing through his beard at the improprieties of both Summerchild and his colleague, academic (a philosopher) Elizabeth Serafin, as they undertake an investigation into ‘quality of life’, reporting directly to the Prime Minister. Summerchild and Serafin are a ‘strategy unit’, holed up in an obscure turret within the Admiralty building. Their very existence, let alone their subsequent philosophical investigations into the nature of happiness, represents an all too ironically funny and satirical skewering of bureaucracy.

Michael Frayn, contemplating civil service beards.

Jessel’s investigations into the events some fifteen years ago reads like a police procedural. Jessel reads their clumsy attempts at reports and listens to recordings of their discussions, slowly putting together the events leading to Summerchild’s eventual death. Jessel essentially relives their lives, following in their footsteps, sitting with pictures of them in the turret and in doing so reveals some aspects of his own life that set up intriguing insights into his own character, history and past connections with Summerchild. Without wasting a word Frayn develops a narrative that is various shades of melancholy, suffering, hope, regret, humour, with glimpses of happiness and optimism. A Landing on the Sun is unlike any other novel I’ve read previously, I’m not even sure who I could compare Frayn to, perhaps he exists in his own literary realm. It’s a beautiful book and very English, with a great London atmosphere of old buildings and laneways of dappled early evening light. Some readers may find the novel boring, but it is anything but, rather it rewards your attention and draws you into a very singular world. It’s difficult to say much more about it without giving away too much, except that, from the evidence of A Landing on the Sun, Frayn is a special and classy writer who, in his nineties, is still publishing work, the most recent being a memoir (Among Others: Friendships and Encounters (2023)). The novel was adapted by the author for a TV movie in 1994 that has a IMDB rating of 8.2 – worth a viewing then, if only to see the rarified world of the British civil service on the screen, with a frowning Jessel stoking his beard, which presents almost as a character in its own right in the novel. In fact his beard should have had its own spin-off novel, or at least a TV series of its own, now I'd like to see that.