Jill Dawson, Gerard Woodward and James Smythe

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'for adults only'

Nourishment
by Gerard Woodward

Gerard Woodward has made life very tough for himself. I'll Go To Bed At Noon, the second book in his trilogy about the Jones family, is quite simply magnificent and should probably have won the Booker Prize in 2004 (there's a baited hook for you). The trilogy as a whole was an incredibly rewarding read for me, set as it is in the area of London I lived in for over a decade. How to follow that success? After the publication of a collection of short stories, Caravan Thieves, comes his latest novel. With the Booker longlist already announced and Woodward's name absent it's tempting to say that he's been a little hard done by once again. Nourishment may not be quite up there with IGTBAN but it is a rewarding, entertaining and surprising read that always feels original thanks to the unique directions in which Woodward is prepared to steer his characters.

Things start with a bang, or in the aftermath of one, with the sternly titled Mrs Head on her errands and greeted by a scene of devastation where the butchers should be. Her fractious relationship with Dando the butcher (this is the era of WWII and rationing after all) cut short by a particularly heavy air-raid. Amongst the rubble she begins to spot remnants of his wares: a rasher of bacon here, a flattened sausage there, and even evidence of the steak that he claimed not to have in stock -  a veritable 'tableau of exposed meat' amongst which she spots 'an almost perfect leg of pork' that is swiftly appropriated and taken home for a rare roast dinner. She is living in the house of her daughter, Tory Pace, ostensibly to help out whilst Tory's husband remains a POW and her children evacuated to the safety of the countryside. This opening section leads up to the celebratory dinner on Tory's return from her work at the gelatin factory ('no one denied the importance of gelatin production in the war effort, though no one quite understood it either'), the language licking its lips in anticipation.

Mrs Head inserted the tines of a carving fork into the meat.  The crackling crackled, juice bubbled up and flowed down. The knife was put against the roasted skin, a few cautious strokes were made, the sharpened edge moving against the hard skin, which yielded nothing. Then suddenly, with a little pressure, she was through; the skin had broken and the meat was coming away under the knife. With a few strokes a slice had been produced, which flopped to the side, like the page of a book turning.

But Woodward knows how to turn something on its head and it is Tory who voices her concern about tucking in to meat of dubious provenance particularly with Mr Dando still missing. Any author who manages to introduce cannibalism as a comic scene in a wartime drama demands attention and it is just one example of the ways in which he confounds expectation, making light of serious topics so that an impish spirit dictates the novel's tone. Tory is his central character and there are elements that make her an admirable heroine. Having been caught in a kind of limbo whilst awaiting news of her missing husband, a letter in his handwriting finally arrives confirming he is a POW but it is the letter's contents that cause her a real shock.

Tory felt as though she had frozen into a solid lump...the letter hanging in her hand like the shred of a burst balloon...She was experiencing no emotion, apart from a distant sense of panic, such as she sometimes felt on a railway platform when gripped by the absurd thought that the innocent old lady behind her might push her into the path of the express.

Her husband Donald has asked for her to write a dirty letter by return of post, the dirtier the better, a request that shocks, confuses and embarrasses her. Has he lost his mind, been perverted by Nazis, or should she see her compliance simply as part of her wifely duties and his conjugal rights (albeit through the medium of inspected and censored post)? As the title of the novel suggests, Donald appeals for the letters as he might for sustenance, 'I need it as much as I need food and drink and I am a starving man, Tory', playing on Tory's concern and guilt so that he can seem to be a moral man even as he asks for smut 'out of a strong sense that my survival as a man depends on it.' When Tory makes her first tentative attempt, struggling even to compose a sentence that mentions her 'behind' Donald's response is forthright: 'NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!' Her humiliation now 'official and international' Tory strives to improve but struggles in the face of their own lovemaking, whose memory 'only conjures words like "sweaty, rough, friction, grease"'

She did remember thinking on one of the first occasions that they'd done it, how he treated her like an awkward corner of a room that needed sanding and papering. Examining her closely, brushing her skin with his lips, then blowing, as if to remove shavings, or dust. Then re-examining her, his brows knotted, frowning, as though she was such an awkward, difficult thing. A problem. Then he was sanding her down again, brushing her off.

When she begins a closer relationship with George Farraway, the boss of the gelatin factory it is no surprise where the plot is heading. Donald's constant begging for Tory to be bad 'made it somehow easier for her to actually be bad.' and she feels no guilt as she begins an affair with a man who rather handily likes to talk his way through the act, teaching Tory the language of carnal desire and allowing her to launch 'a spring offensive of sexual narrative'

...she had let him have the whole artillery of sexual expression full in the face, the dirty words falling like dirty bombs square on that little hut in the middle of a German forest.

This might be quite enough to be getting on with you might think but the novel is packed full of plot and incident, much of which happens after Donald returns at the end of the war and Tory has to face up to the legacy of her own wartime experience. What stops the book from tipping over completely into melodrama or soap-opera is a lightness of touch that Woodward employs in two ways. Firstly it allows him, as with the cannibalism, to inject humour where there oughtn't to be any, a bittersweet comedy that encourages us to laugh with complicity even at moments of high drama. But what it also allows him to do is to deceive with lightness, to drop almost silent bombshells, moments of devastation that arrive without warning. One of the novel's more enigmatic characters, their intelligent son Tom, intrigues with his conviction that the home and mother he has returned to are not the originals but impostors.

"Whose to say what governments get up to in wartime?" He said, "We're just pawns, Branson, little pieces in a giant chess game. I bet the government did this all the time, rebuilt the bombed houses, replaced the dead with lookalikes, so the Germans would think their bombs were having no effect, so that neighbours and families weren't demoralized by the loss of neighbourhoods and loved ones... The Germans must have thought their bombs were just swallowed up by the city, as though they'd dropped them into a pool of syrup."

A quick word too about the overarching theme and the novel's title. Woodward looks at various forms of nourishment: the food shortages at home, the parcels sent to prisoners, the dreams of George, who sees the future of food in the pills he has developed as a side project from the rendering of animal carcasses. There is also the spiritual nourishment slyly appropriated by Donald and more accurately represented by Tory's purchase of a typewriter and her work on a fictional account of her experiences. The independence and control she gains from the creation of her fictional alter-ego not only helps to counteract her moral shortcomings but also serves as a weapon in the face of Donald's villainous development (his motivations and eventual use for Tory's letters turn out to be far from honourable). By taking a far more roundabout route Woodward's novel is a greater testament to the power of letter writing than Nicola Barker's recent epistolary novel, Burley Cross Postbox Theft, was and whilst it might not quite hold water at times anyone already familiar with Woodward's writing will be used to his rug-pulling antics. If you read a more enjoyable novel this year that combines cannibalism, starvation, self-immolation and public conveniences then I won't just be surprised, I'll be expecting you to come back here and tell me what it's called.

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Books of the decade

Everyone else seems to be doing it, from newspapers to bloggers, so why shouldn't I? Well, because I have a terrible memory for one thing! What was my favourite book of 2001? I don't know, that was years ago now, I've got married and had two kids since then, I'm lucky I can remember everyone's birthdays and our anniversary. This of course is what the Internet is made for, so with the help of that search box and various references I have assembled my picks of the last decade. I decided to restrict myself to picking a single book for each year, and had to have been published that year, which immediately became problematic as 2000 saw the publication of several standout novels for me and I found it very hard to pick one amongst them. This problem repeated itself a couple of times and I also experienced the opposite effect when I struggled to pick anything as truly brilliant in 2003 (please feel free to point out your own) A special mention therefore goes to The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay(2000) by Michael Chabon which is one of the reasons why I began this blog in the first place. A favourite book, I gave it to my wife to read and asked her one evening how it was going, where she'd got to. 'He's just walking across the Arctic with his dog.' My inability to recall something even as obvious as that told me that I may have been reading plenty of books at the time, and enjoying them, but I certainly wasn't retaining enough of what I read. By committing myself to writing a review afterwards, and therefore having to make the odd note along the way, I felt I could train myself to be a better reader. I hope it's working. I don't claim to be in any kind of position to pronounce what books were the 'best', but what follows might be more accurately described as a list of the ones that stood out for me then and still do now: The books that say something about my journey through fiction and my maturation as a reader.

2000 - House of Leaves by Mark Z Danielewski

The only book I can think of that has actually terrified me whilst reading it, Danielewski's extraordinary début is notable for several reasons. First as an object: the beautiful patterned boards and excellent quality of the US edition make it a joy to hold and read and the various versions of the first edition as listed on the copyright page mean that colour makes its way into the text of a book which is as inventive typographically as it is stylistically. We begin by reading the account of Johnny Truant who moves into the apartment of the recently deceased Zampano and discovers a manuscript written by him about a film called The Navisdson Record. Will Navidson, a photojournalist, had discovered, whilst making a simple survey of his house, that the inside measurements seem to be just slightly larger than the outside. This leads to a journey as epic and terrifying as you can imagine happening within four walls and the book is made up of description of the film footage, interviews, interjections, footnotes, letters, the text changing font and construction so that the reader is left disorientated and hopefully scared shitless. I've read a couple of books since which have attempted to do something similar but neither of them came close to this, a true original.

2001 - Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid On Earth by Chris Ware

I recently re-read this graphic novel to see if it was still as good as I though it was in memory. It was, and then some. You can read that review here but the reason why this book is on the list is because it showed me what graphic fiction could be capable of. Taking his inspiration from his own life and his own non-existent relationship with his father Ware's book is a beautiful, decorative, inventive and moving account of the struggles of one family to relate to each other through the generations. The artwork is visually satisfying with many hidden wonders along the way and it is one of the few books that has a dust jacket which can hold your attention for a good period of time before you get on with the book itself. A gem.

2002 - If Nobody Speaks Of Remarkable Things by Jon McGregor

I read this book in something close to a single sitting, becoming completely hypnotised by the rhythm of McGregor's writing and utterly mesmerized by its distinctive style style. Several hours later, as I tearily closed the final pages, I knew this was a book that I wanted other people to read so that we could enthuse about it together. I was a little disappointed when some that I had gifted a copy weren't quite as a sold on it as me, put off by the 'tricksiness' of the writing, but it hasn't dimmed my own enthusiasm. It is true that McGregor's debut has a distinctive style, characters are never referred to by name, only as 'the man with burned hands', or 'the boy with the pierced eyebrow' but after a while it seems no stranger than them being called Bob or Kevin and there often feels as though there is something totemic about their distinctions. The action of a single day assumes huge significance for these characters who all have a past, whose present moment is our focus for the duration of the book and whose future I still wonder about.

2003 - Things You Should Know by A.M. Homes

So the bogey year I mentioned and I know that there were plenty of fine books published this year (Richard Power's The Time Of Our Singing and John Gray's Straw Dogs for example) but with books like Curious Incident... and Vernon God Little making the headlines were there any that really compared to some of the others on this list. One book that really made an impact on me and sent me trawling after her entire back catalogue was this collection of stories from A M Homes. Up until reading this collection I had never really got on with shorter fiction, I didn't really get it, but something about Homes' humour, darkness and inventiveness chimed nicely and it has since opened up a little door in my mind that begins to appreciate the possibilities of the short story. From the twisted logic of the woman who waits among the sand dunes to collect the discarded condoms from the local lifeguards' sexual conquests in order to impregnate herself to the touching portrait of Nancy Reagan coping with her husband's deteriorating mental state this is a collection as odd as the composite creature on its front cover. That examination of her previous books showed more dark delights the most controversial of which was The End Of Alice, in which a young woman who plans to seduce a 12 year old boy conducts a correspondence with a jailed paedophile and murderer. If you want a challenging read then this might be the book for you.

2004 - I’ll Go To Bed At Noon by Gerard Woodward

This is easily the best of Woodward's trilogy of books featuring the Jones family in the part of north London I lived in for over a decade. There is something very personal and direct about reading a book which features locations that you know like the back of your own hand and to meet characters so skilfully created by their author that they seem as real as the people you see yourself in the street makes the achievement of this book even more astonishing. This book stands on its own but is obviously enhanced by the two that stand either side of it, the time spent with the Joneses through their tumultuous family history was both funny, sad, painful and heart-warming in a way that only a brilliantly observed and detailed novel could be. Never have I wanted to spend so much time with such a dysfunctional family.

2005 - A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry

As I have mentioned here before I wept like a child when I reached the final pages of this stunning novel. My review of it is here but in short this is a book that could have (should have?) won the Booker that year, a book which follows a young Irishman as he makes his way to the battlefields of Europe, to make something of himself whilst back at home the nation he is supposedly fighting for is tearing itself apart. Barry's prose is never less than easy to enjoy, often achieving a lyricism and beauty that is in contrast to the devastation and horror of what is being described. Having now read some more of his novels, which use the same strands of characters, I feel that I know even more about the few families he has chosen to focus on and as a a result, a much clearer view of the wider picture. His mastery of plotting and structure mean that an emotional punch to the gut is always delivered with the force that is hard to counter. If you don't weep at the end of this too then, well, I'm sorry.

2006 - The Road by Cormac McCarthy

A friend of mine bought this recently as their third pick in a 3 for 2 on the advice of someone else. Knowing that I was a reader they asked me whether it was any good. Without thinking about what I was saying I assured him that it was quite simply one of the best books ever written, and once I had given voice to that sentence I realised that that was exactly what I thought (my original review is here). My original review is here and its title is one of the reasons why this book is so powerful. Living in a modern world we seldom have to deal with any of the machinations that make our lives so comfortable. Take away society, civilisation and progress, throw mankind back into a situation where it's survival of the fittest and you engage with what it really means to be human. Our current grapple with the topic of climate change only makes the book more relevant today but its universal themes mean that the nature of the apocalypse isn't important. I read this book in a single sitting, it's very hard not to, so compelling and primal is it, and I am convinced that it will still be being read by our descendants hundreds of years into the future. If we make it that far.

2007 - Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson

The Great American Novel is a phrase, an idea, an emblem, that is so overused as to be virtually worthless. So many different types of book have been given the appellation, often all encompassing tomes that supposedly encapsulate the 'American' experience neatly and totally. It seems to me that the great American novel should really be a messy and catastrophic affair in order to truthfully reflect that experience and Denis Johnson's magnum opus deals with the Vietnam War in a way that seems entirely appropriate for a conflict so damaging to those American ideals, a conflict which they have arguably never recovered from. My father, a fellow Jonhnson fan, which in this country particularly, makes us part of a very small club, created an extraordinary 'map' to aid his reading of this vast novel, to help him keep track of characters and themes (as mentioned in the blogosphere). That's how bonkers this book is. It isn't easy, it isn't neat, but it is extraordinary. My original review is here.


2008 - Our Story Begins - Tobias Wolff

This was a bit of a toughy as I had picked Darkmans by Nicola Barker before I realised that it had actually been published the year before. Picking from the other books eligible was no mean feat. My reason for picking Wolff's collected stories is because having been tempted by the short form by AM Homes I then read stories by some of its masters: Chekhov, Cheever, Carver and more. Wolff is another of those and this book shows how it can really be done. Twenty one previously published stories are joined by ten new pieces, all of which show his amazing way with dialogue, the straight course he steers through his work by incorporating morality and his surprising inventiveness. What's particularly impressive is the variety. He doesn't have a fixed technique or style, he doesn't focus on a particular type of person or environment and he never, ever makes you feel like he's playing a trick or being quirky. Original review here.

2009 - Lark and Termite by Jayne Anne Phillips

Picking a book of the decade from this year is tough simply because of the inability to use hindsight, it seems too soon to take one of my recent reads and slap a rosette on its cover. Perhaps it is because of this that the book that still sticks in my mind is one that I read much earlier in the year, or perhaps it is in spite of the passage of that time that I can't get it out of my head. With a nod to Faulkner Phillips' multi-stranded novel follows a US soldier in Korea in 1950, holed up in a tunnel after coming under friendly fire (this real incident has been well researched and, even better, well presented - the research worn lightly). Then in 1959 back in the US we meet the eponymous half-siblings, Termite a mute, his sections allowing Phillips to flex her stylistic muscles. She goes beyond that though, audaciously connecting the various threads of her story so that they transcend time or location coming together in writing that reaches something close to rapture. Original review here.

I can't just leave it there because one of my favourite books ever isn't on the list. This is because Cormac McCarthy had the nerve to write a genuine masterpiece in the same year that his namesake Tom McCarthy wrote the quite brilliant Remainder. A book so concerned with the notion of authenticity is tailor made for a professional faker like me but it is a book which should appeal to a broad readership for all sorts of reasons. Clever without being a smart-arsey, arty without being wanky, it is the kind of book that makes your head feel like someone's got in there and done some spring-cleaning. The prose manages to be clinical and sensual at the same time, each of the five senses becomes hugely important as the hero attempts to piece together what he can remember of his life before 'the accident'. It has the pace of a thriller, the intelligence of something altogether more philosophical and an artistic sentiment that made me feel as if the book in my hand was the coolest thing in the world. When was the last time a book felt cool? Despite it not being on the list above, if I had to pick a book which not only made an impact on me but in some way defined the past decade, this would be the one. Let one McCarthy take that honour and the other something a little grander.

And now, over to you...

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