In the Heart of the Sea by Nathaniel Philbrick

I have never read Moby Dick, and to enjoy Nathaniel’s Philbrick account of the fate of the Essex whaleship and its crew you don’t really need to.

In the Heart of the Sea is a fact-brimming narrative of the fascinating and gruesome true story which eventually inspired Herman Melville to pen his entry in to the literary canon.

Harpoons on display at the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford

At the time, the news of Captain Pollard and his crew’s fate shocked whaling ports and the story quickly became one of the most notorious maritime legends of history.

In the comfort of my own home, surrounded by the festive treats Christmas had to offer, I found Philbrick’s rendition both harrowing and incredible. In fact, I did feel a little guilty devouring pages which eventually revealed the crew’s gradual starvation in between my bouts of assorted chocolates, mincepies, turkey and whateverIcouldstuffinmygob binges, but in my defence the book is really really good.

In 238 pages Nathaniel Philbrick manages to pack in a thoroughly researched history, not only what happened to the Essex but of the character of the crew, the extreme perils of their work, the community they grew up in and the legacy they left behind.

Philbrick begins with an in-depth chapter on Nantucket, the home port of the doomed whaleship. This small island off Cape Cod, Massachusetts, was the centre of the whale-oil industry in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Those with sway in this tight-knit Quaker community were descended from the whalers-dynasty. Philbrick litters the passages with interesting and funny facts about the nature of these townspeople. For instance the young Nantucket women formed secret clubs, scheming marriage alliances with whaling men they would not see for years on end.

When a whaling ship set sail on its voyage it was an occasion for the whole settlement. Omens, folklore and superstitions often foreshadowed the outcome of the expedition for many. The departure was a moment of pride for the Nantucket families and a display of sailing prowess. When the town waved goodbye to the Essex in August, 1819, little did they know they were saying goodbye for the last time.

Even if you do not particularly enjoy non-fiction I can guarantee you will find this particular seafaring yarn captivating and you may even remember some interesting whaling facts for next Christmas.

Slade House by David Mitchell

To quote one character in David Mitchell’s latest offering, “Tonight feels like a board game co-designed by M.C. Escher on a bender and Stephen King in a fever”.*

Slade House, the published result of Twitter serialisation, is the tale of evening which occurs every nine years; a guest is invited to Slade House, for what purpose they are unsure.

I haven’t read Bone Clocks, so any relation this book has to the plot went over my head. However, as a contained short story, published on the approach to Halloween, Slade House is both a satisfying chilling and hilarious read. Plus, it served as a nice break from the 800 page whoopers I have been tasking myself with this year.

The mystery of the house I will leave unspoiled. What I will say is that there were parts which filled me with a slight unease. What I’ve always enjoyed in horror, is not what is finally revealed to be behind the door but the slow intake of breath the character makes before turning the door handle. Mitchell delivers expertly in this regard. He also delivers an eclectic group of voices with such fantastic clarity it makes me wonder if he has several personalities rattling around in his brain. He probably does.

The book starts with the grammar, worries and funny observations of a young English boy. Statements containing juvenile classics such as “poo” and “willy” had me unashamedly laughing and then pointing out to others so they could laugh too.

Slade House also has moments of poetry. On page 142 Mitchell makes the “unloved flats of the sixties”, “gasworks” and the “tarmac-grey clouds” hanging over them sound like verse.

With decades of architecture, hairstyles, music and politics to play with, David Mitchell has fun with Slade House and also creates something which may be later serve as an ode to the 21^st century psyche.

*How he can fit such range and imagination in 140 characters is slightly baffling.

The Loney by Andrew Michael Hurley

The Loney was a perfect read during the time when a chill in the air catches your breath, pumpkins and all sorts of witchy goodies are on sale in the supermarket and you feel the sudden urge to watch a horror film. If you haven’t got this book already, go out and get it.

Have you ever noticed that the outline at the Britain looks like a witch riding a pig? Next time you look at a map take a closer look. The Loney is set in a strange netherworld right on the witch’s throat or as Andrew Michael Hurley describes it a “strange nowhere between the Wyre and the Lune”.

The opening pages are ode to this desolate and unforgiving landscape. A place where “unlucky fishermen” drown and wash up later, “with green faces and skin like lint”.

There is something in the language of the coast that sounds foreign, poetic and in some cases eerie. Hurley uses this treasure trove to his advantage. The prose is packed full of words like – “scrimshaw”, “tundra”,” boggart” or “causeway”. Even the names of birds sound unsettling – “curlews” “jackdaws” or “gull”.

The tale recounts memories of an annual Pilgrimage made by a London parish of St Jude to this area of Lancashire.

When mixed with themes of Catholic faith and damnation, this fictional debut opens a dark cavernous space where the tide of imagination can flow into. A description of a painting of Hell in a village church on page 136 is counted among the passages that I will later revisit.

The plot is simple. It is Hurley’s writing style that builds the tension expertly, until you turn a page and a jolt of fear forces you to put the book down and put something funny on the telly.

The Girl in the Spider's Web by David Lagercrantz

I once attended a lecture by an author who opened with the line “While I was writing this book I knew it would be made into a film.”  

Unfortunately this sentence echoed in my mind while I was reading The Girl in Spider’s Web by David Lagercrantz. I feel this book was produced to capitalise on the fervour for the Millennium series, and despite its well-written composition, I see it as little more than a cash-cow.  

The characters who I had come to know under Stieg Larsson’s pen felt strange and soulless in David Lagercrantz’s rendition. The names Salander and Blomkvist were inserted like brand names into manufactured copy and lacked the danger the original penman was capable of creating.

With that said I’m sure it will make a satisfactory popcorn movie. 

Alongside the drawbacks of the final product, the whole Stieg Larsson backstory has helped me reach this conclusion. 

Steig Larsson was a very interesting man. His CV lists a year in Eritrean, training a squad of female guerrillas, and counts job roles such the president of a Swedish science-fiction fan club and co-founder of the investigative magazine Expo.

I hope one day to read his biography written by his life-long partner Eva Gabrielsson, who is currently battling for rights over Larsson’s literary legacy. There was no legal will left by Stieg Larsson, so by default his estate, including the Millennium unpublished manuscripts, went to his estranged father and brother. This is still a contested issue as settlement with Eva Gabrielsson doesn’t appear to have yet been made.

The jury is still out and the general reading public may never know the details of the case (as it is a personal matter I don’t think they should). However David Lagercrantz’s Acknowledgements thanking the father and brother was enough for me to make up my mind. I’m sure they are comforted with the sales figures anyway.

Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig

After reaching to finishing line of Wolf Hall and recently completing The Luminaries, I wanted a break. I wanted to read a classic, perhaps something of its time rather than a pastiche of a much-loved era.

Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig with its ill-fated Austrian author and its historical context seemed like the perfect book for me - plus I had watched Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel earlier in the week.

The foreword by Nicholas Lezard in this particular edition was the perfect introduction to the book and supplied much hype to the story - which by the way is encased by a frame narration (one of the things Wes Andersson borrowed for his film). 

The story itself is a tale of emotional blackmail and provides so much ammo for a Freud/Nietzsche workshop I could hear the literary theory critics jumping with glee.

Hofmiller, a young cavalry officer, makes a social faux-pas when he is invited to the mansion of a rich estate-owner. He upsets the disabled daughter of his host by asking her to dance and a series of events unfold which ‘ties’ the young man to the family.

The book is a story of agency, military indoctrination and a satire on the social protocols of the time. There are some farcical treats in Stefan Zweig writing which had me laughing and pointed to why Wes Andersson was attracted to the author’s work.

However, I must say I found the character of Edith, the “crippled”* daughter, very annoying.

One of the things I detest in any literature from a bygone era is hysterical female characters – you know the type who faint, cry, shriek or tremble and can’t pull themselves out of their emotional dilemma and basically get a grip.

Unfortunately Edith in her melodramatic ways did quite a lot of this which promoted me to commit the cardinal sin of skipping some pages until she had left the scene.

The Translater’s Afterword although was very interesting and provided an interesting reflection on Beware of Pity’s historical relevance. 

*I also don’t like the use of the word “crippled” to describe characters who are in some way handicapped.