FIRST GREAT READS FOR FEBRUARY, 2017
A Man Called Ove, by Fredrick Backman
Ove is fifty-nine years old and a grump. A curmudgeon (that quaint old term that
describes so many muttering, dissatisfied old men to a T), and as far as he’s
concerned he has a lot to be grumpy about – the state of today’s ‘modern’
Sweden, for instance: don’t tell him it’s not going to the dogs: why, absolutely everything these days is run
by men in White Shirts, bureaucrats without an ounce of humanity in them except
a love for their Rules and Regulations.
Overseas interests have taken over Swedish companies whose superior
craftsmanship was always a source of quiet pride for all, and Ove in particular. Take car manufacturer Saab for example: Ove swore by Saabs all his adult life,
changing models every two years – but only for another Saab. Now the AMERICANS have taken over Saab (this
occurred thirteen years ago, actually)
and Ove was so incensed that he has driven the same model ever since, the last
of the Saabs to be proudly manufactured in Sweden. It will last him till he dies.
And Ove wants to die as soon as possible, for it is six
months since his beloved wife Sonja’s death from cancer. Everything they shared together is over; nothing is important to him any more without
her support – even his rants about Men in White Shirts were tempered by her
loving tolerance. His life is
meaningless to him now, and he wants to end it.
His first attempt at suicide by hanging is foiled by a
rope that snaps (blankety-blank imported rubbish!) and a visit from his new
neighbours, a young couple with two little girls and a third one on the
way. Patrick is an IT consultant, a
confession which earns a glance of withering scorn from Ove, especially when Patrick
shows his lamentable lack of skill at backing a trailer (Ove’s mailbox will
never be the same again), and Parveneh is Iranian and too pregnant to devote
time to anything else but her family – and once she realises Ove’s intentions,
to preventing him from Doing the Deed.
For Ove, despite his irascibility and scorn for all
things foreign is a kind and honourable man, a man with an innate desire always
to Do the Right Thing, a man who will always battle the White-Shirted
Bureaucrats on behalf of those unable to do so themselves – in short, a rough
diamond; a friend and neighbour worth
having. Even a particularly mangy stray
cat thinks so too, and moves into Ove’s life and home as though it were his
right.
So. Ove has to
capitulate. Life has become too full of
people needing his help to think of making an early exit from this world, and
that is something that Ove has always been very good at: helping.
Sonja would be thrilled.
Fredrick Backman has written us a beautiful little story,
gentle and funny and encompassing life-changing events which in their very
ordinariness have a huge impact:
loneliness; grief and loss; inability to keep up with changing times and
trends – all of which can be counterbalanced by community support,
neighbourliness, friendship and familial love.
FIVE STARS
Conclave,
by Robert Harris
It is hard to imagine that such an event could provide
the basis of a thriller, but Robert Harris has done just that: his latest novel cannot be described any
other way, for it is as suspenseful and shocking – particularly at the end, as
it should be – as any thriller worthy of the name.
Mr Harris sets his plot in Rome a few years hence: the Holy Father has died of a heart attack
and, after the pomp and magnificence of his funeral obsequies have been
completed, it is time to convene all those eligible to select his
successor. Papal tradition must be
observed at all times: when the
cardinals are locked in the Sistine Chapel to vote they do so in absolute
secrecy; their voting papers and any
notes they make are burnt when they leave the chapel in the evening. A Papal Election must to be seen to be
utterly scrupulous and above reproach, one hundred and twenty of Catholicism’s
finest advocates voting according to God’s wishes.
Except that as the hours wear on, it becomes clear that
there are men of ambition hiding behind piety and humility – Jacobo Lomeli,
Dean of the College of Cardinals and Convenor of each increasingly tense
meeting in the Sistine Chapel is appalled to discover that the whole process is
just as riven with factions, innuendo and scandal as any secular election. He is a good man – and an honest one as he
admits that the late Holy Father would not accept his resignation from office
‘because we need managers’. He feels
slighted. Surely his religious career of
more than fifty years has elevated him into higher realms than a
‘manager’. Nevertheless, he decides to
make the best possible job of ‘managing’ the selection of the next Pope, but is
not above allowing himself a cynical smirk as he reviews the front-running
candidates:
The current Camerlengo
(Chamberlain) of the Holy See, Cardinal Joseph Tremblay, a French-Canadian very
conscious of his film-star looks and perfectly coiffed silvery hair; Cardinal Joshua Ayedemi, a mighty Nigerian with
a powerful physique and a bass-baritone voice to match, and the African
continent’s great hope to be the first black Pope, and Lomeli’s own personal
preference, Cardinal Aldo Bellini, Secretary of State. Lomeli prays fervently that the right man
will be chosen for the huge task of leading the Church and more than a billion
Catholics with courage and honesty, but as voting progresses and stalemates
occur it becomes plain that God is not going to make the choice easy for the
118 cardinals.
An added complication is the late arrival of a mysterious
Filipino cardinal appointed secretly by the late Pope: Cardinal Vincent Benitez, Archbishop of
Baghdad is unknown to everyone, but his credentials are impeccable; he has as much right to vote – and be
considered for Pontiff – as every other man in the room. It appears that the Late Holy Father is
controlling events even beyond the grave, especially when Lomeli starts
reluctantly investigating scandalous rumours connected to various candidates
and is horrified at what he finds: the
love of God comes a poor second to the love of power.
Mr Harris propelled
me at lightning speed through the twists and turns of his masterly plot; the grandeur of St Peter’s, great bastion of
Christendom has never been more eloquently portrayed and his characters are all
too recognisable for the men they are, rather than the paragons they desire to
be. FIVE STARS
I Am Pilgrim, by Terry Hayes
Mr Hayes’s debut novel was first published in 2013, so
you can consider this an oldie, easily accessible in our library – I heard
about it from a dear friend who raced through it, and is still thinking about
it weeks later. Could any book have a
higher recommendation: word-of-mouth is still the best publicity. My only regret is that someone didn’t
word-of-mouth me aaaages ago; I am
feeling pretty ashamed of my ignorance up until now of this great thriller but
– better late than never, so there!
Mr Hayes has had a stellar career as a journalist and
screenwriter; now he has turned his hand
to The Big One, that which every aspiring writer dreams of: The Novel.
And what a mighty job he has done;
his story is huge in every way, upwards of 900 pages (you’ll have to
have strong wrists!), mighty in scope and bursting with characters so colourful
and some so deadly that readers will feel that they have been smacked around
the ears on every page. And, in light of
events in today’s unhappy world, Mr Hayes’s plot is entirely topical.
Scott Murdoch is a retired intelligence agent. He is not a happy man; his work (some of it necessarily violent and
fatal to enemies of the U.S.A.) has burnt him out and he has settled in Paris
in his attempts to bring normalcy to his life.
He is the adopted son of a very rich couple who have since died – his
adoptive father loved him, but his ‘mum’ didn’t; regardless, he can still live comfortably and
pretend to be ordinary. Until a New York
Police Lieutenant finds out where he lives and pays him a visit – even though
Scott has put up multi-firewalls of names and disguises in his efforts to
remain anonymous, this man has FOUND HIM.
And he has been found because a few years before, he
wrote a book under a pseudonym (naturally) about criminal behaviour, the
various crimes he had encountered, and how they had been solved. Now, the police lieutenant informs him, it
appears that his little book has been used as a textbook to aid in the
execution of an insoluble murder.
Scott’s expertise is required back in New York. ASAP.
Meantime, a parallel life is being lived: a teenage boy’s father, a marine biologist,
is publically executed in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia for criticising the Royal family
– a capital offence. The boy and his
family become outcasts and are forced to live in Bahrain, where they are not
known. The boy, now fifteen, is head of
his family as is the Muslim way, and he is deeply shocked and furious when he
discovers that his mother has taken a job, and no longer wears the veil. His local mosque sends him off the
Afghanistan to fight the Soviets; his
grief and fury solidify into a burning hatred for all things Western,
especially as the Westerners prop up the corrupt Saudi Royals: as the Saracen he will plot a fitting revenge
against the Sauds; he will exterminate
them! Until he meets a woman who tells
him to concentrate on ‘The Far Enemy’, the United States, for they are the
supporter of the Near Enemy, Saudi Arabia.
A terrible, ingenious plan is born – vengeance of the
worst, the sweetest kind, and all sanctioned by Allah, Praised be His Name.
The plot is predictable only in that it is inevitable
that Scott and the Saracen must meet, but how Mr Hayes gets us there is a
tribute to his great gift as a master storyteller: at no time does the reader feel that the
action overtakes realism and logic, for so much has happened in the world since
this book was published (and there’s going to be a movie, too!) that Scott’s
adventures seem not the stuff of legend, but hard, cold fact. FIVE STARS.
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