A Travel Book, Murder Mystery and Historical Account

Three books in a row left our crowd of noble literary voyagers rather cold and this bold companion lays the blame firmly in the hands of the creator.

Dark Star Safari, Sin: Pride

Africa is an incredibly suitable subject for Paul Thereoux, the massive, wild origin of humanity, where the vast resources are slowly siphoned off by the Vikings progeny and returned in the form of small parcels of food to keep people just about alive some of the time, is a great subject to rant on and on and on about. And his rants are on occasion, poignant, thoughtful and important. Thing is, Thereoux's ego is so unbelievably massive that it can barely be contained on the pages with the already heavy subject-matter. He seeps through the individuals described, through the utter hopelessness of it all and it left me so utterly uninterested that I found myself unable to complete reading the book. Its all about him, all about his feelings and his experiences and his utter contempt for anything that seems to disagree with him, I wanted to punch him, or for him to die, or for some horrific accident to hurt him terribly, perhaps extreme but let us be clear, he is a fucking wanker.

The Chimney Sweeper's Boy, Sin: Greed

Barbara Vine on the other hand, produced a technically excellent little mystery thing that is quite satisfying and interesting. You just kept feeling she was trying so hard to create something "good" that in the end it just seemed forced. Too many symbols spoil the plot and this text is so overflowing with symbols, subtle literary devices and pointless character development that its a surprise the central story-arc remains quite strong. Perhaps blaming the author is harsh as she constructed something very enjoyable, but one feels the opportunity to create something great is spoiled by over-cooking.

The Surgeon of Crowthorne, Sin: Envy

Finally, Simon Winchester's historical account told a fascinating story very competently. Winnie plays the game with a spring to his prose and an interesting format, comparing and contrasting two of the major writers of the Oxford Dictionary as well as describing the general origins of the book. His crime is the rather bizarre building of tension that is more reminicent of a work of historical fiction than non-fiction. It is almost as if Winchester wants to be writing fiction but finds himself hemmed in by the restrictions of the actual history. After a while, interest in the facts fade away and you are faced with a potted history of a pointless book and lets be clear, no one ever really convinced me of the value of this universal definition book, other than to ruin lives and give the criminally insane something to do. The oddly perverse climax is not really a climax at all, its just another little tragedy in the life of a man who is beyond much help. Non-fiction is not the appropriate route to address this story, it is begging for narrative invention to allow for a nice, binding central arc that can evoke that oh, so crucial, cathartic satisfaction. An interesting account but nothing approximating the literary greatness that Popular Penguins should be all about.

So there we have three authors who produced something interesting but failed to produce something great. Next up, an author who failed but in a much more magnificent way. The real question has to be put: considering the number of wonderful books in the world, why is it this stupid Popular Penguins list is filled with such average examples of the English novel.