Mao’s Great Famine – Frank Dikotter

By its very nature this examination of The Great Leap Forward and the unnecessary deaths of some 45 million people (conservative estimate) is not an easy read either in style or substance. The professor has delved into thousands of archive documents and laid out, almost blow by blow, the utter devastation Mao Zedong and the Chinese Communist Party unleashed on the citizens of the world’s most populous nation between 1958 and 1962. There are boring but important chapters on trade, economics, and politics before Dikotter tells us just how people resorted to theft, abandoning children, prostitution and cannibalism. If one day Mao is mentioned in the same breath as Hitler and Stalin (and it’s quite probable that once archives from the Cultural Revolution become available we’ll find out his death toll will overshadow theirs) then this book will be partly responsible. While it is as engagingly and deftly written as it probably can be while still giving a mass of statistics and detailing complex political backgrounds, be warned that this is not a particularly easy to get through. It has won awards and wide-spread praise, but its true value lies in its scholarship and historical investigation. But it is worth persevering with. Parts of it are truly compelling and dispiriting, particularly where personal examples are used to illustrate the disaster. Parts of it are almost lists of how many million tonnes of grain or pork were taken by the state, and in those passages the numbers verge on the bamboozling. Overall the effect is a powerful deconstruction of the tragedy and Mao’s central role in it.

Hitch-22 – Christopher Hitchens

There may not be much to say about Hitch-22 or Hitchens that hasn’t already been said, but let’s say it anyway. The new edition has a fresh preface since his cancer diagnosis and the start of treatment, and is the one to get. Reading the early chapters (again, because I’d glanced at them in bookstores while hanging out for an updated/cheaper version before purchasing) is coloured by the news the controversial author/columnist/hack has advanced cancer and nearly died in January. That fresh piece of writing seems as lucid as ever, and he insists the experience has only confirmed his view rather than called them into question. Hitch-22 does seem to mirror its author authentically, it is by turns charming, cantankerous, witty, self-deprecating and a show-off to the point that it becomes a turn-off. But then, I wouldn’t have it be any other way. I think I still prefer god is not great, but only by a fraction.

The greatest difficulty of this book is knowing exactly where to put it in the bookcase. It is not strictly fiction. Dame Edna has taken on a life of her own and overshadowed her creator for decades. In some ways you read this truly sensing Humphries is getting his vengeance on a creation that has actually overtaken his life. His other, considerable, talents as an actor and writer have been sadly overlooked by those who dismiss him as “that guy who dresses as Edna”. His prose, which I adored in My Life As Me, is as lively and deft as ever here, and his satirical eye as sharp when applied to himself as any other subject in the book, be it Australia, sexuality, Hollywood agents, or his mother. He skewers the evolution of business-speak and jargon such as “wellness” and “in a very real sense” and changes in fashion, design and gastronomy. He will give glorious details about the canned soup served in Melbourne restaurants in the 1960s, the “continental” addition of cretins (croutons) in later years, and how Enda has “always” favoured semi-dried tomatoes even though their discovery in Australia is newer than parts of her wardrobe. His eye will even give us descriptions of the changing colour palette, from aquamarine to mushroom and soon to be replaced by avocado. His descriptions of Edna’s outfits include the sort of minute details that show the man has spent perhaps a bit too much time thinking about dresses.

This sentence stabs close to the heart of the book’s point: “Safely 13,000 miles away in Melbourne, Edna would never know that I was plagiarising her material in a London nightclub, and like all plagiarists past and present I could always call it an homage, if I was ever found out.” It is not a completely serious attempt by Barry Humphries to divorce himself from the monstrous, profane and much-loved Edna, after all he has mined Edna’s career and family for laughs. There is a grudging recognition, between the entertaining and strident streaks of vitriol, that Humphries has occasionally liked Edna.

Eric Idle, in his wonderful essay on comedy that is disguised as the novel The Road to Mars (fantastic book, by the way: not perfect, but I loved it), explained how comedians could essentially be divided into the categories of the controlling white face versus the chaotic red nose, a concept that dates back to commedia dell’atre. Without getting bogged down in the detail, Barry Humphries is the white face, and Dame Edna is the red nose. She is a clown. Right to the end. Thus, she can say tactless, provocative and, frankly, funny things like “My son Kenny is a poofter, what have I done to deserve this?” She highlights and exploits our prejudices and hypocricies, and has been entertaining and disturbing audiences for decades doing so.

But, reading Handling Edna, it should never be forgotten that Barry Humphries is a clown in his own right. And damn fine one, too.

Stephen Fry. Cynosure, I'm sure.

Congenital confabulator Stephen Fry’s second autobiography is a chrestomathy (of sorts) that chaffs and occasionally chafes with its collection of anecdotes, episodes and stories from the writer-actor’s Cambridge years and his early days in comedy.

Stephen Fry, Esquire.

Captivating and creditable, the credible tome titled The Fry Chronicles may cause readers to cachinnate yet is capricious and careens into chthonic passages where he castigates and chastises himself without ever caterwauling. Choice passages, however, include “Crises of Confidence” which contains this memorable moment: “For I have to believe that all the feelings I have described are not unique to me but common to us all. The sense of failure, the fear of eternal unhappiness, the insecurity, misery, self-disgust and the awful awareness of underachievement that I have described. Are you not prey to all those things also? I do hope so.” (I can confirm, Stephen, you are not alone.)

Oscar Wilde, who liked catamites, as played by Stephen Fry, who was celibate.

With a tendency to cavil, Fry charts his life in the 1980s, with a casual glance at his childhood, through chapters that start with C. The chemical symbol for sugar commences the colloquy, and is only an indication of the crapulous cupidity to come.

Stephen Fry, Quite Interesting.

Without being too credulous, I warmed to Fry’s confessions even as they revealed him to be captious. Fry, who I believe I am correct in saying has not been called callipygian nor concupiscent, never veers towards catachresis, cacology, calumny nor cant, and can’t, it seems, calumniate his close and cherished friends and colleagues. Fry is, or needs to be or pleads to be, the cynosure, a congenital condition of which is his cognisant. It is a condition commensurate to his crushing doubts. This volume, however, is no congeries: The Fry Chronicles concatenates his happiness and heartbreak with concinnity.

It is a captivating and compulsive read. One could almost call it compulsory.

Books, ampersand, coffee.

The television died the other day, which I feel a bit bad about because it wasn’t mine, but it is not missed at all since I work in the evenings and there’s no good television on when I’m home. Don’t miss Oprah, Ellen or Dr Phil much, to be honest. Even though I’ve been reading thousands of words per night, and have been spending part of my days writing, I’ve still managed to plug through a couple of books.

So, some snappy reviews …

Why Orwell Matters – Christopher Hitchens

It probably helps to have read all or at least most of Orwell’s books before embarking on Hitchens’ long and slightly convoluted essay. I had read only Animal Farm, 1984 and Keep the Aspidistra Flying, the two masterpieces and one of the not-so-great ones. Why Orwell Matters is a powerful argument made in Hitchens’ bombastic and enjoyable (to me) style. It does, however, assume the reader knows a lot about the subject. Not for beginners. Not as good as god is not great, or however he capitalises or not that title, possibly because he comes close to admiring the subject.

Thursday Next: First Among Sequels – Jasper Fforde

Quite disappointing actually. It has all the ingredients that I should enjoy: bit of fantasy, a world of literature or draw from and lampoon, other worlds within worlds, and time travel. Just somehow, it felt half-baked to me. Not enough humour or levity, maybe. It just seemed to take itself so seriously. Sad to say, I abandoned it part-way through, I fell asleep with it and I have forgotten which page I was on and don’t particularly care. Not that there’s anything particularly wrong with it, mind you, it just didn’t click for me.

Going Postal – Terry Pratchett

Having loved the sequel (of sorts) Making Money, was the first Moist von Lipwig book going to be any fun? Well, yes, as it turns out. Tyrant saves conman from execution to be put into a government job, enjoyable satire on bureaucracy, politics and corruption ensues. Enjoyed the commentary on money in Making Money more, but that is a little like saying I prefer one brand of chocolate to another. (Non Discworld nerds can skip ahead to the next bit. Or, come to think of it, the bit after.) I had read Night Watch and Monstrous Regiment in that order too, so I am reading the latest books in the series in reverse order. Doesn’t matter, it’s all good fun.

Mort – Terry Pratchett

Death takes on an apprentice, hilarity and rifts in reality follow. Fourth in the Discworld series, nearly as old as I am, it’s lacking the complexity of later books. It feels like reading action that took place before the rule of Lord Vetinari straightened things out, not only in Ankh-Morpork, but in the history of the series. As excuses go for Death to take a break and go fishing, do the Lester Burnham thing of working in a fast food chain, and try every drink in The (Mended) Drum, giving the workload to the apprentice is not a bad one.

The Fry Chronicles – Stephen Fry

Sesquipedalian.

The Magnificent 5 And 250 Other Great Things About Portable Typewriters (Or Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Typewriters But Were Almost Afraid to Ask) Plus: THE GREAT TYPEWRITER SWINDLE? - Robert Messenger

A lovingly compiled series of lists, facts and images by friend and colleague Robert Messenger. It’s not the sort of book you need to read from start to finish, but can just dip into and out of. For the serious typewriter enthusiast or the novice, readers will learn something about not only the machines but the people who use(d) them. It’s a little like soft-core typewriter porn, the pictures are lovingly presented and you don’t get to see the dirty inside bits.

Mao’s Great Famine – Frank Dikotter

Okay, I’ve only read part of the preface, but so far this book by a historian and professor which draws on thousands of archived documents the Chinese Communist Party kept from the Great Leap Forward is a surprisingly engaging read. Millions dying – 45 million starved, worked or beaten to death between 1958 and 1962 – is not going to be, you know, a happy read, but it’s an important story that seems to have been told well.

The Fry Chronicles – Stephen Fry

Alright, a real review. Prolix though he can be, Fry’s second autobiography (I haven’t read the first) about life in Cambridge and his beginnings in comedy is enjoyable and revealing. Occasionally I have read this and thought “I should like to beat you over the head for being such an annoying show-off”. Those thoughts often happen when he writes something along the lines of “About now, you will be thinking I am an annoying show-off”. Not sure whether it’s pleasantly surprising, or surprisingly pleasant. For all his talent, fame and pomposity as host of QI, Fry reveals himself as a human being. Similar to Barry Humphries’ My Life As Me, only with more sugar addictions and self-doubt.

Remember how you announced on Facebook that I was writing a play for you? Well, I still am. Really. I’ve just been researching. Honestly. I’ve written a few things down. I have made a plan. But I want it to be a work of art. I want the characters to have more than one dimension, so it’s not going to be written by the end of the financial year. Plus, I’m working full-time and have to visit the gym and the pub occasionally (they balance each other out). So, yeah, it’s gonna take a few more days.

All my love,

Michael

The books that get put aside whenever a Terry Pratchett novel turns up in the apartment.

The generous David Ellery gave me illustrated copies of The Lord of the Rings which are too beautiful to read in bed (I always fall asleep with books and bend them, these are too nice to risk damaging). I have the massive Ellmann biography of Joyce to pour through, along with Marr on White, I started Anna Karenina and got bored, am quite enjoying chugging my way through The Fry Chronicles and for some reason I find myself half-way through Dorian Gray (again) and A Rebours AT THE SAME TIME! (They are not the same book, Michael. Really.) Tara Moss and Jodi Picoult are on the to-read list and the entire Next Murray Whelan Trilogy is there to enjoy whenever I feel like missing Melbourne. So why do I keep buying books?

A kind gift of Lord of the Rings (my other edition, also a gift, being in my other library) adds weight and gravitas to my bookcase.

Recently I have procured not one but three Terry Pratchett books (one’s still in the post) Dikotter’s Mao’s Great Famine and Taschen Picasso books and Smee’s Picasso v Matisse. Seriously, a lot of good stuff, and enough to keep me going for many months. So why do I still scour the bookstores? Why do I still pounce on $8 Pratchett books at bookdepository.co.uk? Do I have a problem? Where do I go to seek help? Am I crazy? Am I alone? What’s wrong with me?

Why do I keep buying books?

Malled (as in maul, not pal, for those Strayans who reckon they pronounce it properly when they don’t) offers an insight into a world many of us choose to take for granted, dismiss unthinkingly or have deliberately blanked from our memories. It is the world of retail, the business that acts as a weathervane for discretionary consumer spending, for the economy more broadly, and the mood of cranky, frustrated housewives who have to vent their pent-up frustration on somebody and it might as well be the person behind the counter. Retail is big business, as Kelly points out with facts and figures on the US industry. But it’s also one that exploits cheap labour. We’re fairly familiar with the idea that the products are produced cheaply in places like China and Vietnam and Cambodia, but the cheap labour market in the US and the crap retail associates put up with has been less widely exposed. Kelly brings this side of the equation to life with the personal, breezy touch of a seasoned features and magazine writer. (She has written for many major publications over decades.)

My favourite shopping mall, Taman Anggrek in Jakarta. Note the ice skating rink on the "third" floor (second from top). Thanks to Suharwan's photostream on Flickr.

As someone who did the rite of passage working in Kmart, a bookstore and restaurants as a teenager, what shocked me most was how little the retail associates in the United States of America were being paid. Kelly, who had been fired from the Daily News in New York, wanted a steady part-time job while also earning erratic money for freelance writing. She earned $11 per hour. This was not the lowest wage in retail in the US. Now, I know the tax system’s different, I understand that the cost of living is different, and I understand that the Australian dollar is unusually high right now, but the minimum wage in Australia is $15 per hour. That’s the federally mandated minimum for adults. Casual employees get a 21 per cent loading. Permanent part-time employees get pro rata sick leave, etc. (Of course, people work for cash a lot cheaper in Vietnamese-run takeaways, a decade ago I got $6 per hour but I was finishing high school and it was pocket money.) The repetition and the boredom Kelly tells us of, stacking and hanging and folding and sorting and cleaning, I was more familiar with. In the toy section at Kmart I would spend an entire shift straightening Lego and Barbie boxes and walk around and repeat the process like those who paint the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But that they put up with rude and abusive customers, uncaring bosses, broken and inadequate equipment for pay cheques that were so small was staggering. As Kelly points out, that means those in retail often have no choice in their employment, or that it is the best of limited options. (There are exceptions, which she explains, where people meant to be in retail are in rare jobs that rewards them appropriately.) Service suffers because the associates are not motivated and are unrewarded and undervalued. The customers suffer for it. No doubt profit suffers for it. In short, everyone suffers.

A portrait of the author, Caitlin Kelly.

Malled reads like a long magazine piece. This is not, in itself, a bad thing. Occasionally it feels over-extended, and there is a bit of repetition, but more often it breezes along very smartly from one interesting anecdote from her years on the sales floor to interviews with experts that illustrate broader points about the industry. The charm is that it is personal yet illustrative of the wider industry without getting bogged down in macro-economic theories.

Yet even as she is chatty and engaging, quite a few barbs are inserted along the way to widen the eyes and make the reader take notice. “Bloodstains on the merch? Not an option.” That’s an example of the friendly writing style that permeates the book even when writing about working so hard her hands were dry and cracking and bleeding. She writes of retail nightmares and deaths, horror customers and murders. There are examples of bitterness and bitchiness and callousness in the book, but it is not written as a rant against the industry. Kelly also points out the positives, explains what was enjoyable and appealing about the job at The North Face and the coworkers she loved best (although names have been changed). She writes of how she fell out of love with the job without any malice, although there is disappointment at the way retail associates are treated as expendable. That is the book’s purpose, to make us think twice about the people behind the counter and the crap they have to put up with.

So, read this book over coffee in a shopping mall. Look around and listen. Overhear the fact the barista in her early 20s wants to get a job at a law firm. Just remember, they are people too.

UPDATE: Even though you can figure out where to buy it for yourself, if you choose, here is a link to Malled‘s page at Amazon.com.

So, what’s been happening? I cracked open Anna Karenina and got bored, fulfilling a New Year resolution to start reading it. Couple of chapters down and on the pile by the bed. Tick. Began re-reading The Picture of Dorian Gray on the iPad and when I got my hands on my old copy of the actual book got stuck into that instead. Began reading Lord of the Rings and am already further than I have ever been and I’m on page 70. Watched 28 Days Later and enjoyed it. Watched 28 Weeks Later and enjoyed it slightly less.

More news as it occurs to me to write it. Meanwhile, a quick look at my current bookcase.

Yep, using kitchen shelves. It looks good for now, but they may need to move.

UPDATE: Have a bookcase. Universe back in balance.