All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr

This is one of those novels that resonates with the reader for a long time after they have finished it. The tragic characters, seemless prose and startling imagery lifts this piece of writing into the heady realms of flawless storytelling. It is so true to life, so relentlessly real, so eloquently and effortlessly immersive that for those all too few hours that I was reading this the world outside the book disappeared from view and Doerr’s world was my world. It spoke to something deep inside me, beyond the senses and imagination. The characters are so fully sculpted by Doerr’s artistic fingers that when one of them dies I felt a deep sense of loss, not grief as such, that is too strong a word, more a profound sadness as if a person you have admired from afar has passed away suddenly. When I finished the book I felt a sense of completion as well as regret for the ending of a deeply moving experience. I knew that my perception of the world around me had altered ever so slightly, the sign of a natural and gifted storyteller.

There are a number of stories set amidst the Second World War that are beautifully woven into the plot and perfectly knitted together at the end. A young blind girl taken by her father from her beloved Paris district that she knows by heart to an alien seaside town to escape the Nazis; an orphaned boy with a natural gift for radio communications adopted by Hitler’s youth to fight the war; a dying German soldier on a quest to find a rare jewel; and a community of french people defying the Germans with secret radio messages. Doerr interweaves some inventive themes throughout the narrative that add a sense of mystery and mysticsm to the story, such as the Sea of Flames jewel, the tale of Captain Nemo, a model of St Malo that hides a secret, and a keeper of the keys. 

Doerr expertly narrates the story through the eyes of these characters cleverly interplaying the timelines between the beginning and the end of the war. This has honesty and integrity etched within the writing so that the reader is wholly engaged and committed to the storytelling experience. There have been a plethora of novels set around the hardships of the first and second world wars and it would be easy to dismiss this as just another one to add to the list. Don’t. This is a unique and enthralling tale told by a master storyteller that enhances, and may even surpass, those that have gone before it. My book review, a poignant 9.5/10. 

Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

Dark Places by Gillian Flynn

Now I realise that the clue to its genre is in the title, so I wasn’t expecting a romantic comedy, but, holy moly!, Flynn sure does take the reader down some very dark alleyways. The writing certainly has a ring of King about it (that’s Stephen King to non-horror fans). The atmosphere oozes the macabre. The main characters are dysfunctional outsiders; they don’t fit the mould. We view much of the narrative, but not all, from the protagonist’s viewpoint which allows us, rather reluctantly, into her warped, chilling, unpredictable mind. It’s an uncomfortable, disturbing process. But then the whole narrative experience is unsettling, like finding someone’s diary and, against one’s better judgement, reading the contents and finding out more than you bargained for.


This is Flynn’s second novel, the one before ‘Gone Girl’ that hurtled her into the stratosphere of best-selling authors with over 10 million sales. ‘Dark Places’ has a very different feel to it than ‘Gone Girl’, much more creepy and gruesome. ‘Gone Girl’ is a psychological thriller with suspense mystery adding to the heady mix, whereas ‘Dark Places’ has charged across the Thriller boundary into Horror territory; and successfully at that. The language wraps the reader in a sinister cloud then soaks you in a drip, drip, drip of menace and gore so that you are left drenched in dread and despair. The imagery Flynn uses to convey her protagonist’s plight to discover the truth about her family’s horrific massacre is uniquely evocative and draws you inexorably into her dark world. Was it her brother who now lies incarcerated in prison for the murders? Or is he hiding something or protecting someone from the world outside his bars? Despite her almost pitiless portrayal of her characters, Flynn leaves enough room there, if only a tiny space, for sympathy and empathy, to give the reader a spark of humanity to latch onto. And the conclusion has a twist that ties up the gory ends with a satisfying sigh. I didn’t see it coming.




This won’t appeal to as wide an audience, as ‘Gone Girl’ clearly did, it’s too unforgiving in its themes, content and language. But it will appeal to those like myself who like to be shocked and shivered, to cringe and grimace, who like to peer above the cushion. It will appeal to the many Stephen King fans like myself. Flynn is a talented writer who has the enviable knack of being able to cross genres effortlessly. I look forward to reading more.
My review, a shaken 8.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

When the Music’s Over by Peter Robinson

I should say first of all that I am a prolific reader of crime fiction. Though, unlike many crime fans, I am not one of those who feel compelled to solve the mystery. For me it’s more about the relationship between the detective and their sidekick, the unfolding of the murder mystery and the denouement. Basically, I like to kick back in my armchair with a cup of tea and let someone else do all the leg work, (or should that be brain work?) while I peer over their shoulder and marvel at (hopefully) their detecting prowess.


This is the 23rd novel in Robinson’s Inspector Banks series and our eponymous detective has been promoted to Superintendent. Unlike the Rebus series and many others, I have read barely a handful of these crime tales with long gaps in between. For this one Robinson has treated the reader to two distinct investigations. One of these involves an historical abuse allegation by a woman who claims she was raped by a celebrity and his associate aged just 14. This follows in the vein of high profile sexual abuse cases such as Jimmy Savile and Rolf Harris. The other investigation looks into the death of a young girl who has been gang-raped and then beaten to death, though not necessarily by the same assailants.


Having finished the book, I remember why there have been such long gaps in between my reading stints. Robinson’s writing leaves me feeling somewhat unsatisfied, even disappointed, when I read that last word of his novels. Not a dissimilar feeling to looking forward to a tasty meal out in a restaurant recommended by a friend and discovering that the food has not lived up to expectations. That’s not to say that Robinson has not honed his craft and is not a highly proficient and respected author. He has sold multimillion copies worldwide and Mr Stephen King himself is, purportedly, a true fan, though I must disagree with Mr King; the Alan Banks novels are not the best series on the market. I can think of quite a few more that beat Banks hands down; Morse, Rebus and Dalgliesh for starters.




All the ingredients are there to make a fine story; well-paced plot, credible characters and dialogue and a decent enough denouement. Yet it still feels to me formulaic and predictable; not necessarily in terms of the plot, but as an overall literary piece. The sum does not transcend the parts. That indefinable magic is absent, at least for me. Though I am sure there are quite likely millions of Banks’ fans who may disagree. As a light holiday read by the pool this is perfect fodder. My review. A frustrated 6.5/10.


Thank you for reading my review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

When All is Said by Anne Griffin

I associate reading this story to watching one of those old newsreels of bygone planes making their first attempt to lift their carcases off the runway and into the air. I know, it’s a bit out there, but bear with me on this one. Hearing the excited hubbub surrounding the launch of the book from interviews with the author, then reading the ringing endorsements on the cover of the book was the engine’s roaring crescendo as it readies itself to begin its run up. Then the opening chapter with the zany, humorous voice of its main protagonist, fresh and innovative concept and poetic language was the rushing of the wind as the plane hurtles down the runway in an effort to build up enough speed for take-off. And then, after a number of unconvincing hops and hiccoughs, the plane shudders eventually to a halt. Which is a pity, because this novel showed so much promise.

The plot revolves around an old man of 84 who sits in the bar of an hotel and reminisces about the life he has led through the narratives of the five people that meant the most to him. But as the story unfolds the humour becomes subsumed within the tragedy of these narratives until, by the last few chapters, it has been all but extinguished by the relentless pathos that pervades every sentence. And it was the potentiality of the humour that could have given the book that much needed lift. Now, before you think I have lost the plot, I do realise that there are plenty of books full of woe out there that have received the acclaim they deserve. Let’s not forget Les Misérables, for goodness sake. But to paraphrase that much-loved comedian, Frank Carson (showing my age here!), ‘It’s the way you tell ‘em’.


This may seem a bit harsh, as it’s a well-crafted piece of art with some recognisable characters and an original concept. But there’s only so much tragedy even my sentimental heart can bear. I know some people have to endure lives filled with loss and heartache; but there was enough tribulation here to fill a small graveyard. It’s a writer’s dilemma; nobody wants to read a book about Mr Happy. I understand that. But there were times, as I waded through this mire of misery, that my heart was screaming, ‘Enough, please!’




I so wanted to love this book, mainly because it’s not often I pick up a book, read the first few lines and know I could be in for a bookish treat. I may be in the minority on this one. Griffin may indeed, and justifiably, declare me a poor audience. I trust you will be a better one, the author deserves it. My book review, a contrite 7.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

The Killing Habit by Mark Billingham

The Killing Habit by Mark Billingham

I have followed the sleuthing exploits of Detective Inspector Tom Thorne since the beginning of Billingham’s series. Fifteen books later and he’s still a detective inspector hunting down a cat murderer around the streets of London because, as all knowledgeable serial killer aficionados and would-be psychologists understand, the killing of animals is often the first chilling steps of a deranged mind on their path to serial killer status.

Tom Thorne is a plausible character, a pedestrian detective who puts in the hours needed to get results. There are no mind-exploding flashes of deductive brilliance, no flamboyant demonstrations of the detective’s investigative genius as he summarises the murderous facts and unveils the killer to the admiration (and relief) of the remaining possible assassins. This is straightforward police work set in the real world of modern-day policing; no frills, no gimmicks. And Billingham’s writing matches the plot and characters; no thrills, no gimmicks. Sounds a bit boring, doesn’t it?

But reading a Billingham crime novel is far from boring as his sales will testify, and I will tell you why. Billingham is a master of psychology. When he tells a story his aim is place the reader inside his characters’ heads and allow them to watch the grisly details unfold through each character’s eyes, through their thoughts. It’s an inspired narrative device, because through this style the reader is drawn inevitably into the characters’ worlds, like it or not. And even more inspired, Billingham includes the mind of the killer themselves, anonymous thoughts that hint at what is motivating their actions and, more scarily, what is yet to come. Enough to intrigue you, enough to keep you reading. Using this device Billingham is able to manipulate the reader by leading them down cul-de-sacs and feeding them morsels of misinformation, thus distracting them from the true culprit. It’s addictive stuff. And the twists and turns keep you guessing right to the last page.

Billingham is a jobbing writer who does his job very well by telling a rattling good yarn. The bottom line is, I enjoy reading his books. So for that reason, and that reason alone, my thumb is definitely up. My review, a contented 8/10.

Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore

Christine Falls by Benjamin Black

This is a murder mystery the like of which I can guarantee you won’t have read before. It’s definitely on the quirky side of the genre, pun intended (the main protagonist goes by the name of ‘Quirke’). Benjamin Black is the alias of John Banville who is an acclaimed literary writer in his own right, and who decided to give the well-trodden mystery path a bash. Not many authors are brave enough to switch genres, I can think only of a couple off the top of my head, JK Rowling under the alias of Robert Galbraith and Tony Parsons. It’s a risky strategy, both financially and in terms of reputation.

However, Black has no worries here on either front as he effortlessly conjures up an instantly-imaginable, if not necessarily lovable, protagonist who drives the narrative almost from the first word (discounting the prologue) with his melancholic, moody and meddling character; though I should warn you that his driving is somewhat erratic, dangerous at times, and drunken. I adore Black’s writing, it’s fresh, lyrical and leaves a warm, fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It must be love. With Black I get the best of both my favourite literary worlds; a tight, engaging murder plot with complex, flawed and believable characters and flowing, poetic language.


Black has done his research of the mystery/crime market and his protagonist, a pathologist who works in a dungeon-like workplace, has the suspicion of a Rebus or Morse about him (we only know him as Quirke, no first name is offered) with all the necessary ingredients to make the perfect quasi-detective; a widower, an orphan, childless, partnerless, depressive, a dash of misanthropy, and, most importantly, hopeless at relationships. But, don’t misunderstand me here, Quirke is by no means a pastiche of the genre. Oh no, he is much, much more than that, and will appear in your imagination fully-embodied, albeit somewhat kicking and screaming as he does.

Quirke relentlessly pursues the mystery behind the appearance of an unidentified corpse in his pathology department, despite the connections to his family and the possible resultant shattering that this may reek upon their lives and his. This dogged inquisitiveness also invites the injurious attention from some very unscrupulous factions. The backdrop for the most part is Dublin in the 50s and Quirke lumbers around its streets as if the weight of its woes rest squarely upon his ever-sagging shoulders. It’s like watching the aftermath of a car crash, you know you shouldn’t be looking, but the godless part of you can’t resist. There are twists and turns, shocks and revelations, tears and heartache right to the bitter end; and very gratifying the ending is too.


You won’t come across writing of this calibre too often, so if you do decide to give this novel a whirl, my advice to you is to sip it slowly like a fine wine, or whatever you tipple may be. For this narrative treat was over far too quickly for me; but fortunately there are more Quirke mysteries to savour another time. My review, a wistful 9.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

Fool Me Once by Harlan Coben

 

It’s been over a decade since I last read a book by Harlan Coben, so I was quietly looking forward to seeing how his writing had evolved since then. In his early days, Coben enjoyed instant success with the protagonist, Myron Bolitar, as a sports agent come crime buster whose exploits unfolded across a series of seven books. I gobbled these up with relish until Coben bravely (or foolishly) drew a line under his golden egg-laying character to prove to himself that he was capable of writing a non-Bolitar novel. Well, if ‘Fool Me Once’, is anything to go by, then I am not sure he has realised this ambition. This is not an uncommon writing conundrum for those particular authors who have been locked into a series of detective novels with the same leading character. Ian Rankin had a similar problem with John Rebus when he unsuccessfully attempted to break away from the restraints of such a successful character to try pastures new. Of course, it’s not just an authorial issue, it’s also pressures of public demand and the publishers that compel writers to keep writing the same character. It’s the age old battle between accountants and artistic integrity.

Unlike the Bolitar novels where Coben’s characters were sharp, muscular and quirky, in ‘Fool Me Once’ they are formless, flat and disconnected. The leading lady, Maya, vacillates between hard-nosed action woman who worked in the armed services and a sensitive, beautiful, caring mother. I found little depth to her character and even less to those that prop up the scenes as the narrative bumps and hiccoughs along with little cohesion and flow. The plot revolves around the apparently unconnected murders of Maya’s husband and sister and her subsequent plight to find the truth, but halfway through I had lost interest and the plot. Characters pop up at convenient times to move the story along with fresh information, but with little conviction or sense. It’s all a bit clumsy, contrived and unconvincing. I like the informal, chatty style of Coben’s narration, but this time it seemed littered with American jargon and cultural references that left me feeling a somewhat bemused and alienated reader. Have my reading tastes moved on? or has Coben’s writing lost its spark? A bit of both is the likely answer. The ending continues the downhill trajectory of this listless story, and, to be frank, by then the pages were turning ever more rapidly as I sprinted to the finish. The last chapter wraps up the story in a mawkish, muddled and, dare I say, almost comic fashion. It would have been kinder to scrap it and leave it at that. ‘Fool Me Once’ feels like a book that has been written by an author that has run out of imaginative steam. So it’s a fond farewell to Harlan from this particular fan. My review, an unforgiving 5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

A Pale View by Kazuo Ishiguro

This little gem was Ishiguro’s first foray into the overcrowded world of publishing, and the editor blessed with picking up this particular manuscript must have felt like all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once (with red-coated cavalry guards trumpeting a fanfare) as this package of perfection floated onto his desk (I realise that the first draft may have required a few tweaks here and there, but let’s not spoil the illusion).


I have read all of Ishiguro’s books and on reading this one it had me thinking what it is I like so much about his writing, and therefore, of course, why you, fellow reader, might be tempted to read one too. Ishiguro loves to play games with his reader, be it mind or plot games. What often starts off as a seemingly ‘normal’, almost benign story, slowly unravels before the reader’s eyes into something much more sinister and engrossing. Ishiguro is a master literary magician using various narrative tricks to confuse and unbalance the reader at each stage of the tale. Reading one of his books is somewhat like traversing a high, narrow mountain trail, the wind buffeting you, your feet slipping on the uneven, scree-strewn path as you peer over the side to the valley far below. It’s heady stuff.

A Pale View of Hills doesn’t disappoint on that front. For a novel it’s short in length at 183 pages, but Ishiguro makes every word count. It tells the story of a Japanese woman living in England who is looking back on her life in Japan in the aftermath of the dropping of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Ishiguro gently takes the reader by the hand and then leads them slowly but inexorably into the very dark world, and mind, of the protagonist and her increasingly disturbing relationships with her family and friends, now and in her past. The plot of the novel is subtle and not where the writer places his emphasis; this is much more about drilling down into a protagonist’s psychology and coming up with oil.

There is an indefinable disturbance at the heart of the narrative, an unsettling and unrealised tremor that feels like it is ready to explode. The denouement is equally disquieting and perplexing and, wondering if somehow I had overlooked something important, I found myself rereading a section just to make sure. One sentence and the whole story is turned on its head. This is not a twist as such, just a cryptic character revelation, as if Ishiguro is saying with a wry smile, you decide.


The greatest compliment I can pay to Ishiguro is to say that in many decades to come future generations of readers will be browsing their online libraries and their figuratiive fingers will alight on an Ishiguro novel, and they will say to themselves, I have been meaning to read this author, maybe now is the time. Maybe now it’s yours too. My book review, an I-am-not-worthy 9.5/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

A Kind of Eden by Amanda Smyth

An intriguing writer is Amanda Smyth. Intriguing in a I-can’t-quite-make-up-my-mind way. This was one of my ‘blind picks’ as I like to call them, a way of trying out new authors to keep my reading fresh, rather than sticking with the usual suspects. So I browse through the library randomly picking up books. I’ve no idea what attracts to me to a particular book, a particular author, what it is that stops my roving eye as it scans the bookshelves and urges me to lift it from its place. Something about the title? The front cover? Book in hand, I will read the blurb about the story, then about the author, then any testimonials if there are any. After that, if not sure, I will read a page or two, but that’s unusual. It surprises me how often I am happy with my choice. But not always.


Why did I choose this book? The fact that it is described as ‘a thriller that reads like literature of the highest quality’ would have appealed. I do love a nerve-tingling, keep-you-guessing thriller whose prose sparks off fireworks in your imagination. And so it was that I sat down with that thrum of excitement in the pit of my belly and opened to the first page.

This is not a thriller. There are elements of the thriller within, but in the main this is a character-driven story about human frailty and adversity. The main protagonist has moved away from his family in the UK to Trinidad for gainful employment in the police force so he can pay the bills. Left on his own, he embarks on an affair with a much younger Trinidadian and the story picks up the somewhat lethargic tempo, in keeping with the laid back lifestyle and the oppressive heat, with his wife and daughter visiting him and the complications that then ensue. Without giving too much away, the family have already suffered tragedy and there are further crises for them to bear in the Caribbean. There is a policeman and there is a crime, but this is no Morse, nor is it meant to be.

Smyth explores a number of themes in the narrative, including coping with tragedy; midlife crisis; trust; separation, geographical and emotional; family responsibilities; and love in all its many guises. It’s all handled competently enough, the characters are complex and fallible, and the narrative keeps you engaged, mostly. But there is nothing particularly original here other than the setting, which is unusual, and written about thoughtfully and truthfully. The thriller aspect adds some spice to the tale, but the ending seems contrived, an attempt to resolve the crime aspect of the story, but unsuccessfully. My main problem is with the protagonist who appears to bumble around the island without much of a moral compass and appears somewhat weak and ineffectual and, therefore, difficult to sympathise or engage with as a reader. Does this work as a piece of writing? I’m scratching my head. Will I read another of Smyth’s books? Probably not. My review, a puzzled 6/10.


Thank you for reading my book review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

‘ Last night I dreamed I went to Manderley again.’ I read this famous first line as a young boy aged 12 whilst lying in my sick bed bored and in desperate need of entertainment. I sighed at what to a child appeared to be a tome at just over 400 pages and began to read my first adult novel. Within a short time Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca had transported a young lad from his dull bedroom to the enticing, mysterious world of Manderley and its surroundings.

The tale of Rebecca begins in the dazzling sunshine of the French Riviera where the protagonist and narrator, a nameless young woman of indeterminate age, attracts the attention of the much older and more worldly-wise Maxim de Winter, a wealthy widower who holds some standing in society, that is according to the gossipy Mrs Van Hopper who has hired the young woman as her companion. They fall madly in love, marry and, after a luxurious honeymoon in Italy, return to Maxim’s country pile nestled on the coast of Cornwall. And so it would be easy for the reader to be fooled into believing that they can settle down now to a cosy romance story, if it wasn’t for those first few pages that has left a rather niggling, unsettled feeling in the dark recesses of the mind. Du Maurier is a master at foreshadowing, planting those little time bombs in the reader’s mind that are primed to explode at just the right moment later in the story.

Our suspicions are realised as we enter the imposing edifice of Manderley alongside the narrator and meet the cold, inscrutable black-clad Mrs Danvers, the head housekeeper, and it slowly dawns on us that our cosy, romantic illusions have been shattered and a much more sinister and enticing journey lies ahead. And thank God for that I can hear my 12-year old self cry inwardly.


Thereafter the story unfolds through the insecure eyes of the new Mrs de Winter as she slowly but surely succumbs to the shadowy darkness of the spirit of the old Mrs de Winter, the wild and beautiful Rebecca, the jealous trickery of Mrs Danvers, the unpredictable moods of Maxim, and the heavy burden of running Manderley.


There are plenty of unanswered questions too to keep the reader turning the pages. How did Rebecca die? What was the relationship between Mrs Danvers and Rebecca? For that matter, between Maxim and Rebecca? Will Maxim’s and the narrator’s relationship survive? And so on. All will be revealed, fear not, in the author’s own sweet time and in ways unimagined. Du Maurier shows real literary craftsmanship in handling the plot, characters and narrative. The story is paced perfectly with small climaxes, red herrings, twists and misconceptions to keep the easily bored engaged. The first person narrative is used to clever effect to lead the reader down gaping rabbit warrens and dead ends. There is murder, a shipwreck, blackmail, attempted murder and arson. And the twist at the end is a revelation. Forty or so years on and having finished it again for the umpteenth time, it still has the ability to cast its spell over me.

It’s no surprise that Rebecca has sold in excess of 30 million copies worldwide, but despite this, or maybe, in spite of this, the acclaim of the critics that du Maurier so desperately sought was never realised in her lifetime. They insisted in labelling her a Gothic Romance novelist, which is plain lazy. That’s like describing ‘Jaws’ as a book about three blokes going on a fishing trip. Du Maurier defied classification and it’s no surprise that Alfred Hitchcock, the well-renowned director and ‘master of suspense’, took on the challenge of transposing the narrative into a dark, ominous film using his trademark style.


I strongly urge you to read this book if you haven’t yet, and if you have, read it again. If you would like to find out more about du Maurier’s life then visit her website at www.dumaurier.org and/or read the biography by Tatiana de Rosnay, a beautifully-written tribute by a true fan. It was Rebecca’s 80th anniversary last year and the filming of a new adaptation of the book begins in May with Lily James and Armie Hammer. My review, a nostalgic and laudatory 10/10.


Thank you for reading my review. Your book buddy, Charles Whitmore.