Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks

This book was recommended to me by many people, all of whom gushed lovingly about it’s beauty, emotion and depth. I was put off, however, by the fact that they all told me it was a ‘beautiful novel about love and war’. A genre I don’t usually delve into, nothing aroused my interest by this endorsement. Although, I have also always been one to try different things – and I once read a Tom Clancy and quite liked it (not that it’s anything similar…) so I thought I’d give it a go.

Well, everyone was right. For me, this was a journey into a fleshy, physical world of writing that I have not visited much before. I tend towards fantastical, thought-oriented fiction that has a lot to do with the landscapes of the mind even if it isn’t ‘fantasy’. Birdsong, however, is a largely physical novel. It is full of activity, flesh, corporeality and substance – whether it is in the vivid description of love making, bathing or violence and war. At the same time there are some astounding observations of the human condition, and the existence of the soul. The book is hideous and astonishingly beautiful – much like the human condition itself, I suppose.

Stephen Wraysford comes to a small French town from his native England as a young man to learn about the cloth trade. He stays in a big, angled house occupied by the Azaire family: René, Isabelle, and their children: Lisette and Grégoire. He soon realises that he is in love with Azaire’s wife, Isabelle. They have a passionate affair and run away together, but shortly afterwards Isabelle leaves him abruptly, with seemingly no reason. Skip six years into the future and Wraysford is a sergeant in the English army fighting on the French/Belgian border against the Germans. His journey is a devastating one, and yet somehow imbued with hope – probably because of the appearance of another interwoven storyline set in England in 1978-9, of Wraysford’s grand-daughter. Birdsong beautifully and artistically depicts the horror of war, the tragedy of love, the death of hope and it’s rebirth. It shows that two people’s worlds can be vastly, unbridgeably different, even if they live a few miles apart. It takes you from the realm of peacetime romance to the hell of loss, loneliness and futility that is war. People in our generation just can’t grasp what it must have been like, I suppose, even for all the films and books that are available. Reading some of Faulks’ words I was at a loss as to how to relate to the decrepit state of the minds and souls (and bodies) of his soldier characters. I wanted to be physically affected, to feel the emotion of it with my whole being, but I found my mind instinctively rebelling against the feeling. I wouldn’t allow myself, and I think that is because if I tried too hard I probably would’ve realised that I simply could not do it – I could not put myself in their shoes. Sorry to ramble, but it’s funny that what affected me the most was my inability to feel affected. Don’t get me wrong, I felt it with my thoughts, I recoiled and was horror-struck. But I couldn’t picture it, in a real sense. It was just too horrid.

Having said all of that, this is a powerful and brilliant book, with loveable characters and sufficient catharsis to make it less depressing than my rendering of the story! It is poetic and profound, it stirs deeply and illuminates blindingly, and there is no doubt as to why so many recommend it as one of their favourite modern novels.

Moab is my Washpot by Stephen Fry

We all know Stephen Fry is a deliciously entertaining wordsmith, and this memoir just goes to prove it all over again.

Fry recounts his first 20 years with hilarity, touching humility and a dazzling insight into his younger self. From school to school, Fry tells his coming-of-age and the difficulties of being a budding homosexual, a teacher's cheeky nightmare, and terrible at 'games' (sports). When you admire and respect someone, I think it's always interesting to learn about their past - their prides and pitfalls, the things (books, people, music) that influenced them, and the kind of experiences that got them where they now are. Such is why the relatively normal childhood of Stephen Fry makes for such good reading - that, and the fact that he is an astute and sensitive storyteller; talented and full of wit.

I loved reading about his journey into language, his (painfully unrequited) first love, his discovery of lies, music, sex. It's interesting that despite his upper middle class upbringing, he has a well-rounded objective view of the system through which he grew up. He somehow manages to dispell your preconcieved 'English boys boarding school' stereotype, but replace it with an almost identical version in which something somewhere has shifted, and you're not sure what. Moab is my Washpot leaves you intrigued, too - it tells only up to his 20th year, and I am still left wondering how he got from there to today! I will be reading further memoirs of his, certainly.

I am also yet to read any of Fry's fiction. I'm interested to see how that differs from his memoirs and his essays. All I know is, his non-fiction is as rambunctious, rauchy, thrilling, hilarious and daring as any fiction I've ever read.

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger

Steeped in controversy since it's publication in 1951, The Catcher in the Rye is a genius little novel, portraying the injustices, hypocrisies and falseness of the human condition through the innocent and somewhat troubled mind of Holden Caulfield, an teenager living in New York.

Written in a monologue style, it follows Holden's escapades when he leaves his school a few days early (he is being expelled from yet another school for failing to keep up his grades) and going on a 'vacation' in his home city before returning to the wrath of his parents. A string of bizarre events occur when he stays in seedy hotels, calls up old accquaintences in the middle of the night, walks all over the city, and his increasing depression and loneliness drive him on to more and more erratic behaviour.

By today's standards, there isn't much that is controversial about it. Much of the superficial details are dated; the heavy smoking, use of 'swear' words like goddam and chrissakes - but the deeper level of the book is just as relevant today as it was then. There is a reason this has been in and out of school curriculums for the past 50 years. Holden's thoughts and attitudes reflect the confused, rebellious, contemptuous raging of adolescence accurately - and this is the timeless plight of the teen. We can all relate to Holden. I physically nodded along with some of his stream-of-conciousness rambling at some points, so moved was I by it's clarity and poignance.

Everyone should read this book, but be warned: it's depiction of the human condition is not a pretty one, for the most part.