The Tiger's Wife, or when not to listen to your mother

There are times in life when I wish I'd listened to her (the belly button piercing, for example) but sometimes, my mother is just wrong. This book is an example of one of those times. I picked it up in the airport on the way to Greece after reading about Tea Obreht in a magazine - to be honest, the only reason it stuck in my mind is because she won the Orange Prize at such an early age and made me feel like some kind of astounding failure. You know when you're getting old when people roughly the same age as you start writing prize winning books because good literature is like the last bastion of the mature - most people need to live their lives a bit before writing about it.

Anyway, so my insecurity was short lived, because Tea was from Yugoslavia, and so had had a vast amount to write about, and all was right with the world again. Apart from my mother, when offered the book to borrow, declined in a way that suggested it was a bit trashy (it's not).

The story loops through the fantastical backdrop of the war and old myths and legends passed down through generations - it's a good read, suspenseful and interesting.

To be fair, she had just received a Kindle for her birthday. So I'll let her off wanting my second (again, damp) holiday paperback.

Returning to Kephalonia and Patrick Hamilton

I picked this off the shelves because Patrick Hamilton holds many memories for me: I selected his Hangover Square from a Kephalonian holiday apartment shelf many years ago, flung myself into the azure ocean on a lilo and spent hours drifting and reading. This year, I returned to both: the author and the apartment.

Hangover Square is a fantastic novel about a man with schizophrenia and alcoholism. It is very clever and yet funny. Unfortunately, I got on with the Midnight Bell rather less well; I found the first story, about a barman called Bob, rather too simplistic and a bit frustrating. The following stories in the trilogy, about Jenny, the prostitute Bob falls in love with, and Ella, a barmaid who is in love with Bob himself, were much more self aware and better portraits.

The (now slightly dampened; have you ever tried reading on a lilo?) copy of Hangover Square that I read all those years ago is still in the apartment in Kephalonia. Here is a smug picture of the sea that I read it in:

Back on the literature wagon

The trouble with the internet is that it is so easy to get lost in other people's productive efforts, you often find that you forget your own. I can sit down to write about reading and then spend hours reading until I finally come to my senses at midnight, with cold fingers and a sense that it has got dark without me realising.

I'm now in a state of catch-up. I might just post the photos and have done with it!