I hope you enjoy it.

My initial reaction was, wowsa, what a fantastic resource for scholars. Imagine having the definitive answers to all sorts of questions you’d love to ask Beethoven helpfully written out by his own hand. Then I read on, and discovered Beethoven’s notebooks were much, much more interesting that this.

For although Beethoven’s friends and colleagues frequently wrote to him in these notebooks, he didn’t always write back, preferring to reply orally. So, in some cases, what has been preserved is a written record of one side of a fascinating dialogue in which key questions are put to the great man and then…well, that’s sort of it. For pages at a time, other people’s questions are interspersed only with their own comments – while there is only frustrating silence from Beethoven himself. Presumably, his friends and family never bothered to write down Beethoven’s side of the story because they were too busy scrawling off their supplemental questions.

Can you imagine the pain of those poor scholars? To be soooo close and yet…

Needless to say, this has meant that mining all the nuances and crevices implied by the supplemental questions has kept Beethoven obsessives busy for centuries. This, presumably, unintentional outcome of the notebooks appealed to me for several reasons, not least that it means that, like the best novels, if you want the Konversationshefte to reveal its secrets, you cannot simply read line-by-line. You must approach it ready, willing, and eager, to read between the lines.

Meanwhile, back in my earlier tangled metaphor, I had started out by wondering what creative limits, if any, Beethoven himself felt were imposed by his deafness. Luckily for me, it turns out there is no real shortage of specialists who have winkled out the nuances of the Konversationshefte on this score. In 2002, Dominique Prévot polled a range of specialists for their views, and published them on his helpful site www.lvbeethoven.com.

In his reply to Prévot, Willem Holsbergen, cites ‘the following remarks by nephew Karl: “Precisely because of that [your deafness] you are famous. Everyone is astonished, not just that you can compose so well, but particularly that you can do it in spite of this affliction. If you ask me, I believe that it even contributes to the originality of your compositions.”‘

I gasped and read it again.

Was I just imagining quite how wounding this arrogance of youth must have felt to Beethoven? Both horrified and thrilled by this twist, this promise of drama to come, I read on, eager to hear the great man’s scathing reply. Unfortunately, young Karl’s dismissive comments seems to have sparked one of those moments when Beethoven was moved to eschew the notebooks and just go with the sound of his own voice. Which leaves us trying to guess at what he might have said by reading between the lines of Karl’s follow-up entry in the notebook. “Nevertheless, I believe that even the greatest genius, when hearing someone else’s compositions, subconsciously copies ideas. In your case that doesn’t happen, because you have to create everything from within yourself.”

As Holsbergen points out, ‘Karl’s “nevertheless” suggests that Beethoven did not agree with his previous remark, “that it even contributes to the originality of your compositions.” Because we don’t know Beethoven’s exact answer, one can of course create different interpretations for this passage.’

I’m sure Holsbergen is right about this. In my own ‘different interpretation’ of this passage I had no real trouble imagining Beethoven’s reply being delivered while chasing poor Karl around the room with a whip and a chair. Not that this was getting me anywhere with my garbled silence/deafness/sound pressure metaphor, which by then I’d decided to cut anyway.

But later that evening, as my thoughts returned to Beethoven and his notebooks, it struck me there was a helpful metaphor here. For what are these one-sided conversations of his, if not a masterclass in POV and how it can be wielded to keep everyone guessing, to make sure the reader is right where you want them, reading between the lines.

In many ways, 2011 was about loss and upheaval in our house.  The sort of year where, had I been invited to guess in advance, I might have predicted would be good for reading.  By which I would have really meant good for hiding under the duvet bingeing on books in self-defence.  The reality was rather different. Both my attention span and patience were shot to pieces, and so, according to the available stats (collated my Kindle and Goodreads) I read thirteen novels, and filed two others on the ‘just not for me’ shelf this past year. These latter two were Trespass by Rose Tremain and 11.22.63 by Stephen King. In both cases, I am happy to concede the failings lie within me.

The list in full, in the order I read them, is:

1. Snowdrops by Andrew Miller
2. Deceptions by Rebecca Frayn
3. Naming the bones by Louise Welsh
4. True things about me by Deborah Kay Davies
5. Theft: A love story by Peter Carey
6. Trespass by Rose Tremain*
7. The City and the City by China Mieville
8. The Sense of an ending by Julian Barnes
9. The Summer without men by Siri Hustvedt
10. Never let me go by Kazuo Ishiguro
11. All that I am by Anna Funder
12. The Fear Index by Robert Harris
13. 11.22.63 by Stephen King*
14. Birdsong by Sebastien Faulks
15. Testimony by Anita Shreve

Before I started compiling, I felt certain my book of the year would be All that I am by Anna Funder. But then I saw Peter Carey’s Theft: A Love story sitting there at No. 5, and my heart soared at the sight of this old friend. It is without doubt my book of 2011.

A closer look at the list suggest I only read fiction this year, which I know is not the case. Although I can’t actually recall any titles to counter this at the time of writing (maybe I should resolve to keep better records next year…).

But more than anything, what is missing from this list is the massive effect KINDLE has had on my reading. For while it seems that I have only read thirteen novels on Kindle, I have no record of the rather larger number of novels I abandoned after reading the opening SAMPLES. For me, this has been the biggest change in my reading in 2011.

Where, in the past, I would order stacks of books based on word-of-mouth and inspiring reviews, now I send myself samples. Loads of them. Somehow, having so much choice available right on my own sofa has brought out the tyrant in me. I’ve become ruthless at deleting things I feel sure I would have bought had I been reading them standing in Waterstone’s. Each time it happens I feel a sense of quiet relief. Time and money saved with one thumb down. The corollary of this is a sort of literary cognitive dissonance which sets in. It’s as though by making a more informed decision up front, I have a lot more invested in enjoying the books I do buy. Or maybe I’m imagining it. 2012 will tell I suppose. Finding a way of tracking these things is one of my (probably destined to go unfulfilled) reading resolutions of 2012.  But more on this later.

In the meantime, I’d be very interested to know what your favourite read of 2011 was, and what changes Kindle is having on your reading habit.

A revelation of a read, and no mistake. It’s the first Peter Carey I’ve read and I was bowled over by the combination of sublime storytelling and prose that lights up the sky. I cannot believe it has taken me so long to get around to it. Vivid, thought-provoking, an emotional roller-coaster without ever being sentimental. Beautifully judged.

View all my reviews

From the back cover, this novel seemed a bespoke fit to my own preoccupations. The story moves initially between Glasgow and Edinburgh, two cities I spent the better part of twenty years toing-and-froing between. Then, as things gain speed, it moves to a remote Scottish island. The main character is an academic, at Glasgow Uni, who is overly involved with his subject – the life and work of a dead poet. As a postgrad at Glasgow uni I spent several years walking in much the same footsteps as Murray, albeit with far less havoc unraveling around me.

The core strand of the book, which is played out with great philosophical and, crucially, narrative success, is the question of whether or not our understanding of a writer’s work is enhanced by knowing more about his life. It’s a question I find endlessly fascinating, and never have I seen it developed so astutely in fiction.

There’s so much to admire and enjoy here, that I was quite surprised I’d not heard more about this book until now. It confirms everything her earlier novels promised would be the case. Louise Welsh consistently delivers intelligent, challenging, and ultimately highly satisfying work. More please, Louise!

View all my reviews

I first heard about this novel on The Review Show on BBC2 and was intrigued enough by the discussion to break my resolution about not buying any more books until (a) they were available for Sony eReader; and (b) I was ready to read them.

But right from the exquisite jacket design, I was so gripped with this book that I decided a physical copy was in order. I picked up Sunday evening, and would have happily read it in one sitting if only life hadn’t been so tortuously in the way.

As first time novels go, this is an enormous achievement. The prose is dazzling and Moscow is evoked in a way that makes this the Gorky Park of the new millennium. The plot is entirely linear, and is essentially the inevitable forward motion of one man’s failure to swerve any of the moral hazards he encounters while working as an expat lawyer in Russia. The narrator is very clear about what a flawed and cowardly creature he is, and yet it is a joy to read on because of the insights he offers into Russian culture and society.

As someone who has lived and worked as an expat in two European countries, I felt this book really nailed that heady sense of possibility that comes with the early stages of living abroad; the feeling that you can be who you want to be, run risks you never would normally take because you’ve stepped out of time for a bit.

To me, this was neatly underlined by the notion that the text was effectively a long, confessional letter from the narrator to his fiancée. During discussion on The Review Show there were those who felt this narrative conceit didn’t quite work, but personally I found it added real resonance to the novel. By quietly reminding us now and then that the narrator did actually want his wife-to-be to have a good opinion of him, and to accept him depraved past and all, we were reminded that the real stakes here are moral jeopardy. Depravity is only interesting if those engaging in it have their doubts, and so find their own behaviour wanting.

All in all, this a novel to thoroughly enjoy and admire, and I would have given this five stars if not for two things which began to grate by the end. Firstly, I’d have been happier if the two parallel strands of the plot had amplified each other more in some way, rather than simply being two different examples of the same character’s moral indifference. Secondly, I found the prose relied a bit too heavily on unwarranted foreshadowing, which then tended not to deliver as big a bang as promised somehow.

But overall, there is no shortage of things for the reader to be gripped by, and to admire. I only hope A.D. Miller is out there somewhere right now putting the finishing touches on his next novel.

View all my reviews

We’re just back from a wonderful short-break to Paris during which, among other things, I had a chance to revisit some of the choices I’d made in my crime novel This He Did Without Remorse.  It was the first time I’d been to Paris since starting work on the novel, and I was more than a little bit apprehensive about whether or not I’d find things quite as I had remembered them, or whether my Paris imaginaire really had taken on a life of its own.

In the end, I was pleasantly surprised. Apart from one or two missed opportunities (which I can now go back and exploit in a rewrite), the locations I had chosen were very much as I had remembered them.  No doubt this is thanks to the fact that (stealing shamelessly from Gertrude Stein) Paris is my hometown. Not literally, of course, but certainly emotionally. Since my first ever visit many years ago now it is the place for me where the best of everything, and in everyone, feels somehow within reach.

Obviously, I know this isn’t true. Like I said, I’ve been there before. But even when I am being violently confronted by irrefutable evidence to the contrary, I just can’t help myself from believing body and soul that Paris is perfect in every way.

So here, with the help of some of last weekend’s clichés, and in no particular order, is a snapshot tour of some of the settings in This He Did Without Remorse.

HÔTEL DES INVALIDES     

Commissioned in the 17th century as a hospital for soldiers, the glinting gold dome of this magnificent complex south of the river is still very much a jewel in the city’s crown today.

Although it is not particularly tall, it somehow still manages to be in sight from a wide range of unexpected locations all over the city and apt reminder of the omnipresent role of the military and church at the heart of French history. If you haven’t ever been inside, it is well worth the few minutes it takes to walk through the arched gateway into the Cour d’Honneur. It doesn’t cost you anything, but you will leave the richer for it.

The interior courtyard is cobbled, and lest you forget whose house you are in, a row of artillery is poised as a silent reminder down one side.

Straight ahead, and looking down at you from his balcony on the second floor, stands a majestic Napolean.  (It was my husband who spotted the fact that the Emperor now has an eternal view of his flag.)

Having this courtyard, le Cour D’Honneur feature prominently in the book was one of the early choices I made. Since both Hazel and Aida have their lives turned upside down in different ways through random meetings with László, I wanted there to be some parallels in their experience of meeting him. More particularly, I wanted them to first see him in the sort of light in which he might unconsciously wish he could be seen, before learning the truth about him. Since he is effectively a war criminal, Les Invalides seemed an obvious choice. This contrast of taking someone who knows he is a coward and yet who keeps returning to a setting where heroes are revered appealed to me as an expression of one of the identity themes running through the book, namely the extent to which we can be different people in different places.

THE I LOVE YOU WALL IN MONTMARTRE  

In a square behind Métro Abbesses is le mur des je t’aimes, a mosaic wall made up of the words ‘I Love You’ in hundreds of different languages. When I first read about this project some years ago, it took my breath away, and I knew then I would have to include it in one of the Paris novels.

Because translation, and the extent to which we can truly understand each other, is central to the novel, I decided very early on that I would set a first kiss in front of this totemic site for visitors to the City of Love. Initially, I thought it would be Hazel and László who went there, but then I realised that by waiting for it to be Aida instead, I had an opportunity to once again put László in a setting which belied his true nature.

You can read more about the I Love You wall here: http://www.lesjetaime.com/english/index.html

LA DURÉE & ANGELINA’S

For me, no visit to Paris ever feels complete without a trip to one of the many glorious Salons de Thé on offer, so I decided the same must be true of any novel which is set here. This has created a logistical headache, since I have a few dozen absolute favourite tea rooms. but so far only four novels planned in this series.

Since the relationship between Hazel and László was doomed from the start, I wanted to inject a cultural false note early on when we first meet them. So I had Hazel, a Scottish expat, look for atypically French’ gift she could offer to the Hungarian mechanic. In the realm of patisserie, I could think of nothing more iconic than the noble macaron, and so the opening visit to La Durée seemed a natural choice for Hazel to make.

Emira, Mila and Aida’s trip to Angelina’s was a much more personal choice. For one thing, it is my sister’s favourite tea room, and when she came to stay with me for Christmas 96 we went there five times in seven days. I knew then that if I ever were going to write a book set in Paris, then the characters would need to go to Angelina’s or I’d never hear the end of it.

But more than this, when I started to think about what Angelina’s means to me, I realised that it is the only Salon du Thé on my favourites list which I have never been to with any French friends, only other expats, or friends visiting France. As soon as I realised this, I knew it would be the ideal setting for the unexpected reunion between the reluctant emigrées Emira and Mila even though they have the French born Aida in tow, the scene takes place at a point in the novel before she has accepted this truth about herself.

While I was standing outside Angelina’s last Sunday afternoon (yes, I know what a stupid time/day to try and take a photo of anything on the rue de Rivoli) I narrowly missed being run over by some crazed cyclists, and ended up having a sort of serendipitous moment décisif when I realised they were on Vélibs, the municipal bikes-for-hire which also figure in Emira’s story.  So although I know it’s a rather incoherent snap, taken by someone stumbling backwards into others, I still love this image of a renegade Vélib rolling past on Angelina’s pavement.

I say this as someone who left her home and native land twenty-six years ago, and has lived in Scotland, France and England since then.  When I arrived in the UK I was still young enough to quickly find my feet, and that elusive sense of inclusion which lulls you into thinking you actually do belong.  I soon felt as at home in Glasgow as in Montreal, and was taken aback somewhere around year four, when I went ‘home’ for a visit only to find myself a stranger in a strange land.  Again, I was young enough that this didn’t worry me, but it did leave me feeling like I was outside my life, looking in a lot of the time.  When I moved to France in the mid-90s, I felt a similar assimilation experience, and found myself genuinely torn between there and Scotland, with Canada no longer really feeling part of my emotional equation.  Over the years, as is often the way of the long-term expat, my circle of friends came to resemble a UN committee.  I was rootless and fancy-free, and this didn’t worry me in the slightest.  It wasn’t until I married someone whose roots were planted centuries deep that it finally hit me that not only would I not be going home again, but the so-called ‘home’ in my head no longer even exists.

Questions of identity were pre-occupying me, and yet I could hardly have written a novel about my own experience. Imagine the blurb: Young woman from safe, affluent country moves to yet another G8 hotspot, before trying her hand at a third.  Instead, I did what writers have done for centuries.  I took my own pre-occupations with cultural and personal identity and gave them to characters for whom they could be matters of life and death.   It’s for this reason that This He Did Without Remorse is inhabited by people who have been violently uprooted from their own culture, as well as others who can trace their lineage back many generations in the same square kilometer, and a few who are in transit between the two.

This still doesn’t quite explain why Bosnia, or why Paris, specifically.

The Paris part is simple.  Firstly, I chose to set this novel there because in my heart, all roads lead to Paris.  Secondly, because from the start I knew questions of identity were going to be paramount, I wanted the background culture to be one where there was a disproportionately passionate, and yet ultimately benign, sense of national identity.  Most French people I know believe their way of life is demonstrably better than yours/mine/anyone else’s.  But they’re not really interested in taking up arms to persuade you of it.  Thirdly, in any police procedural series, it’s only a matter of time before the detectives have to contend with the war criminals coming to town.  Since this dovetails so neatly with other forms of migration in the book, it made sense to me to start with this book.

Why Bosnia?  As I said above, I was looking for a place where questions of cultural identity could potentially be a matter of life or death.  I also wanted a character who would be trying to take a sort of distance-learning approach to integrating into what she believed to be her true culture.  It struck me then that she should be from a culture I would also have to study as an outsider.  But neither could it be something entirely alien.  Having read Balkan literature (in translation) and seen films set there, and/or about there, it struck me as both very foreign, and yet highly recognisable.  I was brought up in Quebec, in a time of political tension over what appears on the surface to be a trivial cultural divide: what language do you speak?  When I first arrived in the UK, Quebec Independence was still a hot political topic, and people used to ask me, but what is it actually all about?  From the outside, the notion of political enmity based on a language divide seems completely absurd.  And yet, during this time, the Troubles were still in full swing, and in Quebec, people were asking themselves, but can they possibly be planting bombs over a religious divide?  Recently, I spent a day at the public library in Lisburn, where they have an extremely moving exhibition of photographs from the Troubles. Looking at those photos, I couldn’t help feeling how fortunate I was to have been born into a cultural divide where the two sides of a seemingly arbitrary political battle at least managed not to let their bigotry and animosity slide into widespread violence.   Of course, when ethnic cleansing began in the Balkans, not only was there wanton loss of life on all sides, but civilian populations had to endure the added tragedy of systematic rape.  This also contributed to my decision to have several of the characters come from this region.  For having grown rather bored of crime novels in which serial killers drag women victims to their maniacal lairs to chop them up, I wanted to write a police procedural series with a more in-depth view of the sorts of crimes perpetrated against women and children.

The result of all this has been This He Did Without Remorse, a story of identity, belonging, and how confronting the past can set you free.