The only thing these books have in common is that I’ve read and enjoyed them this year. Apart from that, anything goes. Some are old, some are new, some I really should have read before. Some I already had. Whatever. Here, in no particular order, are my annotated suggestions for summer reading. Make of them what you will….

Cultural Amnesia – Clive James

The great thing about this book, is that on the off chance that you’re a complete cretin and don’t enjoy it, it’ll make a perfect wheel chock for your e18 tonne Mac truck. As for me, Cultural Amnesia is one of the highlights of the year, with James becoming one of my heroes on the strength of this book alone. Taking 100 or so historical figures he considers essential to our understanding of culture and civilization, James provides a brief biography, before presenting a quote from said figure. He then spends between three and 30 pages riffing on this quote, digressing, cross-referencing and diverting with breath-taking style and erudition. He writes so well that even when he’s completely wrong you want to believe him, and when he’s right you can only shake your head and start underlining. It’s not always easy reading, but it’s seldom very hard either. I think of this book as being like a magical dictionary. Open it anywhere and you’re going to find something that educates, challenges, and enlightens you.

The Discomfort Zone – Jonathan Franzen

This collection of personal memoirs by the author of the brilliant book The Corrections focuses on his formative years as an awkward boy growing up too slowly in the suburban Mid-West USA. I developed a brief obsession with Franzen this year, and it’s well worth checking out Strong Motion, How to Be Alone, and The Twenty Seventh City as well.

Falling for Science – Bernard Beckett

Beckett is a science teacher and novelist, with Falling for Science his first non-fiction book, the result of a year he spent studying on a Royal Society Fellowship. This is a clever book from a clever guy. Doing for popular science writing what popular science writing does for academic science writing (think about it), he manages to distill the history of scientific thought into one 250 page volume. He’s well-read, lucid, stylishly irreverent and funny. (My favourite line is from his chapter on evolution: “So, evolution eh?”). While he didn’t manage to convince me of his main thesis, Falling for Science is excellent introduction to scientific thought, and includes a great reading list.

Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen

The novels of Jane Austen will shortly be crossed off the list of books I’m embarrassed not to have read. P&P is a good place to start. I wish I could marry Lizzie. That is all.

The Lazy Boys – Carl Shuker

I read this horrendously twisted piece of New Zealand writing in one torturously sleepless night. It’s been described as Scarfies meets American Psycho, and it’s better than both. “Days loom, pause, chuckle, and wait to loom some more” is a line that stuck in my mind, and fairly adequately describes the feel of the book. Never have I missed ye olde home towne of Dunedin less. A home game at Carisbrook is transformed into a scene from Inferno, and every insecure, embarrassing moment of high school/first year is brought back in excruciating detail. I’m looking forward to reading Shuker’s first novel The Method Actors, if I can ever find a copy.

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loanna – Umberto Eco

‘History is a blood drenched enigma and the world an error’. Unlike the Shuker quote above, this bears little relation to the book as a whole, but it does illustrate the beauty of Eco’s writing, even after translation. Queen Loanna is equal parts thriller, mystery, surrealism and literary game. The references and allusions are endless, and part of the fun. I probably noticed about an eighth of them. Dealing with the concepts of memory, love and loss; Italian history and politics; coming of age; war; and literature, this is classic Eco – witty, erudite, and complex.

House of Leaves – Mark Z. Danielewski

Described as “distressingly scary” by Brett Easton Ellis of all people, House of Leaves should come with a sanity warning. Simultaneously a horror story, a wickedly ironic send-up of post-modernist writing, and a post-modern literature/typography experiment, this tale of a creepy shape-changing house and its demented victims is guaranteed to fuck with your mind.

I’m starting to sense the approach of a word limit, so I’ll finish things up here. I hope that you find something you like in this list, or at least have fun scoffing at my bad taste. The books featured here are just the first few that came to mind from what I’ve read this year. With more room to write I’d love to share my pulp/sci-fi obsessions of ‘07 (Alistair Reynolds, Richard Morgan, Iain M. Banks), or rave on incessantly about Dylan Thomas, Ian McEwan and Don Delillo, all of whom I’ve re-read in the last twelve months.

Never mind. Good luck for exams, enjoy summer, etc etc etc….

And yet, I loved this book. The appreciation and enjoyment with which Braunias approaches his subject is infectious, and as is always the case, his writing is engaging, witty, humorous and knowledgeable.Many of Braunias’ trademark elements are present throughout the book: his off-hand humour, at times rather cutting – “Middleton Grange goes into the nonsense of a young earth created by God 8000 years ago. The rest of us can thank birds for explaining the way the world really works…” His evocative use of language, which never strays into pretentious wordplay, but is always directed at communicating his point:“If you want to know how to look at a bird, what you do is borrow someone else’s eyes” – that is, getting hold of a pair of binoculars.

Of course, as I was soon to learn, binoculars are always referred to as “bins”, and details like these are scattered throughout the book, as well as wry comment on the ins and outs of the New Zealand birding scene. (If you haven’t guessed by now “birder’ and ‘birding’ are the terms preferred over ‘bird-watcher’ and bird-watching’).

These details include the differences of opinion held by New Zealand birders towards the work of the Conservation Department, and the important distinction between those birders who care about birds and those who simply care about spotting them. Braunias makes occasional references throughout the book to his relationship with his partner and their new-born child. While some writers might attempt some sort of dual storyline or other, similar literary device, Braunias avoids this trap, instead using these brief episodes to add a still more personal touch to a work that is already highly personal in its approach.

While at times I have felt vaguely perplexed by some of Braunias’ journalism, this book is a highly approachable example of his writing, and it’s easy, conversational tone and modest length make for an entertaining read.

STEVE BRAUNIUS

JAAM’s intent has always been to feature the work of upcoming writers alongside that of more established names, and it’s a credit to the overall high standard of writing in this issue that the more well-known authors don’t steal the entire show. Personal highlights include the bouncily infectious, puppy-like enthusiasm of Lawrence Patchett’s narration in Bussing It, transforming a mundane commute into an exclamation mark strewn voyage full of love and the enjoyment of life. A completely different sort of journey is evoked by James O’Sullivan in Laps, as bored teenage girls cruise the main drag of New Plymouth on some random Saturday night. Here it’s not life or love that’s important, but how many numbers you have on your phone, who’s texting who, sleeping with who, scoring who, whatever, the idiom is neatly captured, and I liked the allusion to the lack of distinction between the dual monotonies of work (or school) and recreation, so often experienced when young.

Surd person circular by Brian E. Turner is one of the poems that co-editor Needham refers to as among the “games” of the selection – those works that require the reader to ‘actively engage to release their hidden pleasures’. It’s worth the effort to enjoy Turner’s bizarre wordplay, with its strangely lyrical use of mathematical and scientific terms at odds with the free nature and absurdity of the poem.

JAAM 24 is an enjoyable collection of writing from a talented bunch of New Zealanders, and is a nice snapshot of recent work by less well-known authors.

More information can be found at www.headworx.eyesis.co.nz/JAAM/about.php.

EDITED BY CLARE NEEDHAM AND HELEN RICKERBY

The cover image features a picture of a hand grenade – apparently reflecting the fact that, “while the book may be small, it sure packs a wallop”. I’m guessing, (hoping) that this might be an instance of the satirical nature of the book influencing the promotional writing that accompanies it, as it does seems a slightly off-key statement when you consider the political tone of much of the book.

That’s because much of Kendrick’s writing is angry.

He’s angry about war, American foreign policy, bullshit Kiwi drinking culture, student loans, and getting up in the morning. I can’t say that I’m too fond of any of those things either, so I enjoyed reading his take on them, despite at times becoming a little weary of his often strident tone. Kendrick is a poet I would like to hear in performance – he’s twice won the Wellington Poetry Slam – and the stuttering rhythms and incessant rhyming of most of his poetry seems as if it would suit a live, almost rap-style delivery.

The flipside of the book – the collected articles from Babylon Express – is a more overtly humorous offering. Like all good satire it’s topical and instantly striking, and some of the articles were funny enough to earn me guarded looks as I sniggered my way through them on the bus. It would be great fun to share some of the jokes with you all, but, like the trailer to The Simpsons movie, that would just ruin all the best parts. I will say though, that it is definitely the only publication ever to feature the words ‘talented’, ‘charming’ and ‘Paul Holmes’ all in the same sentence, and is therefore worth buying for novelty value alone.

This is hardly surprising, as Connew, an established local photographer, has reported widely from around the world and New Zealand, detailing the lives of the disaffected from many areas. In the case of Fiji, he has a close familial connection with the country, as both of his daughters are married to Fijians.

The differences in the accounts his two sons – one indigenous, the other Indian-Fijian, – had given of their country inspired Connew to go and explore the “two countries” that make up modern Fiji.

The powerful series of images he returned with detail the lives of the Indian-Fijian men of the Vatiyaka III cane cutting gang, their friends, and their families, and were all taken between 2000 and 2003.

Many members of their families have since migrated to locations as diverse as Canada, Australia, the USA and New Zealand, and the book ends with a series of home photographs sent back to Fiji by these émigrés.

As well as the moving photography the book also features the story ‘Mr. Arjun’, by Brij V Lal, a Professor of Pacific and Asian History at the Australian National University. This story is a brief but powerful account of Arjun Kaka, who was one of the last links to a previous generation of Fijian-Indian farmers, many of who have émigré children. The story details his voyage to Australia to be reunited with his children and visit his former plantation overseer.

Equal parts documentary, artwork and memoir, Stop Over is a beautifully presented, affecting, and informative book.

BRUCE CONNEW

Riffing on the ‘boy meets beautiful maiden, goes a’ questing to win said maiden’s love, adventures ensue and characters learn valuable life lesson’ theme, Gaiman playfully subverts the modern conception of fairy stories and who they are aimed at. While today usually considered the domain of children, the origins of fairy tales in the folk stories collected by authors such as the Grimm brothers are often decidedly more risqué, if not downright lascivious, and Gaiman pays homage to his sources with restrained dose of sex, violence, and obscenity.

A debt is also owed (and acknowledged) to writers such as Phillip Pullman and Diana Wynne-Jones: at times I was almost expecting Wizard Howl to gatecrash the party in his magical moving castle, but to be fair, every fairytale is an amalgam of previous stories, and there is no reason a modern one should be any different. And the good points of the novel: the humorously retro, mock-Victorian delivery, inventive characters and the pure enjoyment to be found in the text, with its winks at Gaiman’s friends, (the inclusion of Tori Amos as the friendly tree for example) more than make up for the occasional feeling that I’d heard it all before.

No doubt Stardust will be undeservedly overshadowed by the nauseous Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows this year, but Gaiman’s world of faerie will exist long after the Rowling Empire has crumbled and been forgotten by the media machine that created it.

NEIL GAIMAN

It could serve just as well to illustrate the lack of connectedness or rapport I felt for any of the characters while reading this sparse and, at times, beautiful, novel. It’s a cliché that rich people are boring, (the relentless pursuit of money seldom leaves time for interesting pastimes, apparently), and Miss me a lot of does little to dispel this idea, if indeed it needs dispelling.

Holly is the daughter of some super rich guy who talks on his cell phone pretty much constantly, except when cheating on his wife, sleeping with secretaries and playing golf. She is a talented dancer who has (naturally) received the best education money can buy, but is too lazy to commit to dancing at a high level. She would rather spend her time mooning over her enigmatic neighbour, lolling around on the beach, or sighing over her lack of success in love.

Mr. Enigmatic is G, a suave Italian businessman, (who, it is implied, has the same relationship to olive oil importing that Tony Soprano has to waste disposal management), and all round nice guy, with, it would seem, an eye for the younger ladies.

The sexual tension between G and Holly increases over the years, although their apparent longing for each other is of course hampered, what with G being married, and Holly about 30-odd years younger than him. Gross.

In the meantime, Holly moves to New York, and strings along a succession of guys who fall in love with her looks, only to leave when they realise (I imagine) that she has absolutely no personality whatsoever.

Despite the lack of empathy I had for any of the characters (who knows, maybe that’s the whole point, but I would at least like to be made to feel a lack of empathy, rather than just lack empathy for them) the book is at times a lovely read. The language is sensuous and evocative, with languorous descriptions of setting and mood offsetting the sparse characterisations.

LOUISE WAREHAM LEONARD

Seldom, if ever, do we pause from this casual boxing and labeling of other people’s lives to consider the accuracy of our judgments, or the effect that this might be having on their lives. Filthy hippie, drop-out student, bored housewife, arrogant advertising designer, young lovers, shallow d.i.n.k’s, whores. These are the boxes that we confine people to, for better or worse, without a moment of hesitation.

Wellington author Sarah Laing is determined to show that people are more than this, more than mere statistics, that her characters are real people with 3D, Technicolor minds, that they have dark pasts, haunting secrets, quirky attributes of one type or another. That they’re real people, dammit!

Her method is to open up the boxes, invade the minds of her characters, and display their inner lives for the world to read about. After having experienced first-hand these inner lives, my fondest wish is that they all quickly and without fuss return to their boxes, preferably to then be encased in concrete and dropped in the middle of Cook Strait, where I’ll never have to think about them again.

The only thing I found more annoying than the dull, self-pitying, washed-out characters was the writing itself, which alternated between pointlessly boring and just, well, bad. “Caterpillars chewing through his cabbage bloom of love” is a line that the world could probably do without, and one that came close to putting me off vegetables in general, not to mention love.

And call me picky, but Darth Vader’s line “I am your father” is from the Star Wars film The Empire Strikes Back, not The Return of the Jedi, and is the second wrong Star Wars reference Laing includes, despite the fact that she clearly hasn’t seen the films since they were first released. Little things maybe, but in a book almost completely devoid of highpoints, references to real popular culture stand out, mis-references even more so.

The occasional moments when the writing does manage to rise above the mean of pointless tedium that the book sets for itself are too few to make Coming Up Roses any more than the most lacklustre of reads.

SARAH LAING

Narrated from the point of view of Jas, the wannabe-rudeboy, who never feels accepted by his tougher, dumber peers, Londonstani is the story of a group of young “Pakis, Rajamuffins, Britasians, and Desis” – members of the Sikh, Muslim and Hindu community of Hounslow, London, and is told in the fractured patois of the London street scene – a mixture of slang, text message abbreviation, and vernacular English.

The book details the exploits of a group of these delinquents as they cruise the streets in their boy-racer cars: looking for girls, starting fights, receiving stolen cell-phones, and picking up eggs, milk and scented toilet paper for their demanding mothers. After a particularly nasty fight a former teacher in the hopes that he will be a positive role model introduces them to a businessman, Sanjay. Needless to say, Sanjay is no longer a straight businessman, but is definitely in the business, man, and he immediately cuts them a deal into one of his scams.

Everyone gets rich quick, and buys even cooler phones, baggier jeans and crappier hip-hop CD’s.

Considering the number of times Jas references Reservoir Dogs, it’s hard to understand why he is so surprised when everything goes sour, the shit hits the fan, and he is left in a sticky situation, facing a difficult moral choice. Oh, and there’s a “shocking” last minute revelation.

Londonstani is Gautam Malkani’s first novel, and while it has some great moments – the vicious fight scene narrated using cricketing jargon is a hilarious highlight – overall the book is too meek to be truly enjoyable. Comparisons with Irvine Welsh are tempting due to the use of the vernacular language, but where Welsh is a voice of shocking yet realistic depravity, Malkani’s story is too PG-rated to provide anything other than mild amusement. Large portions of the book seem devoted to the explication of Sanjay’s theory of “bling economics” (Malkani is a journalist for Financial Times) and various characters’ political views. While these are interesting in themselves, they do little to contribute to the story, and are hardly original enough to warrant the time spent on them.

Of course it is unlikely that Malkani’s intent was to shock and awe his audience ala Welsh, Selby Junior, Easton Ellis et al, but when the alternative is boredom, I would prefer the blitzkrieg of Last Exit to Brooklyn or Acid House than an economics lecture, no matter how amusingly delivered.

GAUTAM MALKANI

Unfortunately, The Prefect, Reynolds’ first full length novel since the stand-alone sci-fi thriller Pushing Ice, has almost none of these attributes, and reads more like a B-grade crime novel set in orbit than the space- operas Reynolds is admired for writing.

It does, however, share characteristics with many operas of the musical variety – the unconvincing storyline, ragged plot, underdeveloped characters, and predictable deus ex machina finale – all of which make it a disappointing addition to Reynolds’ thus far successful future history.

Set around 100 years prior to the events of Revelation Space, the story begins with an investigation into a mass-murder, the guilty parties of which are decidedly not what they seem (gosh, whoever would have thought). Tasked with unraveling the intrigues and underhanded goings-on is Tom Dreyfus, a grizzled, world-weary cop, who, when not tied up with endless amounts of paperwork, battles with the fact that he can’t seem to remember whether he killed his wife eight years ago.

Along the way Dreyfus and his trusty partners Thalia (beautiful, computer expert, troubled family history) and Sparver (loyal, not too smart, good in a fire fight) encounter rogue machine intelligences, crooked cops, killer robots, and an attempt to overthrow democracy! Naturally, Dreyfus overcomes all of these obstacles with gruff humour and grim determination. His propensity for taking the law into his own hands is justified in the end when he saves the day, while only sacrificing the lives of a few million civilians (all for the greater good, of course).

Reynolds has a demonstrated talent for combining elements of noir and hardboiled crime thriller with his science fiction, Chasm City and Century Rain being excellent examples. Unfortunately The Prefect misses the mark, and the insight it provides into the history of the Revelation Space universe fails to make up for the predictable outcome and shallow characters.

ALISTAIR REYNOLDS

Martin Edmond is a New Zealand born writer and poet, having written film scripts, essays, and has won or been short-listed for numerous awards, including the award for biography at the Montana NZ Book awards.

His latest book consists of childhood reminiscences, essays, musings, poetry, and debate over a wide range of topics. At times pretentious, dense, wordy, beautiful, poetic, blunt, musical, self-deprecatory, nostalgic, and contradictory, Waimarino County makes for generally rewarding, if occasionally rather difficult, reading.

From the Proustian concept of memories that are created by the act of remembering to the idea of a history that may or may not be real, literary references are found throughout the book. Memory and recollection are recurring themes, and the contradictory nature of memory versus actual experience is implied by the way that metaphors are re-used over the course of the book: memory itself is a palimpsest, later a map, covered in annotations and corrections. Later still, the map is used as a metaphor for life.

While a lot may be read into these themes, and others that appear (Cityscape versus countryside, past versus present), many repetitions and cross-references occuring throughout the book are the result of Edmond’s own “obsessions or predilections”, leaving the reader free to draw their own conclusions as to their meaning.

While tending at times to the obscure, if not willfully confusing, Waimarino County is worth the effort required to understand its more difficult passages, and with the wide range of subjects and styles it encompasses should stand up well to repeat readings.

MARTIN EDMOND
(Auckland University Press)

According to Daniel H.Wilson, the creator of How to Survive a Robot Uprising, it’s only a matter of time before our kindly, subservient machines attain sentience, organise themselves, and wipe us all out.

And if anyone should know, it’s Wilson. With a Ph.D. in Robotics from Carnegie Mellon University, his credentials are impeccable to say the least.

Luckily for humanity, Wilson has decided to share his knowledge of all things robotic, and, if enough people read his book, perhaps a few will survive to continue the human race. With handy tips on how to spot the first signs of machine rebellion, treat laser wounds, and live safely in rogue smart houses (be wary of requests to ‘inspect’ the oven), Wilson’s book is a witty, informative and vitally important read.

As well as the humour, and ubiquitous pop-culture references, How to Survive a Robot Uprising, has just enough actual science to remain interesting, even after the jokes start to wear a little thin.

With simple explanations of how robots accomplish everyday tasks such as acquiring visual data, steering, navigation, and dismembering human limbs, the book can serve as a (very) basic introduction to the field of robotics and artificial intelligence in general.

The retro-future illustrations and diagrams add to the laughs, while the shiny foil cover not only looks good, but can be used to reflect laser beams if necessary. A must-have volume for committed survivalists, geeks, and sci-fi fans.

DANIEL H. WILSON

After “A Brief Introduction” which places the events in 1930’s Paris, the story begins with a series of deftly rendered black and white pencil drawings, zooming in on a bustling Parisian train station and finally capturing a shot of Hugo – up to no good – spying on the proprietor of a sweet stall, from his perch behind a station clock.

From here, Selznick alternates between written text and more pencil drawings to outline the events of the story. All of the characters are initially introduced by pictures but, to my relief, dialogue is included in the text (rather than in comic book style speech bubbles).

The overall effect is of reading film – not as a script, but rather a magical transformation of projector reel into words and pictures, with the sensation of being in an old cinema – enhanced by the wide black margins and short segments of text set in the middle of each page.

Film, as it turns out, is what the story is all about. The book is a love affair with early movies, in particular those of the director Georges Méliès – the creator of some of the first moving pictures, and the innovator who realized that movies need not depict the real world but create dreams, and transform fantasy into visual reality.

Selznick’s strengths definitely lie with illustration. The story, with its simplicity and attempt at mystery, will appeal to the younger readers at whom the book is aimed. But it is the visual/artistic aspects that carry the work. One of the most surprising and poignant moments is when, after many pages of text and illustration, a black and white film still is suddenly interspersed. Details like these, along with the reproductions of Méliès’ original sketches, are enough to make up for the unconvincing plot and characterisations.

BRIAN SELZNICK

Dennett is an experienced and respected philosopher, and has been a prolific writer for a number of years, with previous titles including Darwin’s Dangerous Idea, Freedom Evolves, and the well-known Consciousness Explained. His topics have, until now, focussed mainly on the philosophy of mind and consciousness, artificial intelligence and the paradox of free will. Breaking the Spell is the first of his books to focus specifically on religion, although he revisits many of the ideas and topics covered in earlier books and essays in order to illustrate the points he makes.

While unashamedly writing from, and (to my mind) successfully defending an atheistic, evidence-based view of life, Dennett for the most part avoids getting obviously worked up about his topic, although it is very clear that it is one he feels strongly about. Instead he takes pains to present his argument as reasonably as possible, in a tone that is equal parts conversational and scholarly, and avoids (or does his best to avoid) talking down to his audience.

Dennett states more than once throughout the book, that his aim is not to provide answers, but to provoke questions, thought and discussion. His typically eloquent approach allows him to apologise to the people who might find these questions offensive, without sounding as if he is simply trying to please all audiences.

This is not to say that he backs down from stating his case at any point. His discussion of the evolutionary roots of religion, and the modern-day means by which religious thought is often protected by the application of a shoddy veneer of pseudo-scientific language (which Dennett refers to as the “academic smoke-screen”) is direct, informative and insightful.

Breaking the Spell is an excellent book, not only for those of us interested in the question of religion, but for anyone interested in philosophy, morality, or evolution.

DANIEL C. DENNET

Meditations is essentially an early self-help book, written like a series of diary entries and reflective scribblings while Aurelius was on campaign from 170-180. The book contains some fairly classic aphorisms, including what is perhaps the first recorded instance of the phrase, “Live each day as if it were your last”, and – my personal favourite – “You are nothing but a soul carrying a corpse – as Epictetus used to say.”

Whether or not you agree with his philosophy – mainly based on Stoicism, with a dash of Epicureanism, the requisite Roman paganism and a healthy measure of cynicism – the man certainly had a gift for well-turned phrases. Flicking through the book looking for good one-liners was definitely more enjoyable than reading it all the way through, although the fact that it was written as a personal diary and was never intended for publication makes this approach seem a little more justified.

A notable feature of this particular edition is the lack of cover art, of which it is up to the reader to supply/draw/paint directly onto the cover – “Books by the greats – covers by you”. You can even view other people’s attempts at www.penguin.co.uk/mypenguin.

MARCUS AURELIUS

I mention this because, as well as being a place full of many fond memory lapses, Lilo was where I first encountered Wellington four-piece The Inkling.

This (post) rock/jazz/instrumental/whatever group sadly only released one album, but Deluge, recorded by Lee Prebble at the Surgery, will ensure that they are not forgotten any time soon.

From the first track, The Inkling establish the fact that they are a clever, inventive, and sophisticated bunch of musicians. Irregular time signatures and unpredictable chord progressions are combined with impulsive changes of tempo and mood. This is contrasted by long repeated riffs over static chord progressions, which create an almost minimalist feel. Offbeat tone-clusters, reminiscent of Monk, vie for attention with frantic interjections from the trumpet in ‘The Booyeouw Shamble’, while ‘Foreign Exchange’ creates a mood that is at once melancholic and brooding, with a driving, incessant bass-line supporting a delicate, slightly breathy vocal delivery.

While the diverse mix of styles and musical elements can at times make for difficult listening, the tightness of the ensemble playing and the clever, thoughtful arrangements mean that the album never lacks coherence. This is a recording to savour and admire for its unconventional and oddball brilliance.

At the age of 58, Steinbeck had decided that he had lost contact with his country. Driven by his love of travelling – a love he refers to as akin to an obsession or disease – he set out across 38 states in a camper van (which he named Rocinante), accompanied only by his French poodle, Charles le Chien (Charley).

Over several months in 1960, he wandered from Maine to California – through the Deep South and across the plains lying beneath the massive skies of Montana. Along the way, he recorded his meetings and conversations, his thoughts and reflections, and his ideas about what makes America what it is.

Put simply, Travels with Charley is a brilliant piece of writing. The ease with which it is read belies the beauty of Steinbeck’s use of language, and – despite wanting to savour every line – I read the book in about a day (and then read through most of it a second time).

I find that travel writing often descends into repetitive and disjointed episodes (“And then I did this. And then I did that”), reminiscent of listening to somebody talk about their holiday snapshots. Unsurprisingly, Steinbeck evades this trap with ease. The humour, sensitivity, and passion with which he approaches his subject all set the book apart from other explorations of the USA.

Travels with Charley is a classic that I’ve always felt is unfairly overshadowed by Steinbeck’s more famous works and, although the journey it depicts was taken in the 1960’s, many of the observations are still interesting and relevant today.

JOHN STEINBECK