Short Attention Span Book Reviews Return

Once upon a time there were book reviews, and then...

Well, what's the point? Nobody reads anymore, but if they did, here are three from October that just might fill a lazy Sunday afternoon...

Bobby Fischer Goes to War: How the Soviets Lost the Most Extraordinary Chess Match of All Time by David Edmonds and John Eidinow is a hoot, friends. I don't know the first thing about chess, but this is the second book about it (see the great Walter Tevis' The Queen's Gambit for the real deal, budding novel hacks) that had me flipping pages like that dude in the joke about the tiniest violin player. Fischer is a fascinating character study if you like savant bastards. He is a repulsive human being who today would be diagnosed as autistic. The man's social skills make me look like an above-Highland player. I was actually more interested in Boris Spassky, who comes off as a fascinating rebel in a Soviet system that will not tolerate deviation from the Party line. That contrast of personalities is intriguing enough, but throw in the Cold War backdrop and the whole thing plays like a great sports movie blended with a LeCarre thriller. These are the same guys that brought us Wittgenstein's Poker, so they're playing for a laymen audience. They're far more interested in the psychological undercurrents between the players and handlers and the various meanings to be had from an American bastard facing a Soviet sophisticate when the Cold War was still reasonably hot. All that and Henry Kissinger, too. What's not to like?

I finally finished the third of John Burdett's Sonchai Jitpleecheep novels, Bangkok Haunts, and the streak continues because this is another entertaining ride through the Buddhist sensibility of our hero as he tracks some sick rich fucks looking for the ultimate thrill by producing a snuff film starring a former Sonchai lover for the pleasure of other sick rich fucks to whack to when that stripper on the pole just won't do. You get all the Thai cultural insider stuff, the condescension towards the West and particularly America, the deeply plotted intrigue, and the endearing Jitpleecheep at the center again as he tries to stay true to principle in a city given over to flesh for cash and the corruption that breeds. All three deliver quality entertainment value, and perhaps offer a mild balance to the celebration of sex tourism Mr. Houllebecq fancies in. And where, for the love of provocation, is that bastard's new one?

The reclusive southerner, Padget Powell, has a new "novel" composed entirely of questions, so I figured it was time I went back and read the one that made his name, Edisto, a coming-of-ager made fresh by our 13-year old hero having the old soul voice that comes from an alchie mom who insists he stay home from school, read the classics and work on his novels. The voice takes some getting used to, but when you find the rhythm, the rewards in language alone tickle the eye. Throw in some local color and the juke joint where our hero sips Schlitz and a visit to an Ali/Frazier bout complete with Easter hats and barfing, and you have a pleasant Saturday afternoon of leisure.