Books: Zone One, Coulson Whitehead

In hindsight, reading a book about the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse was a terrible idea for someone confined to bed with a chest infection and (and this is crucial to my reaction to the book) a very high fever. In my delirium I felt the need to triple check the locks on all the doors and windows, and spent most of last night  planning my escape from the inevitable zombie hoards.

Described as 'A Zombie Novel with Brains', this is a slightly more literary take on the genre than usual. The main character we know only by the pseudonym Mark Spitz, and we follow him over the course of three days of the attempted reconstruction after the outbreak of the zombie plague.

After several years of anarchy a government of a sort has been reestablished and a project has been undertaken to clear out and make habitable a part of Manhattan - the Zone One of the title. The initial slash and burn has been carried out by marines, and the follow up is being handled by organised teams of civilians who methodically sweep the city looking for 'skels' (your traditional zombie) and 'stragglers' (infected individuals who for whatever reason have not turned into ravenous monsters, but who seem stuck in time. They are generally found just standing motionless in rooms and hideyholes around the city, and do not attack or even react to people). Mark Spitz is a member of one of these teams, and over the course of the book we follow his work clearing out the remaining zombies from the buildings, and learn about his life up until then through a series of flashbacks woven into the story.

The fact that this is very well written made it considerably scarier to me than most of the other zombie narratives I've read or watched. OK, so Dawn of the Dead might be more immediate, but Zone One is more existential. The fear grows on you. In particular I found the idea of the stragglers incredibly creepy. Mark spends a lot of time pondering why they've ended up where they are. There is obviously something about the particular sports they return to that draws them in, and they then stand there, motionless, until they gradually rot away. For some reason it is Mark's attempts to understand the infected that really gave me the willies. What if they're conscious in there, and aware but unable to control their behaviour? What if they really are just mindless drones driven by impulse? Which is worse? The funny thing is, the idea of coming is somehow worse than the idea of being attacked by something that's trying to kill you, because when something's trying to eat your face, it is at least a bit more understandable than the silent, slowly dying mannequins.

Having said all that, it's quite funny as well, in a morbid sort of way. Mark is something of a philosopher with a cynical streak and a talent for observation. I particularly liked the way he imagines what other people are seeing when they take down the monsters. The preppy white girl sees the welfare cheats, the overweight, the poor who don't try to make better lives for themselves. The trailer trash loud mouth sees them as the teachers who picked on him, the employers who wouldn't give him a chance, everyone who ever held him down. As always with zombie stories, the zombies themselves are just a metaphor of the things we're afraid of (whether that's death, illness, or having our entrails torn out by crazed monsters).

Very unsettling, darkly funny and a much better thought out and executed look at the zombie narrative than the usual. Highly recommended for those not suffering from mind-altering illnesses.

I also highly recommend this article by Simon Pegg on what it is about zombie stories that pushes our buttons so successfully. 

Terry Pratchett and the meaning of life, plus a self involved digression

Jdack and I went and saw Terry Pratchett in conversation with Garth Nix at the Opera House last weekend. It was all kinds of wonderful, mainly because I am a massive Pratchett nerd (and also a pretty big Garth Nix fan), and I had a slightly surreal fan-girl moment of giddy I-am-not-worthy-ness at being in the same room as someone who ranks so highly in my personal pantheon. It almost makes me wish I’d dressed up, just to get into the spirit of the thing, like these people;

Pratchett talked a bit about the new book (yay, it’s a city watch book!) and there was a reading of an extract from it. But he mostly talked about his condition (a rare form of early onset Alzheimer’s) and his advocacy for assisted dying. I’m a little bit ambivalent about the idea of assisted dying. On the one hand, I absolutely think that people with fatal illnesses should be able to choose to end their life with dignity when the suffering gets to be too much. But I disagree with people who think that assisted suicide should extend to people with depression, for example (not that Pratchett seemed to be suggesting this, but just to explain why I’m iffy on it). Like many people, I’ve dealt with depression for years, and occasionally take medication to help me keep on an even keel. I understand the pain of depression, but I worry that if it was considered grounds for assisted dying that many people who could be saved would take the option. I’ve been so down that if someone had offered me a sure-fire, painless ticket out, I would have taken it (don’t freak out, I’ve never planned to kill myself and I’m getting better and better at riding out the dark times as I get older, mainly because I don’t feel embarrassed about asking for help these days, and also because I’m lucky that the people who are close to me are very good at noticing when I’m starting to spiral downwards). But Pratchett makes an interesting case that is hard to argue with, and he is well worth listening to. There’s a great interview here, on the ABC Book Show. 

We really need more media coverage of people like him on highly emotive issues like this, instead of the sensationalism and fear mongering we generally get. He’s intelligent, eloquent, and in many ways you could think of him as the non-threatening face of this movement. He’s an irascible old fart (and I mean that in the best possible way), a sort of exasperating but cuddly grandfather figure and it’s hard to argue with his point of view. And I completely agree with him that as a society, we need to stop allowing ourselves to be held hostage by a few shadowy religious types, on this topic and many others. Time and again we see that, along with assisted dying, the vast majority Australians are in favour of the decriminalisation of abortion, and are in favour of gay marriage, yet there is a tiny core of nutters that stops us from moving forward. I’ve really never understood why these people care so much what goes on in the bedrooms and bodies of other people, and who knows why the politicians are so scared of them, but I say to the nutters out there, if you care that much about this stuff, feel free to go and form your own society somewhere else, where you can repress whoever and whatever you like, and let the grownups get on with the business of making decisions rationally. 

Ahem. Sorry, I got a bit off topic there. Where was I? Oh,  yes. Terry Pratchett. At the end of his talk he handed out plastic teeth (if you’re familiar with his books you’ll understand why. Otherwise, I direct you to Hogfather).

We were too far back from the stage to get any, but it was a wonderful spectacle nonetheless; how often do you get to see an internationally best-selling author hurling handfuls of plastic teeth from the stage of the concert hall in the Sydney Opera House? Then we all sang Happy Birthday, gave him a round of applause and that was that.

You could own this! Yes, you!

From the Leura Books website; 76 pages. The love and tragedy of a Crown Prince. Some foxing to the outer edges.

Who doesn't long for a hairy-chested, slightly foxed lover?

Everything But the Squeal

I have just finished reading a brilliant book called Everything but the Squeal, which I recommend to anyone interesting in finding out about the north of Spain. It is a hugely entertaining book by an English writer who lives in the relatively little known (outside of Spain, obviously) region of Galicia. Married to one of Spain’s few vegetarians, he is infatuated with his adopted homeland, a feeling I am starting to recognise. In order to celebrate his love of Spain and its food, he embarks on a year long quest to sample all the culinary delights that the humble pig has to offer. He travels around Galicia, seeking out all the piggy morsels he can get his hands on. Along the way he offers a huge amount of information about the history of Northern Spain and about the language and culture, meaning that this is a book that rises above its gimmick, and offers something far more substantial.

 

This is as much an ode to the pig as it is to Galicia and its people. Barlow brings to his subjects a wry humour that can only be compared to Bill Bryson at his most bemused and self-deprecating, and a keen eye for observation that makes this one of those books that you can sink into joyfully. Though I would add a couple of caveats; this is not a book that you should read on an empty stomach, because it will make you ravenous, and it is definitely not a book that would be enjoyed by sensitive vegetarians, though I imagine that more robust veggos out there would like reading it immensely.

His book conveys the joyous, eager gluttony that he embarks on over the course of the year, and I suppose that in addition to Bill Bryson, his passionate determination to jump in and try everything is reminded me of Anthony Bourdain. I’ll leave you with Barlow’s description of his experience at a cachucha fiesta, a village-wide celebration in which people cut loose, get dressed in ridiculous costumes, and eat a dish of boiled pig heads dispensed from huge cauldrons in the village square;

Before long Paco gets his prize. With true gallantry he turns and offers it to me. But I refuse, and continue to edge forward, more elbows in my back, reaching up as high as I can, outstretched fingers wiggling to attract the attention of the cachucha man. Pride demands that I claim my own dinner tonight, and after a good bit of shoving and stretching, I have a piece of hot pig in my hand. Instinctively, I hold it close to my chest, greedy with meat lust, and make my way to a dark doorway...I stand amid a pile of discarded cans and bottles, breathless, and suddenly ravenous. 

What I have in my hand is a lump of cheek. Such is the stickiness of its slow-boiled outer skin that it is stuck firm to the palm of my hand. It stinks of swine, a primal, shudder-making stink, like the deep, guttural elements of pork aromas stripped of their more delicate notes. But I have fought hard for this. I shove my mouth into the soft inner side of the fatty slab and gnaw at the flesh. It is intensely but not unpleasantly salty. Shreds of tender meat come away easily. Immediately there’s grease all over my face... In my mouth the sensation is abhorrent and yet bizarrely satisfying. The fat coats everything, inside and out. Cachucha! Cachucha! Cachucha!