I used to read quite a few graphic novels during my teens; not as much as some of the people I went to school with, who were aficionado’s, of a sort, and often seemed to be employing some kind of private language when they were talking to each other, but, then, they were mainly teenage boys, so I could say that about almost anything they were talking about. In any case, I was too busy indulging my own secret literary peccadilloes at the time to really explore the genre seriously, and, eventually, I stopped reading them all together – at least, until this year. As it is, I have slowly been reintroducing the graphic genre to my literary palette, and I have actually really enjoyed the process.

The first graphic novel I read this year was purchased on something of a whim with some money I had received for my birthday, so, choosing from the two books my local indie book shop had in stock, I walked home with Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi, which was a book I had been meaning to read for ages, but which I was extremely nervous about choosing as my first graphic novel to read after so many years. My nervousness was mainly due to the fact that I had seen the film, and really liked it, and I thought the book would not live up to my expectations, raised even higher by the rave reviews the book had recieved.

As it was, as powerful, funny and moving as I found the film, I thought the book was ten times better. For anyone who doesn’t know anything about the book (after all the press it has received, I am not certain such people exist), Persepolis is Marjane Satrapi’s memoir of her life in Iran, from before the beginning of the revolution, when she was a small child, to the point of her final departure from the country as a young woman, taking in her time as a voluntary exile in Switzerland during her adolescence, and covering topics from the political oppression in Iran to first love and family relations.

The thing that makes the book so powerful for me, though, is that Satrapi switches so effortlessly from the seeming normality of her childhood to the horrific consequences of war with such ease that it always comes as a shock to turn the page and see something heartbreaking, moments after reading about a conversation over something quite domestic with one member of her family or another. It is the recognisability of the family situations, then, coupled with the totally alien abnormality of terrible violence (at least in terms of my own experience) and personal loss that so emotionally moved me.

Added to this, while the film made excellent use of a narrator, the fact that you are reading the book in silence makes the experience even more intense. Even more importantly, as a reader, rather than a viewer, you can control exactly how much time you devote to each frame of the book, looking for fine details and really being drawn into Satrapi’s world, all of which made me really glad that I ignored my slight wobble over whether to read the book or not and made me really glad I did.

Now, from the sublime to the ridiculous, as they say, but in a good way in this instance, as I next found myself reading the first volume of Bryan Lee O’Malley’s Scott Pilgrim series (which has just been made into a film, in case you didn’t know), Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Life, detailing the everyday life of 23-year-old professional layabout Scott Pilgrim. Scott is pretty much the definition of a slacker, having no job, spongeing of his gay roommate Wallace, with whom he shares a bed, spending his time playing computer games and rehearsing with his band.

His trouble really starts when he begins dating a school girl, 17 year old Knives Chau, while simultaneously starting to have dreams about a roller-skating delivery girl, Ramona Flowers, and starts receiving mysterious emails from someone who apparently wants to fight. It turns out that Ramona is actually using a short-cut that runs right through Scott’s brain (surreal, no?) but, before Scott can actually start dating Ramona properly, he must defeat her evil exes, and, as it turns out, the mysterious emails he has been deleting without reading are actually quite important.

There are more than a few surreal moments in Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Life, which I like, so, you know, I’m fine with that, but what really made the book a success for me, and made me determined to get my hands on the rest of the series, was the humour of the book, and I did actually laugh out loud at a couple of points. Added to this, the cast of characters are wacky yet genuinely charming (and I love Wallace), and O’Malley exploits the graphic novel genre to tell Scott’s story in the most energetic and interesting way possible.

The third book I read was, for me, not quite as good as either of the other two, in part because Ghost World by Daniel Clowes seems to sit uneasily in the middle ground between the surreal funniness of Scott Pilgrim and the serious coming of age elements of Persepolis. I also found that the fact that the book had been a serialisation originally really stopped me from getting into the book.

It was still an interesting book to read, and the relationship between Enid and Rebecca, the two central protagonists, was interesting to read about. The trouble is, there isn’t really that much of a plot as the book is more of an exploration of the nature of adolescence and friendship, and, essentially, the inevitability of growing up and, sometimes, apart. The trouble is, my adolescence was completely different from Enid and Rebecca’s so I felt as if Clowes was documenting some alien species and, really, I just didn’t much like any of the characters, and, when you get right down to it, I think that if you don’t really care what happens to anyone in a book then you are never going to particularly enjoy, but I would still say that it is worth reading if you have an interest in graphic novels, just as a point of comparison. Still, while I will definitely be reading more work by both Satrapi and O’Malley, I really don’t think Clowes’s work is for me.

…which all makes for a rather brilliant series, actually. The series in question is The Parasol Protectorate by Gail Carriger, and, while I know very little about the steampunk genre, I have come across more than my fair share of comic fiction over the years, and Soulless, Changeless, and Blameless, the three books in the series so far, all had me chortling out loud more than once.

The books are set in an alternative Victorian Britain, for the most part, where ghosts, werewolves and vampires abound, having come out of the proverbial closet during the reign of Henry VIII and integrated themselves quite nicely into the upper echelons of Society, with a capital “S”, and it is the presence of vampires in society, who, in Carriger’s world, love to tinker with all things mechanical, that has advanced civilisation to a rather great degree.

The existence of the supernatural is put down to certain people having an ‘excess of soul’, which keeps the spirit alive once the body is, technically, dead. The exploration of what the soul actually is makes for quite an interesting subplot throughout all of the books so far, because, as it happens, Alexia Tarabotti, the central character, was born without a soul, and therefore has the ability to cancel out the supernatural abilities of all forms of supernatural creature with a single touch.

However, while these abilities make for an interesting plot point, it is actually Alexia’s character that is most engaging, as she is intelligent, forthright, witty, and she doesn’t let inconvenient circumstances, like people trying to kill her, put her off her food. Add to this her obsession with fine tea and a parasol made of reinforced steel and filled with ballast, which is liberally applied to several people’s heads during the course of the novels, and anyone who knows me well will see why I love her.

Nevertheless, funny as the books are, and wonderful as Alexia is, there is a lot more to them than that, and all three books also contain elements of the classic mystery/adventure novel, a manageable dollop of romance, and a great deal of wonderful writing to boot. The first book, Soulless, begins with Alexia being attacked by an ‘unexpected vampire’, as, as far as she knows, all the vampires in London know of her existence, making it pointless to attack her.
In the ensuing struggle, however, she accidently kills the vampire, thus making it necessary for the BUR, essentially the supernatural version of the civil service, to start an investigation, headed up by Lord Maccon, a werewolf, and his Beta and second in command, Professor Lyall, with Lord Maccon also providing the love interest, to boot. Pretty soon, however, it becomes apparent that, not only are new vampires appearing seemingly out of thin air, but lone vampires and werewolves are also disappearing, several attempts are made to kidnap Alexia, and a man whose face appears to mad of wax appears out of nowhere, all pointing to a Sinister Plot, all while Alexia struggles with her own feelings towards Lord Maccon (which often consist largely of irritation, it has to be said).

Having looked at the reviews on some book sites, I know that Lord Maccon is something of a Marmite character, but I actually really quite liked him, and the repartee between Alexia and him is often very funny. There are also a supporting cast of characters who are all equally beautifully drawn, and often very charming, from the much put-upon Professor Lyall himself, to the outrageously camp vampire, Lord Akeldama (who reminded me rather strongly of a young Noel Coward) and his cast of equally flamboyant ‘drones’, or mortal companions/servants.

I won’t, of course, let spill any spoilers, which basically rules out recounting the plots of books 2 and 3 in any way, but I will say that Soulless reaches a suitably exciting, complicated (in a good way) climax, and the other two books in the series are equally brilliant. One word of warning, though; if you do get book 2, get book 3 as well, as, if you are anything like me, the cliff-hanger at the end of Changeless will make you desperate to read straight on. The only complaint I have is that the next book isn’t due out until next summer, which means I will have to wait absolutely ages to find out what happens next.

In the meantime, does anyone else know of any funny steampunk novels that I could try and get my hands on in the interim?

Well, it is getting on for a month, with no sign of another blog-post from me, and so I’m going to do something I’ve thought about for a while, in an attempt to get my to-be-written-about pile of books down to a more manageable size, and just write about a few books in brief. I’ve therefore picked a selection of books that I would recommend to people in my non-internet life, something that I rarely do.

You can take it as read (excuse the pun) that I thought they were all wonderful, for a multitude of various reasons, but I have had trouble writing about them all, either because I didn’t want to give too much about the plot away, and couldn’t see how not to in an extended blogpost, or because I just haven’t been able to form my thoughts on them into a coherent piece of writing.

The first book, basing my choices roughly on the ages for which they were intended, is Un Lun Dun by China Mieville, which, while probably best classed as a young adult novel, is far too subversive, inventive, and generally witty to find itself restricted by that category. Set in a parallel UnLondon, where ‘trash’ forms packs and comes alive to run the streets like stray dogs, and broken umbrellas- unbrellas, in fact- seem to have a sinister life of their own, Mieville has created a finely realised fantasy world that is full of humour and a cast of characters that are wonderfully vibrant.

The book started of with a bit of obligatory slang thrown in, just to let us know we were dealing with teenagers, which very nearly put me off reading any further but I am glad that I didn’t as the story that unfolded was, frankly, brilliant, and very subversive in the way that it dealt with the idea of the Chosen One, and the adventure-quest, within fantasy as a genre. I’d recommend it for you if: you read children’s literature anyway, you like comic fantasy, you fancy reading something light and inventive.

The Owl Service, by Alan Garner, is a young adult novel as well, but perhaps for a slightly older readership. The story is based on a Welsh myth from the Mabinogion and three teenagers find themselves acting out the story of Blodeuwedd, which, as it is on wikipedia, and is pretty much covered in the book itself, I shan’t relay here. Nevertheless, mythology and folk tales are two of my literary passions, so I though Garner’s ability to weave an ancient Welsh myth into his narrative was brilliant.

The book is, unsurprisingly, not funny, but it is incredibly powerful, very eerie, and created quite an oppressive atmosphere, at least to my mind. I read this book back in July, though, and wasn’t entirely sure what to think of it, but, even after all of the books I have read since, the impression it made on me is still really clear in my mind, so it is definitely a slow-grower. I’d recommend it for you if: you don’t mind if a book doesn’t clear up every mystery it presents, you like very evocative stories, you think the Canongate Myths series is a really good idea.

Up third is The Magic Toyshop, by Angela Carter, which I absolutely loved. It’s dark and creepy, whimsical and fantastical, all at the same time, which is, basically, just my kind of book, and I now really want to read everything she has ever written. The story focusses on Melanie, who is sent to live in London with her aunt, who suffers from mutism, and her uncle, a dictatorial toymaker, after both her parents are killed.

It could have been a story about the grieving process, but instead, Carter presents the reader with a neo-gothic fairytale that really got under my skin. Reading the novel, I found myself thinking, about forty pages from the end; “I love this book so much, there is no way that the ending cannot disappoint me”. Thankfully, I was completely wrong, and the denouement more than exceeded my expectations. I really don’t want to give too much away about the plot, because the way in which Carter reveals the plot to the reader, building up tension in the process, is really very wonderful. I’d recommend it for you if: you always preferred the darker originals to modern PC fairytales, you like disturbingly quirky literature, marionettes freak the frick out of you.

The Summer Book, by Tove Jansson, is an entirely different type of book from the others, but it really is beautiful. The book cover writes as if there is a plot to the book, but, really, it is simply a series of wonderful little vignettes, depicting the relationship between a grandmother and her granddaughter Sophia as they spend the summer on their family island in the gulf of Finland.

The relationship between grandmother and grandchild is lovely to read about, and the grandmother herself is a fantastic character, who is very much attuned to the natural world, but what I found so moving about the book was actually the descriptions of the natural world and a lifestyle that is slowly becoming extinct. It’s not a long book, but I spent a wonderful afternoon sitting in the garden with a cold drink, and the sense of place the book created was just amazing. I’d recommend it for you if: you don’t mind a book that doesn’t really have a plot, you like books that bring a place to life, you like reading about eccentric characters.

My last recommendation is again a very different one; I’ve done children’s literature, I’ve done adult fiction, so now it’s time for the poetry. I never really know how to write about poetry collections because there’s no plot to describe, no characters to talk about, and, when you get right down to it, poetry succeeds or fails on the language the poet makes use of, and that is the one thing you can’t describe in anything but abstract terms. Nevertheless, for anyone who already reads poetry, I would definitely add Swithering, by Robin Robertson, to your TBR pile, and, for those who don’t read poetry regularly, you could do worse than to break yourself in with Robertson’s book.

Robertson writes primarily in free verse, but his work has a great deal of musicality in the lines, and the collection is mainly composed of clear, deeply moving, and powerfully personal lyrics and you really don’t need a great knowledge of poetic form to understand them, although, as with most poetry, you have to put in a little more concentration than you might with a novel if you are to get the most out of the book, but it is definitely worth it, and there was hardly a single poem in the whole collection where I didn’t come across at least one line and think ‘wow, I wish I’d written that’. I’d recommend it for you if: you like contemporary poetry, especially poets such as Simon Armitage, Don Paterson and Christopher Reid, you want to start reading poetry and you are looking for something powerful to start you off.

And now, I’m going to have a nice cup of tea and relax, feeling slightly less guilty about my incredibly poor blogging habits.