Our Murderous CENTURY

Over at his blog Banjaxed, A. J. Somerset becomes just the latest fan of Ray Smith's Century. (He is also, incidentally, the only person yet to take me up on the offer to send Century to anyone, anywhere, for 20.00 incl. all taxes and shipping. In Andrew's case I drove it to Toronto and exchanged it for a sweaty twenty under a table at Hemingway's while the rest of the table was preoccupied. The offer still, of course, stands, though I may choose whatever means necessary, from Canada Post to pack-mule, to get it to you.)

For once, I'll cut to the chase and give you the last bit of his review. But you should really read the whole thing, here. Then buy the damn book. Skip the real Canada Reads for once, and, to paraphrase the lovely Kerry Clare, Read Independently.

From Banjaxed:

Henry James said that the only obligation of a novel was to be interesting. This one is fascinating.

And the writing. The writing is oh-so-artful, diction and syntax changing as we cast backwards in time; Smith does not allow himself to be trapped within the dictates of any particular style. This is a writer with a well-oiled gearbox, and he shifts gears smoothly without ever mistiming the clutch.

Also, it’s short. Writers of sweeping historical novels, take note: thine asses have been handed thee, upon a platter.

Read it. Now.