posted by
jemck at 12:16pm on 17/11/2006
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
I've finally hit a month where the diary is not insane. This means I'm doing more reading for pleasure and this week the relaxation book has been Iain Banks's Raw Spirit, in which he chronicles a search for the perfect dram.
It's an engaging and entertaining read, for whisky drinkers and/or for fans of the man and his books. I learned things about scotch production that I didn't know - and assorted things about the particular scotches that I drink. Like Bruchladdie, the only Islay malt I can enjoy, being the least peated of all of them. That'd be the reason then. It's also a celebration, in no particular order, of friendship, of craftsmanship and of Scotland.
When it was first published, I recall reading at least one review being snotty about it being a 'self-indulgent' book. Well, yes, in some ways it is but to my reading, he's well aware of that, acknowledging the deep pockets that enable him to enjoy fine whisky, fast cars and all the rest. Yes, and the problem with that would be what, exactly? None that I can see, when he's earned every penny of that success with his own talent and hard work. And I reckon the fact he's still pals with all manner of people who knew him 'back when' is a solid indicator that the aforementioned success hasn't gone to his head.
A couple of things surprise me. One is that the man's still alive, given his enthusiasms for fast cars, pyrotechnics (improvised and otherwise) and insane climbing stunts.
The other is more depressing and warrants comment even though I don't intend to do politics in this blog, as I always prefer to discuss such things face to face. The book was written from March 2003 onwards, when the Bush/Blair Iraq War just kicking off. It's appalling to realise Iain Banks's trenchant, even splenetic, condemnation of this was so horribly prescient and worse, is still entirely applicable today, three, nearly four, years later.
Oh and a final note, for clarification. Although we're published by the same imprint (Orbit) I don't know Iain Banks at all, beyond a couple of very brief introductions in the midst of assorted throngs.
The first of these was when I was a newly signed, not yet published, newbie author who was so overawed to be introduced to y'know, A Real Writer, that I could barely string three coherent words together. Even in that fleeting exchange, he was amiable, approachable and encouraging. Which was nice, and as I now know, is typical of almost every author up to and including the best of sellers.
It's an engaging and entertaining read, for whisky drinkers and/or for fans of the man and his books. I learned things about scotch production that I didn't know - and assorted things about the particular scotches that I drink. Like Bruchladdie, the only Islay malt I can enjoy, being the least peated of all of them. That'd be the reason then. It's also a celebration, in no particular order, of friendship, of craftsmanship and of Scotland.
When it was first published, I recall reading at least one review being snotty about it being a 'self-indulgent' book. Well, yes, in some ways it is but to my reading, he's well aware of that, acknowledging the deep pockets that enable him to enjoy fine whisky, fast cars and all the rest. Yes, and the problem with that would be what, exactly? None that I can see, when he's earned every penny of that success with his own talent and hard work. And I reckon the fact he's still pals with all manner of people who knew him 'back when' is a solid indicator that the aforementioned success hasn't gone to his head.
A couple of things surprise me. One is that the man's still alive, given his enthusiasms for fast cars, pyrotechnics (improvised and otherwise) and insane climbing stunts.
The other is more depressing and warrants comment even though I don't intend to do politics in this blog, as I always prefer to discuss such things face to face. The book was written from March 2003 onwards, when the Bush/Blair Iraq War just kicking off. It's appalling to realise Iain Banks's trenchant, even splenetic, condemnation of this was so horribly prescient and worse, is still entirely applicable today, three, nearly four, years later.
Oh and a final note, for clarification. Although we're published by the same imprint (Orbit) I don't know Iain Banks at all, beyond a couple of very brief introductions in the midst of assorted throngs.
The first of these was when I was a newly signed, not yet published, newbie author who was so overawed to be introduced to y'know, A Real Writer, that I could barely string three coherent words together. Even in that fleeting exchange, he was amiable, approachable and encouraging. Which was nice, and as I now know, is typical of almost every author up to and including the best of sellers.
There are no comments on this entry. (Reply.)