His most recent book is Escape From Camp 14. It’s the story of Shin Dong-hyuk, the only person to have been born and raised in a North Korean prison camp — and to have escaped to the West.

Are you a bookgeek?

Not as geeky as I should be, too much noodling on the web.

What’s the best piece of writing advice you’ve ever been given (and do you follow it)?

Best advice? Read great writing several hours a day, take notes on the best bits, keep a diary, be someone on whom nothing is lost. Do I follow it? Sometimes yes. Mostly no.

Which authors do you find most inspiring as a writer?

This year, Kate Boo’s book on the poor in an Indian slum (Beyond the Beautiful Forevers) was inspirational in many ways: for clarity of sentences, sharpness of judgment, depth of reporting, and absence self-referential bullshit. Also deeply admire Jonathan Franzen (Freedom), David Mitchell (Cloud Atlas), David Vann (Legend of a Suicide), John McPhee (everything), V.S. Naipaul (Bend in the River).

Do you have an audience in mind when writing, or do you just write for yourself?

I have spent most of my life writing for the kind of people who read The Washington Post (where I worked for 28 years off and on). I assume readers are well-educated and curious about everything, with a particular interest in social justice and how it might be achieved.

Where do you write, and why?

In my house — to make a living and stay alive inside my head.

Tell us the book you most wish you had written.

When I was covering the siege of Sarajevo in 1992, I lived off and on in a pensione filled with Bosnians in extremis. There was a drunken folk singer, a professional basketball player and his very tall wife, several gangsters, some fetching women, and lots of unsavory sorts from the Bosnian government. It was a kind of Ship of Fools, docked and waiting to be blasted by shells falling from the nearby hills, where Serbian thugs drank slivovitz and rained artillery on civilians. We ate dinner together most nights in the basement, where there seemed to be an endless supply of Yugoslavian wine. The setting, the characters, the sense of rot and despair, and the eventual disastrous end (the pensione was blown up by artillery) would have been a fine framework for a narrative about the siege and the cruelty of the people in the hills — and the long wait for President Bill Clinton to decide finally that the people of Sarajevo should not be murdered.

The Kim dynasty has been an endless source of jokes for comedians and commentators. Having seen the horrors of the regime first hand, how do you feel about this?

It makes me angry that the jokes are better known than the horrors. But it is human nature. Dictators are ridiculous. In writing Escape from Camp 14, my aim was to teach the jokesters (and everybody else) something new: To acquaint them with the story of North Koreans like Shin Dong-hyuk, a boy who was bred in a no-exit prison to be a slave, taught to betray his family, and expected to work himself to death without any knowledge of a world beyond barbed wire. Not so funny, heh?

Is the collapse of North Korea in its current form inevitable? And if so, what form would it take?

Yes, it is inevitable. But what form is impossible to predict, as is when. My guess is that the most likely ending is a semi-soft one that would be engineered, in large measure, by China, with the grudging cooperation of the Kim family dynasty and acquiescence of South Korea and the United States. With China footing the bill, manufacturing and wage employment in North Korea would increase, hunger would decrease, and there would be a very very gradual opening of the economy. It would be a Chinese- or Vietnamese-model of semi-corrupt state-controlled capitalism that actually makes life more liveable. This kind of change would solve the most pressing human rights issue (mass hunger) without threatening the lives/scams/comforts of the Kims and their sychophants — and without upsetting China. Whether it will happen or not, who knows?

North Korean society seems to be far more feudal than Communist. Is it helpful to our understanding to describe it as a Communist country?

It is helpful to describe North Korea as a totalitarian state run by a relatively small bunch of cunning thugs and propagandists. They have managed to do what no other totalitarian states has ever done: pass near-absolute, cult-like power from father, to son, to grandson. In the process, the Kim family has lost none of its appetite for hideous cruelty to the people of North Korea.

With China and the US showing no decisive will for regime change in North Korea, is there anything individual readers can do to help?

They can demand that human rights be part of any diplomatic conversation about the North — with the government in Pyongyang or its patron in Beijing. This may not change anything very quickly, but it is better than ignoring the catastrophe that continues in the camps, which is what Western governments have done for half a century.

It’s an old truism that “Democratic Republics” are less than democratic, but why do you think despotic regimes opt for it as a prefix?

Nearly everything North Korea says is a cynical lie, including the country’s name. As a despotic regime, North Korea has no competition. As a state built on lies it is without peer.

It would be wrong to think in terms of a “happy” ending for Shin, but in terms of his long-term adjustment to freedom and to life in the free world, what do you believe is the best case scenario?

Best case is slow and continuous change in his understanding of how to be a good human being. He has said as much himself. I think he need to takes concrete steps (education, vocational training, psychotherapy, solid friendships, firm footing in church and community) that will give him a reliable structure for the rest of his life. Some of this, he is doing; some of it, he is resisting. Still, he is an exceptionally intelligent and self-directed man. His progress since I met him in 2008 has been impressive. I know that I am not as smart or as strong or as courageous as he is.

Additional questions by Mike Stafford

As the producer of World Service radio show Afghan Women’s Hour, Kargar was party to first-hand accounts of the lives of women in Afghanistan, and Dear Zari comprises twelve of the strongest such stories.  These range from the story of a carpet weaver sedating her baby with opium to allow herself to concentrate on work, to the abuses suffered by a daughter married into a hostile family by way of compensation for the loss of their son, and to the horrors that await any woman unable to “prove” her virginity on her wedding night.

From all this, the picture of Afghanistan that emerges is that of a desperately cruel, feudal nation in which the stifling force of tradition over-rides even primal urges like maternal love.  A neurotic, misogynistic desire for male children fuels almost animal reproductive cycles, in which women perpetually become pregnant until a son is born.  Beyond this, on the birth of a male/female pair of twins, a mother may withhold breast milk from the baby girl.  Treatment at the hands of Afghan men scarcely improves throughout a woman’s life, with rape a pervasive threat both inside and outside marriage, and families considering girls to be interlopers, only in their homes en route to the home of their eventual husbands – about whom they will have no choice.

On its first appearance, many commentators lauded Dear Zari as being uplifting, detailing as it does the resilience of the human spirit.  The women in Dear Zari are indeed resilient; each of them possesses vast powers of endurance, tolerating indifference, contempt, cruelty and violence.  However, these are tales about tolerance to, not triumph over adversity.  The single happy ending comes with the modest but warming success of a kite maker after the fall of the Taliban.  As for the rest of the women, their fortitude is matched only by their powerlessness.

Bleak though Dear Zari is, it also adds valuable nuance to a simplistic Western understanding of Afghanistan.  A decade of reporting has suggested Afghanistan’s problems stem solely from religious extremism.  Kargar points out that, in terms of doctrine, Islam is a far greater force for equality than life in Afghanistan would suggest.  There has, she points out, been a provincial tendency to conflate religious doctrine with traditional cultural practices.  For example, when a poverty-stricken widow asks her brother for her rightful share of their inheritance, entirely in keeping with Quranic teaching, she is denied it on grounds of regional tradition.  Patriarchal oppression stems not from the diktats of mullahs, but from the family and the community, whose dominance over women is near total.

Dear Zari also highlights the universality of women’s desires.  Though Afghan women may exist in a culture almost totally alien to that of their European or American counterparts, their wishes for life are identical, from dreams like self-determination and of marrying for love, to more simple desires such as fashion and beauty.

Overall, Dear Zari is disquieting but essential reading.  Occasionally uplifting, frequently harrowing, and unfailingly candid, it is a must for anyone – male or female – seeking to better understand Afghanistan.

Renowned editor Paula Guran has assembled a veritable literary  “encyclopedia” about witches, featuring twenty-three stories which explore the various aspects of witchcraft.

Delia Sherman probes the secrets of Walpurga’s Night (Walpurgis Afternoon) and Theodora Goss (Lessons with Miss Gray) depicts  how mirrors can become tools of witchcraft.

Mercedes Lackey (Nightside) and Elizabeth Bear (The Cold Blacksmith)  portray women endowed with magical powers and devoted to fights the forces of evil threatening  people’s  safety, while TA Pratt provides a further adventure of her sorcerer Marla Mason (  I’ll Met in Ulthar)  and Neil Gaiman describes a witch-ghost dating back to the reign of King James I of England (The Witch’s Headstone).

In Boris Chernevsky’s Hands Jane Yolen revisits the Russian myth of the infamous Baba Yaga whereas Andre Norton  (The Way Wind) addresses the time-honoured concept of the link between virginity and the ability to perform magic.

The theme of witches’ “familiars” (mostly black cats) is developed by Madeleine l’Engle in Poor Little Saturday and the classical idea of witches flying on broomsticks is updated by Nancy Holder in The Only Way to Fly.

Most of the stories are well written and very  entertaining , but, needless to say, the reviewer has his own favourite.

Basement Magic by Ellen Klages is an extremely enjoyable tale where an evil stepmother is defeated by a helpful servant while Mirage and Magia by famous author Tanith Lee is an enticing, masterful fantasy piece about an enchantress and her final confrontation with a truly invincible demon.

The dark The World is Cruel, My Daughter  by Cory Skerry features a cruel witch who does not hesitate to kill her adopted daughter’s suitors and the excellent Bloodline by Silvia Moreno-Garcia is a well crafted family saga where all the female members are witches endowed with different powers.

In the cynic but compelling The Robbery by Cynthia Ward magic knots are instrumental in punishing a remorseless thief while the unusual, compelling The Ground Whereon She Stands by Leah Bobet  perfectly blends the supernatural and intense, although restrained, lesbian eroticism.

Skin Deep by Richard Parks is a modern fairy tale where a young witch inherits from her Grandma the ability to wear different skins to transform herself and April in Paris by veteran Ursula K Le Guin  is a delightful story where magic time travelling gathers in the same room in Paris people from different ages and races.

In short, whether you’re a witch lover or not,  I’m sure you will love this  superlative anthology.

This is Not the End of the Book

In his Preface to this edition, de Tonnac notes that Eco and Carriere did not intend to make “emphatic pronouncements about the effects of the widespread (or otherwise) adoption of the electronic book” but, rather, that they wanted to discuss the nature of the book itself. Both Eco and Carriere are collectors of rare and antiquarian books (owning roughly 50,000 and 30,000 to 40,000 volumes respectively) and it is their thesis that the book represents a sort of “unsurpassable perfection in the realm of the imagination”.

In order to flesh out this argument, they consider what exactly is a book (does the invention of the book date from the first codices in the 11^th century or from more ancient papyrus scrolls?) and what could potentially be lost and gained during the next evolution in people’s reading habits. Eco and Carriere also consider in fascinating detail the kind of mirror that books provide of the societies in which they were written and of the role of taste (or trend or even ideology) in decisions as to which books society deems worthy of preservation. How can it be determined that the books that have survived are a true reflection of what human creativity has produced? This question leads on to the topic of book burning – both intentional and accidental – and so of loss and censorship.

While these ‘bigger issues’ are incredibly insightful and thought-provoking, This is Not the End of the Book is also particularly interesting for the light that it shines on the life of collectors. Eco and Carriere discuss the thrill of the hunt for a rare volume and of the true value of the books they love and would love to own. The scope of their collections is enormous and the subject matter delightfully idiosyncratic: Umberto Eco’s collecting passion is for books on human error and fallacies, Jean-Claude Carriere is just as enthusiastic on the topic of stupidity. And then there’s the thorny issue of what should happen to their libraries after their deaths (Eco would prefer his collection to remain in a single library while Carriere is happy for his heirs to sell off volume by volume).

This is Not the End of the Book is a real book-lovers’ book. Reading it really is like eavesdropping on a delightfully bookish conversation between two great minds. Like any good conversation, this one does ramble a bit and there are perhaps a few questionable pronouncements but it is still a fascinating and largely persuasive read. This is Not the End of the Book is heartening exploration of the nature of the book and it the importance of books to society and posterity. Despite all this, I still hope that I never encounter the word “incunabulum” again: does this make me a simpleton, an idiot or a fool?

“A week before his death, Mickey Spillane told his wife Jane, “When I’m gone, there’s going to be a treasure hunt around here.  Take everything you find and give it to Max – he’ll know what to do.” I can imagine no greater honor.”

Lady, Go Die! is, remarkably, the sequel to Spillane’s debut, 1947’s I, The Jury.  Still reeling from the events of the first book, New York PI Mike Hammer seeks out rest and recouperation outside the Big Apple, in a sleepy backwater called Sidon.  A tourist town, Sidon is all but deserted out of season, but trouble still finds Hammer and secretary Velda, in the form of police engaging in the ferocious beating of a vulnerable young man named Poochie.  Ever the knight in a shining sport coat, Hammer wades in with customary aplomb.  Between the bully-boy local cops and the discovery of a murdered woman, naked and splayed across a town statue, Hammer and Velda’s holiday is swiftly hijacked by the kind of mayhem that’s followed them around in print for nearly seventy years.

Sex and violence: it’s a combination that has served Mickey Spillane well these last seven decades, and Lady, Go Die! has plenty of both.  The 1940s, if Mickey is to be believed, were a simpler time, when all women were anatomically implausible Mae West types, and problem solving was possible through the medium of the fist or the handgun.  As is par for the course, a procession of women hurl themselves at Hammer, making for several scenes which are lightly titillating by today’s sexually-liberal standards.  Similarly, Hammer assaults rivals with impunity, stretching even his own eye-for-an-eye ethics to the limit.

Indeed, there is little that can be said about Lady, Go Die! that could not be said about the rest of Spillane’s oeuvre.  A quote from the New York Times on the rear cover tells us that “Mike Hammer is an icon of our culture,” and he is.  Here, Hammer is as he ever was, an uncompromising crusader for a bloodthirsty but attractively simple morality.  Jurisprudence is a long word for bleeding-heart liberals; justice for Mike Hammer is when the bullets end up in the bad guys, nothing more, nothing less.  Dated though his exploits may be in terms of shock value, Hammer represents a culture that was still rampant in the White House less than five years ago under Bush Jr.

Mickey Spillane is arguably the finest ever example of a writer writing to market.  He took full advantage of a successful formula, and that formula is very much in evidence in Lady, Go Die!  While his market may be dwindling due to old age, and the yearning of the cappuccino classes for a more refined, complex crime fiction experience, there’s still plenty of entertainment to be had between his covers.

Bender’s unusual style of writing compliments the novel’s content. She introduces the novel through the use of a prologue which tells the fictional story of a family who each cut off one limb of their own, instead of sending one family member to their death. This story and the thoughts it represents remain important throughout the entire course of the novel. Her decision to use this metaphorical story provides a surprising opening and allows the ending of the novel to be all the more significant.

Most intriguing about this novel is the insight the reader gains into Mona’s way of thinking. Bender sets the tone of her characters’ family life through her descriptions of Mona’s father, and the ever-present grey, colourlessness that surrounds him. Mona’s own mind is depicted clearly throughout the novel. Bender uses a first person account to carefully describe Mona’s actions. Mona deprives herself of things she likes, and considers herself to be good at doing this. Her actions become more extreme as the novel progresses. She prevents herself from being close to others, not wanting to allow herself that pleasure. The only things she allows herself to enjoy are numbers. Bender also describes Mona’s thoughts of violence and self-mutilation in a manner which portray her actions as surprising yet fathomable, due to the knowledge we have of her mind-set.

Mona is not the only character who is trapped in a battle with her own mind. The science teacher, Lisa and Mr Jones all have their own unusual habits, behaviours and preoccupations. Mona finds herself with connections to these characters that may at first appear tenuous; however, the alliance the characters feel for one-another and the understanding they have between them reveal themselves to carry far more value than may first be assumed. Through the development of the relationships between Mona and each of these characters, Bender shows the reader just how gratifying it can be when someone notices a simple action of your own that is of great importance to you, which you believed others couldn’t understand or overlooked. Bender demonstrates how you can exist with the feeling that no-one notices what you do. You may believe you have an ‘invisible sign’ of your own, but no matter how unusual your behaviour might be, some people really will take notice of your actions; some people do understand, without the need for explanation.

Fortunately Rome’s Executioner manages to achieve all that I would expect from it and more. Fabbri’s prose is as soundly written as it was in the novel’s predecessor, and I was glad to be reunited with the host of characters that made the first book such a pleasure. From the off we are thrown back into the back-stabbing, devious and beautifully-malicious world of Roman politics.

Now this in itself can be something of a problem, given how Roman historical fiction must walk a fine line between cliché and debauchery. The dubious loyalties of Roman politicians have been documented both in fact and numerous accounts of fiction, and there has been a tendency by some writers to escape this by reverting to the extremes of an age to provoke a reaction.

Fabbri manages to walk a careful tight-rope between the two. Though similar tales have doubtless been told before, the characters in Rome’s Executioner are three-dimensional enough to make a reader ‘buy in’ easily to the plot. The violence (and like its forerunner, there is plenty enough of that) is once again well scripted and not gratuitous. The politics are beautifully painted as both widely encompassing and yet also deeply personal, giving the reader an idea of the duels between the ‘noble’ houses of Rome during the period. And Vespasian himself has come from the roots of Tribune of Rome and torn his way into the world of being a stronger, more effective protagonist than previously.

Given this is Fabbri’s second novel this is no mean feat. As per the tone of my previous review this is a very skilled author who, especially so early in the game, continues to demonstrate talents that go from strength to strength. If I had to level a criticism at the book it would be that, after the 12 months since reading the predecessor, I did have a moment of confusion trying to tie in some of the characters and family relationships. But this was a brief dark cloud when contextualised with such an enjoyable read. So despite the positive opening to this review, there is no violent counter-argument to be had. Rome’s Executioner is an excellent read, and I would heartily recommend it to anyone who enjoys Roman fiction specifically, and historical fiction in general. Well written Mr. Fabbri, please don’t leave it 12 months until the next one!

The Paradox of Love is like no other academic volume. Occasionally it is hard to remember this book is not a self-help book, the ease and the context sometimes alluded to this, however with the detail and the historical facts that are enlightened within The Paradox of Love becomes a sharp, edgy novel that treads in murky waters. Bruckner discusses the taboos of love – wild sex, infidelity, even defrocked priests. He pushes the boundaries and shows us what people think but are too afraid to talk about. It is a revolutionary idea, a vast pin-point of events.

Bruckner calls upon the experts – quoting Marcel Proust and Lichtenberg who says “love is blind, marriage restores its sight”. Although the book could be seen as a quite cynical view of love, Bruckner uses the resources he has very cleverly and gives us a well-read, detailed description of love and what comes with it. His knowledge touches on the history of love, quoting Corinthians:  ”to the unmarried and the widows I say that it is well for them to remain single as I do. But if they cannot exercise self-control, they should marry. For it is better to marry than to be aflame with passion.”

It expands and gives us quite uncomfortable thoughts to digest. Bruckner discusses sex, saying “sex is a barbarous, overpowering side of humanity that we can barely civilize or disciple, and it is disquieting because it does not fit into any great narrative, any odyssey of redemption or decline.” Although these aren’t always Bruckner’s views, he gives us quotes and past discussions that leave us baffled in a way. But this adds to the paradox that is love – love is confusing so are the arguments that come with it. What is love? Why do we feel it? What happens when you stop feeling whatever love is? Is romance part of love? Is love an obsession? Bruckner discusses all of these points in an enjoyable and edgy manner.

The Paradox of Love is not just an academic novel, it can be read for enjoyment. He recalls a humorous story that shows us the good side of love:

‘Julien Carette, a French actor who had grown old, one day shouted to his wife from the second floor of their house:

“Laurence, come quick! I’ve got a hard-on!”

“Come down,” his wife said, “I’m in the garden.”

“No, come up, it won’t survive the trip.”‘

Bruckner ranges from Greek mythology to theories of gender to religion among different cultures. The Paradox of Love is a brave book, looking at a subject all of us have opinions on and experience with. He is an original philosopher with challenging views but interesting points. The novel comes full circle and, as Bruckner himself says, “we love as much as humans beings can love, that is, imperfectly.”

Bitterblue takes place eight years after the events in the second book, Graceling, including the deposition of mad King Leck. Bitterblue, the novel’s namesake and protagonist, is his unfortunate daughter, tasked with dealing with the fall out of his actions and leading his kingdom.

It’s what we’ve come to expect from Cashore – a visually pleasing fantasy universe that contains flashes of real brilliance, for example the ‘story rooms’ beneath Leck’s shimmering bridges to nowhere, where those in the city that surrounds Bitterblue’s castle gather and tell tales, true and untrue, about Leck’s reign and his overthrow. Then there’s the Gracelings, characters with eyes of different colours who each possess a ‘grace’, a gift like healing or strength, or the ability to kill. A new graceling, who hasn’t yet discovered their own grace, becomes Bitterblue’s love interest.

Yet there’s something a little less compelling about this book than the first two. Bitterblue is oddly protected from the worst of her father’s abuse, never becoming one of his true victims. She’s meant to be shaped by him, but we’re never in any real doubt about her intrinsic goodness. She’s blinded by ignorance, but never wilfully.

Perhaps that’s the problem. Bitterblue is not a Katsa or a Fire – a character whose grappling with her own identity as a ‘monster’ leads her to willingly sterilise herself. Bitterblue is a little girl struggling with concepts she – and by extension, at times, Cashore – sometimes fails to engage with fully.

Having said this, the book takes a welcome diversion from well-trodden paths defining ‘evil’ fantasy characters. Cashore doesn’t shy away from adult themes in what’s ostensibly a YA book – among Leck’s predilections were the rape and torture of young girls and women. Bitterblue uncovers a fantasy universe Himmler, capable of warping the minds of those around him and leaving his mark upon their psyches after his death. Much of the latter half of the novel is spent unravelling Leck’s codes and ciphers to get at ‘the truth’ of his crimes.

His character has a touch of the artist; he commissions a young woman to create strange, powerful sculptures including one of a young Bitterblue herself as a castle. It seems obvious to the reader that Bitterblue will find the truth and reshape her kingdom, but touches like this lend the book a certain unexpected depth. Bitterblue’s interactions with her advisors, including men who have committed great atrocities, are the most interesting parts of her character. Given a little more development, Bitterblue’s reflections upon herself could have made the book feel more complete.

However, one of Cashore’s strengths for a YA author is that she doesn’t often write in a paint-by-numbers romance; her male and female characters make their own choices and don’t run straight at happy endings. It’s through the romantic subplot that Bitterblue gains some perspective on her own environment.

Cashore doesn’t disappoint here. She avoids too much cliché and doesn’t provide a nice, neat conclusion. This is not Twilight, and it’s a relief. Bitterblue is a gorgeous, rich YA fantasy with more than enough to keep anyone entertained. The magic and world-building is up there with Brandon Sanderson and it takes apart tropes at its best with a touch of Ursula Le Guin. It is a more than satisfying conclusion to this excellent trilogy.

I can’t wait to see what Kristin Cashore does next.

The Report

The Report begins with a section entitled ‘Retrospective’, which is told thirty years after the tragedy occurred. Tilly Barber is the first character which we are introduced to. She is ‘eight years older than the tragedy and remembers it well’. This retrospective narrative mainly focuses upon a television ‘special’ which details the night of the disaster, and the journalist who is interviewing survivors for the programme. The story then moves back in time to 1943, opening in a crowded cinema in Bethnal Green. The retrospective runs concurrently with the main story, a technique which works well in places but gives the book a slightly stilted feel in others.

The third person narrative perspective which Kane has used focuses on different characters in turn. As well as meeting Tilly, the reader is introduced to her mother Ada, father Robby and little sister Emma. There are also brief sections which follow Constables and shelter wardens working in the tube station. At first it seems as though the majority of the characters have nothing to do with one another aside from living in the same geographical area, but as the story progresses it is clear that the disaster brings them all together. Every character has a part to play, if not in the crush itself then in the aftermath. Although the narrative does involve others, it is the Barber family who are most prominent throughout.

The novel itself has been well-researched. Wartime details, such as the removal of all street signs and the strict clothing regulations which the population had to follow, have been woven into the narrative voice. This is a nice touch, particularly as Kane has not used the most obvious facts and figures she could have plucked out of the general consciousness. Instead, it feels as though she has dug deeper, scratching the well-known surface of World War Two’s rules and regulations in order to find statistics that are both fresh and surprising.

Although the narrative style works well in focusing on some of the people affected, Kane’s style of writing makes her focus on various characters seem a little impersonal at times. We as readers are somewhat detached from those involved, particularly with regard to their thoughts and feelings. Unfortunately, the dialogue throughout The Report lets the story down somewhat. The exchanges do not always read as true-to-life conversations, and consequently serve to remove vital three-dimensionality from the characters. Many of them end up lacklustre and rather lifeless as a result.

The report of the novel’s title refers to what was written about the disaster by magistrate Laurence Dunne, following a public inquiry into the tragedy. Although interesting in parts, it feels as though Kane has made far too much of this as an element of the story. No character names have been used for the most part when the inquiry is dealt with, and it is unclear as to who said what in each exchange. This adds another layer of detachment to the story.

The narrative itself does sometimes have a choppy feel about it, merely due to the sheer number of commas used throughout. This makes the book seem a little fragmented at times and it does not flow as well as it could.

The Report would perhaps have been a more heartrending novel had it been told from the first person narrative perspective. This would have built up the emotions of the characters, enabling us as readers to fully grasp and understand what they are going through, rather than merely being detached observers. I also feel that the book would be a far more moving account had it been written as a continuous narrative of the evening, rather than also being looked at in retrospective. The sections which dealt with looking back on the disaster were a little repetitive and really took focus away from the often strong retelling of the tragedy. It is certainly an interesting event to base a novel on, but as an overall novel, it feels as though it is not quite done the justice which it deserves.