The Lost Art by Simon Morden (ISBN 978-0-385-60964-7)

Simon Morden is what sci-fi and fantasy fans alike have been waiting for. Reminiscent of Planet of the Apes (minus the super-race of Apes, which never really appealed to me all that much), this is a completely credible account of the aftermath of Mankind (or the 'Users') all but destroying the Earth and its inhabitants. Some remained and devoted themselves to burying the secret books of the 'Users' from the world, allowing the human race to begin the slow climb back to a time of knowledge and power. Others left for the stars, never to return... until Benzamir Michael Mahmood that is.
You can almost taste the gritty sand in your mouth, feel the whip of the desert wind at your face, touch the Mediterranean crystal clear sea, hear your heart pounding at those moments of fight or flight... from the settings of coastal village to digger pyramids and the Kenyan citadel; each is masterfully set out for the reader.
Whilst we are expecting some sci-fi element (Morden being a rocket scientist can't help himself there, I suspect!) - the cavernous contrast between the lives and events described for the majority of this novel and what is so explosively revealed on page 397 is so huge, so terrifyingly out-of-sync, so coolly plugged together that I admit to reeling in shock. But I don't want to spoil anything for you - you'll just have to read it and find out for yourself! (I am MEAN aren't I?!!?)
If I was forced to look for fault, it would be that after the richness and depth of imagery lavished on the earlier sections of the story, it was perhaps a little disappointing that so little time was given the wondrous turn of events, the unveiling of the mysterious 'enemies' and the almost magical technological advances of Benzamir's people... but there was just about enough to whet the appetite.
Morden gives us everything we want - like starving children, you will fall on this and gobble up everything he has to offer and I, for one, had that post-gorge-fest grin on my face at the end of it. Totally satisfying and highly recommended.

Grotesque by Natsuo Kirino (ISBN 978-1-843-43270-8)

The back cover gives acclamations such as "grim, gruesome and powerful", "Sensational...daring and disturbing" and "Remarkable" - what I found remarkable is that I had mysteriously forgotten how to read properly that day - had I done so, I would have noted that these transcendent outpourings were for an entirely different book altogether!
I reasoned that something had to be wrong by page 42... which is when I checked the back again and it was shortly afterwards that my head started to hurt (banging one's head on the wall tends to do that). OK. So 'Out', also written by the author Natsuo Kirino is apparently amazing, but what that has to do with 'Grotesque'? Another carefully planned PR stunt, no doubt.
Stunts aside, halfway through this book I wanted to launch it at someones head, the bin or simply take it back to the shop and ask for my money back. The only aspect of this book that got under my skin is the nauseating fact that I paid for the privilege of reading this self-indulgent drivel.
I despise all the cheap-rate, two-dimensional characters. The plot is consumed by sex (mostly prostitution but with some incestuous and perverted sex acts as well for good measure) and not much else. Wait - there is a lot of hate, anger and jealousy in there too. Girls are depicted as either snobbish, just plain nasty or both. My,my - and someone hates their mother! There isn't a single mother figure that gets away scrape-free. Freud would have a field-day with this one... I find Kirino's style of mixing apparent narrative with that of a diary, mundane and ordinary - except for the fact that the 'diary' is not written like a diary at all - it's just more nonsense written with fewer rhetorical questionings. There is little originality - chapter title "A natural-born whore" is more than an indication of the base tones of this novel.
A classic example of ignoring what's on the back cover and save yourself the agony of muddling through this garbage - it would try the patience of a saint to get through this without clenching teeth and jaw. I lost count of the number of times I rolled my eyes in aggravation - it was just pointless, unnecessary and utterly dire.
If you're tempted because the author may have managed to produce something worthwhile previously - for god's sake get a hold on yourself and walk away quickly.

Dawn of Empire by Sam Barone (ISBN 978-1-8460-5051-0)

I have been struggling for some time to draw a conclusion about this epic, imbued with eastern history and lavish depictions of a way of life before civilisation, before empires were made and lost.
It would do well on a cinematic scale; that much is true - certainly if the author's apparent penchant for an almost pornographic account of two unlikely characters such as the slave-girl, Trella, and the clouded barbarian, Eskkar, being thrown together is kept in by the director. Far too much zest and obsession with getting a leg over (as they say) for my liking and not exactly the most discreet of terminology utilised at that - but one could argue that this is just a matter of personal taste.
The plot is gripping, if nothing new. It is not unusual for women to be underestimated and it is refreshing that the author applies just as much vigour into recounting Trella's impressive mind and talent in the art of politics as to the sexual antics between the slave-girl and Eskkar.
Eskkar, as Orak's unassuming messiah, is perhaps a little underwritten and his character suffers from the distinctly implausible ability to immediately grasp complex politics and skills without any real training or formal teaching. I'm all for the unsung hero coming out of top, but the sudden about change from zero to hero is a little hard to swallow.
The action is impeccable with battle scenes worthy of Hollywood and I can already imagine the jaw-dropping effect and devastation of such scenes on the big screen.
I'm a critic and a fan on this one, which is a peculiar contradiction and an unusual position for me to take, but I'm staying on middle ground. It's a take it or leave it novel - which is not meant as a criticism, but as an explanation should this fail to win over the multitude. I would not, however, be surprised to see an edited version coming soon to a theatre near you...

The Redbreast by Jo Nesbo (ISBN 1-843-43217-X)

Translated from Norwegian by Don Bartlett and positively bursting at the seams with awards and prizes (the back cover lists: the Glass Key, the Riverton Prize and the Norwegian Bookclub Prize for the best ever Norwegian crime novel) and following my recent dalliance into Harville Secker's international masterpieces, I thought I was assured on something magnificent.
Nothing could be further from the truth and I am quite prepared to blame the translator on this one (though that might be a bit harsh as I haven't read the original version). The dialogue was punchy, but flat. The characters were well depicted, yet soulless. Not being the biggest fan of wartime raconteurs, The Redbreast could be forgiven for having caught me on a bad day... it wishes...
In fact, I only hope in Norwegian it is more moving and striking in its composition than its English equivalent, otherwise - where have all the decent judges gone?!
It's got some pretty staunch backing from high-end British newspapers, but fortunately, my vote is not for sale (at any price), and I can categorically state that this was a complete waste of my valuable time. Don't waste yours.
Yawn. Yawn... are you still here?