The Many by Wyl Menmuir

A great pleasure of following the Man Booker Prize longlist is coming across books that I probably wouldn't encounter otherwise – including Menmuir’s debut novel “The Many”. It was a joy to plunge right into reading this without knowing anything about it and I was immediately struck by how atmospheric it is as the story is set in a strange fishing village. Life is hard in this murky, remote corner of the world and it’s becoming even harder. The bay seems to have been polluted because the fish caught in the sea appear disturbingly malformed and the only buyer of these hauls is a sinister woman dressed in grey who is accompanied by a couple of cronies. There is something deeply unsettling and strange going on in this village. The story goes somewhere completely unexpected which left me completely gripped and moved when reading the final quarter of the book.

“The Many” alternately follows two characters. For some time a dilapidated house has remained unoccupied – ever since the disappearance of its owner Perran who was a close familiar to many in the village. But a man named Timothy purchases this rundown dwelling intent on turning it into a home for him and his absent wife Lauren. He’s shunned and treated suspiciously by most of the guarded people in the village. Ethan, an unpopular fisherman and longtime inhabitant, struggles to find anyone to accompany him out into the water to help bring in his increasingly meagre catches. Although he refuses to answer Timothy’s insistent questions about Perran, the two become unlikely allies and fishing partners. But the mystery about Perran keeps swelling to the surface and the village is slowly flooding. Eventually everyone must confront the truth of what’s happening.

The accounts of Ethan and Timothy move freely between the present and past building tension and a deeper understanding of the action. As the novel progresses it also becomes increasingly hallucinatory as Timothy is plagued by insidious dreams and a ravaging illness. The line between what’s real and what’s not becomes blurred. It creates an effective sense of tension and psychological suspense along the lines of Henry James’ “The Turn of the Screw” but passages where the men are out fishing in the gloom also invoke a feelings of intense meditation and a primal self-sufficiency similar to Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”. I was slowly drawn into the novel’s bizarre climate of secrecy and impending doom. “The Many” is a brisk, impactful novel which poignantly portrays grief, solitude and an inhibited state of consciousness. 

Polari First Book Prize 2016 Shortlist

It’s good that the day after the Booker Prize longlist was revealed, the shotlist for the Polari First Book Prize was announced at Polari’s regular literary salon held at the Southbank Centre. Concerns are rightly raised about the diversity of authors listed for any prize when announcements are made because it highlights how the industry and our society in general might be prone to elevating people of a certain gender, race, class or sexuality above others. The more prizes we have like The Polari First Book Prize (which honours debut books that explore aspects of the LGBT community), the more voices from all corners of our country are heard.

I attended Polari last night to hear the announcement and it was a pleasure to hear imaginative poet John McCullough read from his latest collection “Spacecraft”. His poem ‘Cat Flap’ went down particularly well with the audience. It was fitting to hear him read as his beautiful book “The Frost Fairs” won the prize in 2012.

I’ve read three out of the six titles shortlisted for the prize and you can read my full reviews of them by clicking the titles below. Fantastic to see Andrew McMillan in the running for yet another award and his inclusion gives a nice continuity as he read at Polari when the 2015 shortlist was announced last year. Stevan Alcock also read from his gay coming of age novel “Blood Relatives” set against the backdrop of the Yorkshire Ripper murders. This makes a nice contrast to Paul McVeigh’s equally powerful coming of age novel “The Good Son” set in Belfast during the Troubles. Last night, Juliet Jacques also gave an excellent reading from her memoir “Trans” which gives a meaningful perspective on the everyday reality of a trans individual. I’m eager to read the other books on the list.

Have you read any of the below or are you interested in giving them a try?

Physical - Andrew McMillan

Blood Relatives – Stevan Alcock

Sugar and Snails - Anne Goodwin

Trans – Juliet Jacques

Different for Girls – Jacquie Lawrence

The Good Son – Paul McVeigh

The Man Booker Prize 2016 Longlist

After the stunning novel “A Brief History of Seven Killings” won last year’s Man Booker Prize, I’m especially excited to see what takes this year's award. Again, we have a compelling longlist of 13 novels. I’m a big supporter of new authors so great to see 4 debut novels included. I suppose you could say the biggest name on the list is J.M. Coetzee who has won the prize twice before. More than anything, this list makes me want to lock myself inside for a week and get reading!

I only managed to correctly guess one book on the longlist and I’ve only read two of them: Deborah Levy’s wildly original novel on family/relationships “Hot Milk” and Elizabeth Strout’s short impactful “My Name is Lucy Barton”. However, I’m really happy about this because many of the books on the list I either have on my shelf or I’ve heard great things about such as Ian McGuire’s “The North Water”, David Szalay’s “All That Man Is”, Ottessa Moshfegh’s “Eileen”, Madeleine Thien’s “Do Not Say We Have Nothing”, David Means’ “Hystopia” and Paul Beatty’s “The Sellout”.

I’m a big fan of A.L. Kennedy and J.M. Coetzee so I’m also excited to read “Serious Sweet” and “The Schooldays of Jesus”. I don’t know anything about Graeme Magrae Burnet’s “His Bloody Project”, Wyl Menmuir’s “The Many” or Virginia Reeves’ “Work Like Any Other”. So I’m glad there are some real surprises there for me to discover.

A shortlist of six books will be announced on September 13th and the winner will be announced on October 25th.

What do you think of the list? Have you read any? What are you looking forward to reading first? I can’t quite decide what to start with.

Dirt Road by James Kelman

New novel “Dirt Road” is the first book I’ve read by Scottish writer James Kelman. It may not be representative of his usual work as I believe he has a reputation for writing novels that invoke Glaswegian patterns of speech which make it difficult for people unfamiliar with this dialect to understand. His Booker Prize winning novel “How Late It Was, How Late” was surrounded by controversy for its frequent use of bad language, but Kelman responded to these objections saying he was honouring and representing how working class people in Glasgow actually speak. “Dirt Road” features both Scottish and American Southern dialect because the story is about a US road trip, but it’s very readable and easy to understand. This emotionally affecting story closely follows the experiences of Scottish teenager Murdo as he and his father visit relatives in Alabama shortly after his mother died of cancer.  

I’ve find it can take a while to get into novels that are so embedded in the moment to moment thoughts and feelings of their protagonists. It can feel at times like a chaotic accumulation of superfluous detail and tedious observations. It’s a testament to the skill of Kelman’s writing that I was surprised to find after fifty pages or so how mesmerising this narrative became and how close I felt to Murdo as he navigates a country that is bewildering and foreign to him. What’s more, his position of naivety gives a fresh perspective on social, national, racial and economic divisions within society highlighting their ridiculousness. In the middle of the novel, Murdo and his father Tom travel with an aunt and uncle to an American Scottish festival. The dress and activities on display here are a strange simulacrum of outdated traditions and are out of sync with modern Scottish sensibilities. It makes for funny scenes but it also feels like this contrast between the idea of a unified national character and actual Scottish characters make a poignant and timely statement about how national identity is porous and changeable. Kelman isn’t mocking the sense of community that festivals like this give, but he shows how they are more about the idea of a nation rather than truly representing the evolving complex reality of a nation.

Murdo is a talented accordion player and his teenage passion for this musical art form is poignantly rendered. He tries to explain to his father how he’s not academically gifted in the traditional sense, but gets a sensory education from listening to music: “Just hearing it the way I’m hearing it, it’s like learning, although I’m just listening like I hear it and I learn it. It’s just the way I do it Dad so I mean that’s just how it is.” When Murdo encounters attractive girl Sarah and her grandmother Queen Monzee-ay who is locally famous for her Zydeco music, the impressionable boy is strongly drawn to playing alongside them and joining this charismatic group of performers. Naturally, his father is protective and wary of his son setting out with bands of musicians when he’s still only sixteen and not an American citizen.

At the heart of the novel is how Murdo and his father Tom’s relationship changes as they learn how to live without the mother and Murdo’s sister Eilidh who died many years ago. I can’t help but feel Kelman must have been inspired by Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” in some way because of the novel’s title and the emotionally fragile father-son relationship it portrays as they travel together without a mother. When I think of McCarthy’s post-apocalyptic novel I’m immediately reminded of the chilling horror it portrays, but my more lasting impression is the bond shown between a man and his son. It’s a tricky thing to do especially because many men conform to their gender roles and don’t often openly discuss emotion. The same is true in “Dirt Road” where Tom spends a lot of time reading on his own while Murdo likes to escape to his aunt’s basement to listen to music in solitude. Conversations between them are short and to the point. Details about the emotional discord created by the mother’s death are gradually revealed, especially how Murdo was placed in a caring position for his father. He thinks with resentment: “The son shouldn’t have to feel sorry for the father. Jesus didn’t feel sorry for God.” But their experiences together during their journey create a more harmonious bond and mutual respect for each other.

Kelman is attentive to small differences in customs and behaviour making America strange to this Scottish boy such as the way tax is only added at the point of sale, the way many Americans use fork and knives differently from Europeans and the social separation between racial groups that exists in parts of the American south. It makes for atmospheric reading as it is so finely filtered through the sharply observed perspective of a sensitive teenage boy. Equally strong is the way Murdo is bewildered by his own changing identity as he builds a sense of self out of his interactions with other people: “Ye look in the mirror and see other people. Because they are seeing you.” This is an impactful story about a damaged father and son building a connection and respect for each other amidst their lingering grief, but it is also about how artificial lines of division break down when real connections are formed.

Try a Story

A fun thing about joining the booktube/youtube community is that there are a lot of challenges that prompt you to talk about books in a different way from straightforward reviews. Recently I was “tagged” to make a video where I pick five short story collections I haven’t read before. I then read the first story of each and decided whether I wanted to continue reading them or not. Here’s the video I came up with: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FY4iaLp-c5Y

If you want to take this challenge yourself please do and let me know the results. I’m a big fan of short stories so let me know if you’ve read any good recent collections or anthologies.

The Seamstress and the Wind by César Aira (Translated by Rosalie Knecht)

I had almost finished reading César Aira's short novel on my way home from a book launch last night when I stopped at a Chinese takeaway to get my dinner. After placing my order, I sat down to continue reading when an eight year old boy came up to me and asked if I knew I had entered a force field which transported me to another time. I replied I didn't know that and asked what time I was now in. He said we are now in 2008 which is the year he was born. He looked up thoughtfully and reasoned that this meant he wasn't really here yet. Such an unexpected plunge into the realm of fantasy is entirely in sync with this surreal and surprising novel.

The main story involves a car chase. Seamstress Delia Siffoni's son has gone missing. Believing he might be in the back of a neighbour's large truck that has embarked on a long haul drive, she pursues him. Her gambler husband Ramón pursues Delia and in pursuit of Ramón is a mysterious little blue car. Following all of them is a gust of wind named Ventarrón which carries a wedding dress. There's also a sinister monstrous baby let loose on the world after a horrific incident. This might all sound bizarre enough, but it gets a lot stranger. There's an Alice in Wonderland-type journey through the convoluted labyrinth of a truck. One character's skin colour changes. A meteorological phenomenon falls in love. At all times, you are aware that this novel is a construct as it is a story being composed by a writer sitting in a Parisian cafe. In doing so, Aira creates a bewitching tale at the same time as meditating on the meaning of invention, memory and art.

The writer is upfront at the novel's beginning that all he has for this book is a title. How he goes about constructing a story to fill that title is something he pauses to consider in depth. Most would consider that novels are formed out of a blend of a writer's experience and imagination. What else could it be? But Aira is intent on utilizing the state of forgetfulness for his creativity rather than inventing a story: “In loss everything comes together.” He's mistrustful of imagination because he feels it will always draw upon memory which is unreliable. Rather than tie his creation to the past he wants it to exist freely: “Forgetting is like a great alchemy free of secrets, limpid, transforming everything into the present. In the end it makes our lives into this visible and tangible thing we hold in our hands, with no folds left hidden in the past. I seek it, to oblivion, in the insanity of art.” So the novel is a sort of freeform exercise based in what he doesn't recall and the result is a bizarre episodic series of events and descriptions which follow a dream-like logic.

Since I was having trouble puzzling over what to make of Aira's novel I asked these cute kids what they thought it was about. They answered time travel and Vikings.

I'm not sure I believe it's possible for Aira or “the writer” to create a story untied to the past. You certainly can't fit the strange images and twists of the story into any neat interpretation, but that doesn't mean they aren't based in part on his lived experience or emotional experience. He tries to hold his characters such as Delia in the present as she is spontaneously created: “Delia is not the luminous miniature in the reels of any movie projector. I said she was a real woman, and I submit myself to my words, to some of them at least... to the words before they make sentences, when they are still purely present.” But details arise, such as how the local housewives who don't work look sneeringly down upon Delia for maintaining a profession as a seamstress even though her husband works. This economic imbalance and sexist social injustice feels like it was inspired by the writer's experience either directly or indirectly. Similarly, there is a touching way how the writer describes his boyhood when the trucker Chiquito created snowmen for him to enjoy. The sentiment of this friendly, playful gesture feels real as well. I'm not saying these things happened to Aira and I never try to interpret a writer’s life into my reading, but how can there be any emotional resonance if it didn’t come from a person with experience? It feels to me like there is an emotional truth, rather than historical truth, which comes through whether the writer is conscious of it or not.

César Aira is an incredibly prolific Argentinian novelist with around eighty novels and novellas to his name. That his output is so rapid isn’t surprising when you read this novel – not because it lacks craft or refinement, but there is a rapid fire quality to the prose where ideas and images are boiling over to form an outrageous plot. His writing has been compared to Borges and it came across like reading an Italo Calvino novel to me or watching a David Lynch film. It’s clearly not cosy fiction, but it’s sophisticated and energetic writing which will leave you scratching your head with curious wonder. I have a feeling certain powerful eerie scenes will stick with me more than his theories on narrative. Most of all, I admire the sheer uncompromising audacity and verve of this novel.

Dodge and Burn by Seraphina Madsen

Dodo Ink is an exciting new independent press that’s publishing daring fiction which doesn’t fit into the catalogues of more mainstream publishers. I was delighted to contribute to their Kickstarter campaign last year because I know the people behind it are committed and serious readers who want to bring out vibrant and challenging new literature. So I’m thrilled to read their first publication “Dodge and Burn” by Seraphina Madsen which is simultaneously a fable about two sisters Eugenie and Camille who live under the control of a sadistic stepfather doctor, a mystery about a lost heiress, a psychedelic road trip about two lovers on the run from gangsters/the law and a mystical meditation on space/time/being. It’s energetic, feverish writing takes you on a spectacularly wild journey.

The novel begins with Eugenie’s bizarre account about her mother’s death when a group of bees fiercely attack her. She and her sister are subsequently taken to her mother’s grand house in Maine where their sadistic guardian Dr Vargas subjects them to torturous experiments including fixing electric collars around their necks and making them kill and eat their pet rabbits. Tantalizingly the house contains a number of libraries whose books the sisters eagerly devour but there is one library which is forbidden to them. The sisters are made to stay in different rooms, but read to each other through a ventilation shaft. They engage each other with literature as varied as William S Burroughs, Henry James and Nabokov as well as a number of mystical and scientific writings. They formulate systems of drawing upon ritualistic behaviour to gather spiritual strength and plot to escape from their deranged guardian/captor.

When the sisters become unexpectedly separated, Eugenie spends her life trying to locate Camille and embarks on a path towards a kind of enlightenment or unveiling of the hidden deities which secretly control our reality. She’s an almost supernaturally strong individual who seems impervious to poisoning or overdosing from the phenomenal amount of drugs she consumes. She’s highly intelligent, well-read, an expert poker player and gymnast. Her partner in crime is Benoît, a man she marries and nicknames Venus Acid Boy (after he hilariously mishears the Bjork song Venus as a Boy). They gamble in Vegas and win so dramatically that casino thugs set upon them. Their adventure takes them across the country having encounters with candy ravers who subsist off from a diet of Pez and neighbours who grow a substantial amount of marijuana. Eugenie’s intense drug-fuelled and sexual experiences take her to other planes of consciousness which might or might not be real: “For all I knew I was my own hallucination.” All the while she’s intent on reuniting with her lost sister.

Cave of Altamira

There is another layer to the story where Eugenie herself is missing and her estranged father who is an Antarctic explorer has offered a substantial reward for her recovery. Her notebooks are discovered in an ancient cavern in Spain. Here are Paleolithic cave paintings which inspired the surreal artist Miró. The quest to discover what happened to both her and her sister Camille are layered into this larger frame. It creates a fascinating array of stories which feed into each other and straddle different periods of time and various locations. This style reminded me somewhat of Lina Wolff’s wildly creative novel “Bret Easton Ellis and The Other Dogs” published earlier this year. Similarly, in “Dodge and Burn” episodic adventures are related with great fervour. An intensity of experience and thought dominates over traditional narrative flow. This left me dazzled and awe-struck, but at the same time I wished for the story to slow down at some points to linger and expand parts such as the bizarre perversity of Dr Vargas’ child-rearing methods and the sisters’ joint strategies for surviving them.

Seraphina Madsen is a highly intriguing new author whose writing encompasses both outrageously fantastic and movingly realistic modes of narrative. Eugenie’s intensity of experience is vividly rendered as is her emotional quest to reunite with her lost sister. It’s made all the more meaningful if you read Madsen’s process behind writing this book and her personal experiences here. This novel gives a highly amplified version of the painful injustices of childhood and our quest for deeper meaning in life. It’s a bold and imaginative debut from this new author and promising new press.

Solar Bones by Mike McCormack

It's easy to scoff at literary fiction which experiments with form given our existing canon of literature which is already packed full of wildly eccentric novels. Everyone from Virginia Woolf to Samuel Beckett to Gertrude Stein to William S Burroughs to Eimear McBride has twisted not only conventional grammar but the shape of the story on the page to say something new about the experience of life and art. So a novel that is one long continuous sentence which lasts more than two hundred pages may seem like it's being wilfully unconventional, but really the style of Mick McCormack's “Solar Bones” perfectly suits the flow of thought for its meditative and entertaining narrator Marcus Conway.

Marcus is an ordinary Irish man who worked as an engineer in County Mayo with his wife and raised two children. Moving through his house he hears the chiming of a bell and this sound resonates throughout the whole novel as it captures a moment and highlights the way our lives are paced out in marked time alongside the flow of life around us. The novel has a poetic brilliance which shines through the very readable prose as Marcus sifts through the experiences of his life. He recounts the trials of his family life, the recent financial crisis in Ireland, local politics and a virulent strain of flu which made his wife very ill.

The effect of reading this extended sentence which is uninterrupted by any full stops made me feel like if I stopped reading I'd miss out on some crucial bit of information which was about to come next. So I was mesmerized and intrigued, but also frustrated because I naturally long for a conclusion or break point. Marcus himself gets frustrated when he wishes at points to halt the stream of his musing: “stop mother of Jesus stop this is how the mind unravels in nonsense and rubbish if given its head”. Really that's partly the point; there are no neat conclusions in our experience - just a continuous flow of thought running through our heads melding the past with imagination, an internal conversation with oneself and those we’ve known in the past. It makes you aware of the way you are a constant subjective witness to both your life and the world around you. You are both the absolute authority of this experience and someone utterly bewildered by it all.

McCormack is extraordinary at capturing the personal reaction we feel witnessing societal shifts which we feel powerless to stop. It felt particularly poignant to me with the recent referendum and the vote for the UK to leave the EU. At one point Marcus and other citizens of his town witness a large ship passing and he thinks “something in me recognizing this as a clear instance of the world forfeiting one of its better ideas, as if something for which there was once justified hope had proved to be a failure and the world had given up on some precious dream of itself, one of its better destinies”. The consequences of these changes and lost ideals reverberate through our personal and collective history. It makes us question the solidity of a society we need to believe in to go about daily life, but which we know in reality is just a collective agreement and, ultimately, an illusion.

He records this feeling when Marcus considers how in 2008 the profitable boom in the Irish economy turned to a nationwide recession. He reflects how “the whole thing ridiculously improbable, so unlikely in scale and consequence it's as if something that never was has finally collapsed or revealed itself to be constructed of air before eventually falling to ruin in that specific way which proved it never existed”. The ways in which we can personally react to these shifts in society are represented in the lives of Marcus' children. His daughter Agnes is an artist whose confrontational work thrusts her into becoming a local icon for a discontented generation. His son Darragh emigrated to Australia. The focus of his interests shifts from subject to subject so he's not able to focus in any substantial way. He becomes consumed with playing the video game Civilization which is a game I've also spent countless hours playing. The player in it leads the development of a civilization while also interacting and trying to dominate the rival nations which are simultaneously growing around you. It works poignantly in this novel as a way of showing how we seek to control the changing society around us, but in reality we are in many ways powerless.

Mike McCormack reads from Solar Bones at Kennys Bookshop

It's impressive the way this novel reflects how daily life can be so caught up in particular moments as global news is filtered through our brains. Marcus comments on how “dawn to dark six or seven news bulletins needing my attention all spaced out at regular intervals, the day structured like the monastic rule of some vigilant order synched to the world's rhythms and all its upheavals” so that his mind is constantly bombarded with outside information that slightly shifts or confirms his own points of view. It makes him feel both at the centre of a nexus of global change and like a helpless pawn being moved by larger forces.

This is a novel which many might feel hesitant about approaching because of its unusual style, but I bet if you start reading you’ll be hypnotised by its engaging and fascinating voice. Marcus’ gripes and wry perspective are very relatable plus the flow of language is a thing of fine-crafted beauty. Mike McCormack captures the movements of everyday life whether we feel engaged with the world or deeply resigned about it: “rites, rhythms and rituals upholding the world like solar bones, that rarefied amalgam of time and light whose extension through every minute of the day is visible”. It's an electrifying experience being swept so fully into one man's uninterrupted meditation on life.

Announcing Jean Rhys Reading Week: 12th-18th September 2016

I’ve never participated in a reading week with other book bloggers before although I’ve been very tempted. So I was delighted when Jacqui who writes so wonderfully about books at her blog JacquiWine’s Journal invited me to co-host a week of reading centred around Jean Rhys. I read much of Rhys’ writing when I was at university, but I’ve not read much since then and, to be honest, her early novels somewhat blur all together in my mind. I’ve been wanting to go back to read through them all again and this week will be the perfect excuse.

If you’ve ever wanted to read or reread Jean Rhys then pick out some books you’d like to read and discuss with us during the week starting September 12th. Jacqui and I will be posting about Rhys' books and fielding discussions on our blogs, twitter, goodreads, etc. We’d love to know your thoughts about Rhys’ writing, life and the significant contribution she made to literature. If you want to blog about her you can use the Jean Rhys banner in the upper left corner of this post and if you want to tweet your thoughts about your reading use the hashtag #ReadingRhys.

Jean Rhys was born in the Caribbean island of Dominica and first came to prominence publishing books amidst the Parisian literary groups in Paris during the 1920s-30s. She then dropped off the map for over 35 years before emerging again with her masterwork “Wide Sargasso Sea” which is a prequel to “Jane Eyre.” She also published many short stories and an unfinished autobiography. She’s certainly a distinctive author with a unique writing style. There’s much to discuss and explore so we hope you’ll join us.

Do any of the above books tempt you? What have you read by Rhys and what are you interested in reading/rereading? We're planning lots of exciting and special things for this week in September. If you’d like to make any more substantial contribution do get in touch with me or Jacqui while we continue to plan for the reading week!

July Reading Wrap Up Video – Part 1

The reading wrap up video I made at the end of last month felt way too long so I’m breaking it up this month. Here is the first part of July’s videos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hk8YN6dcEpQ I’ve really been reading some excellent fiction lately and rate all six books I’ve read so far this month very highly. What do you think of these wrap up videos? Should I continue doing them or try a different style? Is there anything else you’d like to see me making videos about or talking about in these videos? And what good things have you been reading?

The Girls by Emma Cline

In a case like the 1969 Manson Family murders a lot of focus has been centred on leader Charles Manson, his background and his bizarre ideas. Less emphasis has been given to what would motivate young women to follow such a fanatic and commit such horrendous acts of violence. In Emma Cline's debut novel “The Girls” she creates a situation which highly resembles the Manson cult and crime, but gives voice to fourteen year old girl Evie Boyd who is drawn into becoming a part of this group. Moving back and forth between the summer of 69 and a point many years later when the crime has become notorious, Cline gives Evie's account of the inner workings of this Californian quasi-commune and why she becomes involved with them. With great insight and sensitivity she writes about female adolescent development to create a hypnotic and powerful tale.

Evie comes from an upper-middle class background and lives with her single mother Jean. Her long-time friend Connie has shrugged her off in the way that friends sometimes do around this age when our development causes us to grow apart from those we were at one time intensely close to. Jean is more concerned with her own love life and building her own self confidence than caring for her daughter. So Evie is somewhat isolated struggling to understand who she is and what this new body is that she's growing into. Like many adolescents, she learns from magazine and the media that she should work to make herself attractive: “the articles that taught me life was really just a waiting room until someone noticed you – the boys had spent that time becoming themselves.” At that time, boys weren't held to the same standards and so don't feel the same level of self consciousness. She remarks “Poor girls. The world fattens them on the promise of love.” There's a sense that if only they can find someone to recognize and value them then they will have worth in the world. It leads Evie to long for a role model to look up to and she finds it when she sees a confident black-haired girl named Suzanne.

Cline describes very well that feeling we have as teenagers where we become so enamoured by someone we want to do whatever we can to be close to and be seen by them. She inveigles her way into Suzanne's circle of friends and the ranch commune she lives at centred around the charismatic Russell. But, for Evie, Suzanne is always her focus. She's powerfully drawn to how Suzanne and her friends “were sure of what they were together”. Evie believes that there must be a point when your identity becomes a solid knowable thing “As if there were only one way things could go, the years leading you down a corridor to the room where your inevitable self waited – embryonic, ready to be revealed.” Of course, in reality our identities are constantly shifting as we continue to grow and change throughout our lives, but a vulnerable girl like Evie has no way of knowing this without guidance.

There's a section I love where Cline also gets at that teenage feeling of wanting to be numbed. She references “Valley of the Dolls” and that desire for drugged stasis and Evie's wish for “my body kept alive by peaceful, reliable machines, my brain resting in watery space, as untroubled as a goldfish in a glass bowl.” Rather than face the difficult task of understanding who she is and what she wants as she grows into her adulthood she'd rather be unconscious and wake up at some later stage fully formed. It's a powerful notion and gives one perspective on why teenagers in particular are perhaps so drawn to the blissful effects of drugs and alcohol.

Camp Fire Girls

Cline also has a powerful way of describing the psychological impact of sex at this age. Evie has a number of sexual encounters which show her natural curiosity, the draw of pleasure and a desire for closeness more than a wish for the physical act itself. Her wish to be near Suzanne produces complex feelings. Men such as Russell have a persuasive way of psychologically manipulating young women into participating in acts they aren't ready for when they aren't outright forcing them to have sex with them. After the fact, Evie expects there to be a shift in the world to match the shift in her own post-sexual mindset: “I wanted the world to reorder itself visibly around the change, like a mend marking a tear.” This strongly describes the way we want the world to substantiate the confusion and internal changes that occur after such a significant life experience.

Although this novel is centred around a violent incident and flashes of this horrendous crime are shown, “The Girls” is more about the incremental stages of adolescent development. Emma Cline's writing reminds me somewhat of Joyce Carol Oates for the way she captures this experience so well while also creating vividly rendered characters, scenes and metaphors. There is a relatable intensity to Evie's psychology as she is not innocent, but stumbles towards finding what she wants in life and can be persuaded into discarding any sense of morality in favour of being accepted by people she idolizes. This is an intense, insightful and engaging novel.

An Unreliable Guide to London edited by Gary Budden and Kit Caless

Anyone who lives within or has visited a major city will have an opinion about its character. Each individual point of view will present a different picture no more or less true than the next. London, with its population nearing nine million, has more perspectives than most cities. Yet it's rare that we see the landscape that real Londoners inhabit in the films we watch or the novels we read. I’ve lived in this city for over 16 years and seldom have I seen or read stories set in the capital which feel like my recognizable home. Even when my local tube station of Oval appeared in the entertaining film Attack the Block the characters instantly turned down a street to arrive at a council estate that doesn’t exist. A rare instance of recognition I had was reading the recent novel “I Am China” by Xiaolu Guo featuring the street Chapel Market in Islington (which I know very well.) In this case, I felt pleasurably disorientated like I was able to see it from a wholly new perspective. How to further represent the city of London in fiction to make it recognizable to its hugely diverse range of inhabitants while also making it powerfully individual?

The new anthology of short stories “An Unreliable Guide to London” from Influx Press isn't a corrective for how we view the city in fiction so much as a broadening out to encompass a wide range of points of view showing you the city as you've never read about it before. In these stories you'll feel the uniquely strong gust of wind which ushers you out of a South London tube station, smell the toast sold by a trendy charitable cafe, see bizarre reflections on canal waters, hear the shouts of protest at the closure of a historic landmark and taste the complex flavours in a lunch box from a local Thai stall. You can then travel around London in reality having these sensory experiences for yourself. Or maybe it’ll be different for you because as editors Budden and Caless note in their introduction “London is an unreliable city, always changing” from the endless constructions and flow of people moving in and out of the city. So this book acts as a kind of historical document while also telling evocative and entertaining stories. More than anything it encompasses a variety of diverse personal takes on this fascinating and ever-evolving city. 

The book is divided into geographical sections of London with stories usually focused around a particular borough. The stories vary widely in their style, subject and tone. There are starkly realistic accounts such as an ex-drug user/seller encountering a suspicious rucksack in Courttia Newland’s 'The Secret Life of Little Wormwood Scrubs' and a homeless boy who is given shelter by a black American mechanic in Stephen Thompson’s 'The Arches'. Then there are wildly fantastic tales such as 'Soft on the Inside' by Noo Saro-Wiwa where dead animals that have been immortalized with stuffing by a villainous taxidermist in Islington are given a short lease to live again and take their revenge. Or there is the ambitious, fascinating and outrageously inventive story ‘Filamo’ by Irenosen Okojie where an abbey of monks battle and break through the fabric of time to emerge disorientated in a humdrum shopping centre. Some stories employ aspects of genre like Sunny Singh’s 'In the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens' which is in part a political thriller about a tentative romance centred around a secret service agent. Salena Godden’s atmospheric fantasy 'The Camden Blood Thieves' recounts a female musician’s encounters with vampiric gentlemen who try to seduce her into nefarious corners of London’s night life.

The stories have a variety of techniques for bringing the physical space of London to life. Some focus on a very specific locale and raise questions about who really owns these particular spaces. In Gary Budden’s 'Staples Corner (and how we can know it)' the second person account notes “You are trapped in the fevered dying dream of a brutalist architect.” This meaningfully evokes notions of how the imagining and planning of buildings by proceeding generations have shaped the physical spaces we inhabit for better or worse. Tim Wells’ ‘Heavy Manners’ recounts the lost culture and manners of record shop patrons. Nikesh Shukla’s sharply observed ‘Tayyabs’ is an ode to a famous Pakistani restaurant where a narrator records the ridiculous statements and cross-cultural confusion between the diverse patrons who all enjoy their mouth watering lamb chops. 'Mother Black Cap's Revenge' by George F recounts how the notorious Camden club was closed by developers. Groups of queer punks fought to save its vital history from being lost and want to maintain its use as a unique mixing point for social progression and artistic expression. These stories raise vital concerns about the conflicting claims which can be made on the same physical space by different people and how these clashes can lead to intellectual, verbal and sometimes physical battles.

London boroughs

The challenge of who claims intellectual ownership of a space is shown on a personal level in a conflict between friends in Koye Oyedeji’s deeply thoughtful story ‘Thy Kingdom Come’. Here the narrator is a journalist who returns to the Walworth area and meets his boyhood friend who is a rising star named Emcee. His friend’s fabrication of their area’s urban danger betrays the reality of their upbringing. It makes a commodity out of cultural stereotypes the general public want to see reflected back at them rather than representing the reality of their experience. The narrator laments “the way history can be stolen from under your feet as well as the way it has been plastered over in Walworth.” It’s a poignant portrayal of the different ways we lose where we came from.

In some stories the intense focus on a particular location entices the reader to wonder more about the peculiar and mysterious narrator. Paul Ewan’s story 'Rose's, Woolwich' examines an old-timers pub in the middle of a bustling business area, the regulars who sit stationary within it all day and how their behaviour mimics the pub’s pet lizard. But any specific knowledge about the peculiar teller of this tale who is prone to erratic behaviour remains elusive. Equally, the mesmerising 'In Pursuit of the Swan at Brentford Ait' by Eley Williams recounts in meticulous detail all accounts of a legendary bird in this particular body of water – an obsession which has driven its studious narrator to lose everything: “In many ways, it was lucky that I lost my job so that I could devote all my time to my research, and luckier still that I was able to commit a whole extra room to my studies and to the paperwork once my wife left me.”

Some authors take a more forensic approach to examining their locales. ‘Babies from Sand’ by M John Harrison examines the paintings in a gallery and how these works of art reflect upon the city while the city reflects back at them. Truth is found in the details and the detritus. 'N1, Centre of Illusion' by Chloe Aridjis looks at the nocturnal side of a particular part of the city and how its shadows make a very different kind of impression from its sturctures. Gareth E. Rees’ ‘There is Something Very Wrong with Leyton Mills Retail Park’ is a dynamic look at the way a city’s physical space exists both in reality and in the imagination. The narrator sees “A sketch of a place waiting to happen, tainted with the melancholy that it might not” and recognizes how our images of how we want reality to be often bear little resemblance to the truth of our surroundings.

There are (of course) extreme economic and social disparities between people in London. This is poignantly reflected and dramatized in many stories. In 'Corridors of Power' by Juliet Jacques a group of struggling artists who live in a warehouse crash a private members’ club party and become privy to alarming discussions about benefit cuts. Tim Burrows’ moving story ‘Broadgate’ relates a successful banker’s encounter with a desperate cleaner. It reflects how compressed urban spaces can create a perilous lack of empathy and a sense of isolation where there should be expressions of humanity.  On the more positive side, ‘Warm and Toasty’ by Yvvette Edwards shows how instances of meaningful exchange across economic divides can inspire heartfelt connections and that appearances can be deceiving.

One of the funniest stories is Will Wiles’ creatively disarming alternative history 'Notes on London's Housing Crisis'. In this vision of London traditional houses are abandoned for mass-produced housing and megastructures that can be slotted into different parts of the city on a whim. However, some people inevitably abandon the social cause for this free flow of movement to lay claim to particular areas. This means that people may have to revert to the abandoned and devalued traditional housing. The narrator hilariously begrudges the fact he’ll have to pay £675 for a three-bedroom terraced house in Notting Hill when in reality such a property would cost millions.

When I reached the end of this anthology, it was a personal pleasure to read Kit Caless’ story ‘Market Forces’ which centres around the lunchtime food stalls at Exmouth Market – a street that happens to be right around the corner from where I work. Not only have I seen all the market stalls he mentions, but I’ve eaten lunch from all of them. So I could both imagine the rich sensory experience of eating these dishes through his evocative writing, but I could remember tasting them myself. He creates fascinating micro-stories centred around five different characters who purchase lunch boxes from various stalls. These characters and the food they eat are from a wide range of backgrounds making a fitting statement about the confluence of cultures which is at the heart of London life. 

Something that is so refreshing and exciting about this group of stories is the true diversity of people included. They feature characters named Khalil, Manja, Graham, Malik, Fire, Rupie, Wasim, Tawaiah, Daniela, Olu, Dom Filamo and Tuma. Some stories go into their ethnical and racial backgrounds. Others simply let them stand as individuals who inhabit the names they’ve been given or that they’ve given themselves. There are people with backgrounds in Algeria, Mauritius, Pakistan, Nigeria, Slovenia, America, Columbia and many other countries. Reading these stories isn’t an exercise in cultural tourism; it’s a true reflection of what it’s like walking down many streets in London. As Aki Schilz powerfully states in the book’s opening story “The town broadcasts its stories at a precise frequency; you just have to learn to tune in.” The stories in this collection will make you see the London and the people you pass on its streets in a new way.

I enjoy reading anthologies of different writers because it’s like getting a sampler of authors whose stand-alone books you might want to read. I’m certainly interested in reading more writing from many of the authors included in this compelling collection. Some have published several books and others are up-and-coming writers. An added bonus is included in the author bios at the end of the book where each writer names some of their favourite London-based novels as well as noting their favourite physical locations in London. You'll get a very different look at London from novel to novel when reading authors as diverse as J.G. Ballard, China Miéville, Hanif Kureishi, Virginia Woolf, Bernardine Evaristo, Alan Hollinghurst, Charles Dickens, Stella Duffy, George Gissing, Alan Moore, Monica Ali, Elizabeth Bowen, Zadie Smith, Howard Jacobson, Angela Carter, Iain Banks, Xiaolu Guo or Peter Ackroyd. Of course, no one can definitely capture London but all of them add to a fuller more pluralized vision of the city. “An Unreliable Guide to London” is a timely and significant contribution to the rich tradition of London literature. It’s a particular pleasure reading it on a London bus when you have no set destination.

Nine Folds Make a Paper Swan by Ruth Gilligan

A common theme in many Irish novels is emigration where new generations often go to settle in England or America, but not as many recent stories have been written about immigrants who come to Ireland. Ruth Gilligan’s new novel “Nine Folds Make a Paper Swan” is in part about a Jewish family from Lithuania who sail in 1901 expecting to arrive in New York City only to discover upon landing that they are in Ireland. And there they stay. The patriarch Moshe was a well-regarded playwright in his native region and strives to get his new play about a fifth province produced in Ireland. As there are four provinces in Ireland this refers to the literal translation of the Gaelic word for province which is fifth, but also an ideological space where cultural identity isn’t so rigidly defined. The meaning of this resonates throughout the novel which follows three distinct and engrossing stories over a century. Gradually these strands tie together to form a complex picture of Jewish life in Ireland.

Gilligan has an interesting and complex way of building a fascinatingly layered story. Moshe’s youngest daughter Ruth was only a young child when they first arrived in Ireland so feels thoroughly Irish and is determined to remain there. Shem is a mute teenager who has been admitted to a poorly run mental health facility by his parents in 1958. He’s made to share a room with the only other Jewish patient in the house: a cantankerous and legless man named Alfred who desperately wants his story to be recorded. In 2013, Aisling is an aspiring journalist from an Irish Catholic family who moved to London. When her partner Noah requests that she convert to Judaism she returns to her familiar Dublin family home for Christmas to contemplate this choice. The novel revolves between these three stories and builds in suspense as the reader discovers how each strand resolves itself and what the connections are between them. It also makes a larger statement about the attitudes towards the Jewish community in Ireland over the course of a century.

As a religious minority in the country, it's observed how levels of antisemitism vary from mild to extreme over time. For the Eastern European Jewish family who has long settled in Ireland it's observed “There had been other terms flung their way these past few years. ‘Bloodsuckers’ and ‘Moneylenders’. ‘Murderers’ too. ‘Jewtown’ the locals called their neighbourhood, though they claimed it was only an endearment.” In other instances a pelt of rashers are thrown on a Jewish doctor's car, “Kike” is shouted at a young man in a canteen and Catholic parents have a stony reaction to the news their daughter might convert to Judaism. Gilligan also recounts Zionist movements amongst the Irish Jewish population where established or native Jewish people would move to Israel. During WWII when a German bomb coincidentally falls on “Clanbrassil Street, right in the heart of Dublin's Little Jerusalem” there is a house which is perfectly split in two. This comes to symbolize the feeling of Jewish Irish identity – only ever half existing in the country. There is a prevailing sense that if you are Jewish in Ireland you are made to feel in a sense “other.” But the author builds a more complex sense of national identity and what it means to belong observing that “maybe we have all changed into something other by the end, whether we decide to or not.”

There are playful references to Ireland's literary history throughout the narrative where figures like James Joyce and Anne Enright loom large. School notebooks are covered with “a sketch of Martello Tower on the front as if to encourage every gobshite in the country to become the next James bloody Joyce.” Later a scene builds to a climax in imitation of Molly Bloom: “faster and faster, higher and higher until she felt. Herself. Say yes.” When Aisling is booking a flight to Dublin banner ads pop up for the novel “The Gathering” and the novel appears again when she's contemplating the state of being one who has left Ireland: “The various snippets of the annual rant in all its different forms, like how lucky they are to have escaped, but how bloody amazing it is to be home – The Gathering indeed – nostalgia and disdain all slurred into one, the emigrant's beautiful paradox.” This beautifully summarizes and adds meaning to the conflicted sense of national identity for people who have left their native country.

Shem travels to Gleann-na-nGealt or "the Valley of the Mad" seeking a miracle cure by bathing in its legendary water.

Gilligan has a talent for building highly dramatic scenes where images from the past are interspersed with dialogue. This is artfully done and adds meaningful depth to the action as it plays out. She also has a keen ability for descriptive detail such as this moment “I stirred my soup. The skin on the top puckered like an elbow” or when a character looks at the sky “Behind the flag the sky wore diamonds, a sparkle on black like a widow's throat.” These create a vivid picture in the reader's mind as well as setting the emotional mood in a way which is poignant and memorable. There are some moments when observations are made which powerfully resonate such as how “The silences a family is made up of, to try and protect one another; the silences which shove us apart.”

“Nine Folds Make a Paper Swan” is a deeply thoughtful novel. It's in turns dramatic, comic and heartbreaking making it highly readable. It poses challenging notions of how identity is commonly viewed in neat categories, but in reality who we are is much more complex than any one label. Legends and myths are passed down through generations making appearances in each part of the story where they find different resonance. In writing about what stories are remembered or forgotten over a century, Gilligan forms in this novel a powerful triptych of Ireland.

Beast by Paul Kingsnorth

There can be no greater confrontation with yourself than to abandon all your attachments (job, house, belongings, friends/family) and walk into the wilderness to live as a hermit. That’s what the protagonist Edward Buckmaster does in Paul Kingsnorth’s new novel “Beast”. This short novel begins with him squatting in a broken-down shack in the West-country moors with its makeshift roof on the brink of collapsing under torrential rain storms. He’s already lived here by himself for shortly over a year and does not plan to turn back. Just why he’s made this radical life decision is the mystery which propels the novel as well as an enigmatic dark beast he sometimes glimpses darting through the heather-filled landscape. But this is a story more about the process of his inner spiritual/psychological quest than finding any true answers. Kingsnorth conveys this in innovative and subtle ways through his use of language and narrative format. Reading this novel feels like you’re travelling on a fascinating, absorbing and sometimes terrifying journey as Edward teeters on the brink of madness and/or enlightenment.

I don’t want to give anything away, but Kingsnorth gives a clue as to just how much was at stake when Edward decided to abandon everything for a solitary life. Early on in the novel, he suggests a conversation Edward had with a woman who chastises him for leaving because it means his baby girl will never know him. This immediately colours how the reader feels about Edward’s self-subsistence and inward revelations. He’s not a man who had nothing to lose; he’s abandoned his child. Is this a brave act of rebellion against a dysfunctional civilization or a cowardly decision by a man who can’t face responsibility? Will his quest lead him to a profound understanding about the world or will he tumble into ever-more complex self justifications for why he shouldn’t be a part of it? These are questions only the reader can decide as she/he picks through the tangled weeks that pass as Edward traipses over the desolate landscape. Whatever his reasons are, he’s resolute that this life of solitude and sacrificing all possessions/comforts is the only way toward achieving a true understanding of existence. He states “you can think for three decades and your thoughts will be worse than useless because you have not touched this thing not really. you have to live in this dimension your hands must be calloused your heart scarred or what are you.”

Edward’s act of fanaticism is akin to some saints and mystics who equally abandon everything for a life of solitude. He references some early on and knows well how they tread the fine line between great seers and madmen. Usually when people seek deeper spiritual understanding they turn to religion which is something that Edward emphatically rejects. He states “We built a world of alters because we could never put the mystery into words.” But he believes these temples and churches have only served as approximations for finding the meaning of existence. What’s needed is to face the stripped down and barren fact of life in the hermetic way he’s chosen: “Nothingness extends itself emptiness moves and when you stare into it things happen to you.” The things that happen to Edward are predictable in some respects. He goes through bouts of intense desire for what he’s abandoned: food, cleanliness, sex, companionship. His mood careens from serenity to outright violence. Mixed with these desperate moments of longing are glimpses of seeming revelation for seeing the world as a primitive landscape based on survival: “For a moment the world cracked open and I saw myself as the wild creature I was as one caged a wild creature among billions as atoms as meat as animal as prey.” The beast he encounters could be a manifestation of this inner creature or it might be a more insidious force that’s stalking him.

Those who read Paul Kingsnorth’s much lauded novel “The Wake” might have been intimidated by the book’s use of the author’s version of Old English. I had a go at it, but quickly felt puzzled so put it aside vowing to go back to it again (unsurprisingly, I haven’t yet). There is no such trouble with understanding the language in “Beast” – but getting at just what Kingsnorth means by this convoluted soul-searching quest will be confusing. And rightly so! He’s asking questions rather than posing answers with this fascinating story. However, the author also uses subtle variations in his style and his composition of language over the course of the novel. Gradually grammar breaks down. Tense bends as time is warped. The first person narrator eventually changes his tone from a proud capital I to a lower case i. At a few points, the narrative breaks off completely mid-sentence only to pick up again after a couple blank pages to find him in another place. Language itself becomes an inadequate vehicle for what he’s trying to convey: “It is so hard to put into words into these clumsy words that say nothing.” The scenes become increasingly hallucinatory as the story progresses so in one paragraph he’ll be hiking over the moors and in another he’ll be wandering through “slums” with “barefoot black children” who encourage him to jump naked into a freezing lake or he’ll appear on the wing of a plane that’s plummeting the ground. Whether these are fantasies, delusions or visions of another time and place are debatable. Whatever their meaning, I found his journey fascinating just to see what bizarre things Edward would encounter next and where his logic would take him.

It’s interesting thinking about this book in relation to other novels such as Evie Wyld’s “All the Birds, Singing” which similarly features a recluse – in this case, a sheep farmer who lives on her own on an island. Similarly, there is a mysterious and threatening something prowling about her land (and killing some of her sheep). It’s not surprising that someone living on their own would be prone to fear of attack as they are relatively defenceless without the support of a larger civilization. Confronting this fear or demon might mean only overcoming psychological obstacles which cause that fear in the first place. Equally, it’s interesting to consider “Beast” in relations to Kazuo Ishiguro’s most recent novel “The Buried Giant”. Instead of a lone journey, his novel features an older couple on a quest through a seemingly medieval landscape to find their son. The threat comes in this case from what has been buried and forgotten: a giant. Similarly, Edward encounters mythical beings which function both as real physical threats and manifestations of his subconscious. He proclaims “Yes there were giants in the Earth it was all real all of it.” It’s as if there is an inversion of reality as we know it so fairy tales are true and our tangible existence is false. In doing so, Kingsnorth and these other authors force us to question everything that we take for granted.

The compelling question at the heart of this novel is whether Edward’s solitary practice actually leads him to greater knowledge or total despair. He is absolutely convinced that “There has to be a secret.” But I wonder if there really is a secret? Maybe there is no mystery to the deep questions Edward prods through his rigorous rejection of everyone and everything. Maybe he’s living the most honest existence possible. Or maybe he’s a coward. This is a dilemma that Kingsnorth artfully poses in this accomplished and compelling novel.

The Tidal Zone by Sarah Moss

When you experience a personal tragedy it fills your whole world. You’re aware and empathize with the suffering other individuals have experienced in the past and continue to experience all over the world. But this knowledge is more likely to colour your daily existence rather than saturate it. How do you contextualize your personal loss without turning it into just another story like the many stories of heartache we read about every day in the news? Sarah Moss’ new novel “The Tidal Zone” has an astounding way of looking at a potential personal tragedy within one household and simultaneously shows how it is situated in the expansive tapestry of human experience. She does this writing in a way which is poetic, profound and filled with wry humour, but it’s also a story firmly grounded in the small details of real life.

The narrator Adam Goldschmidt is a stay-at-home Dad whose domestic routine is abruptly interrupted when he receives a call that his eldest daughter Miriam has stopped breathing. She’s been resuscitated, but the doctors don’t fully understand what went wrong with her body. The novel follows the tense aftermath of this incident when Adam has become hyperaware of the fragility of life, yet the ongoing ordinariness of daily existence continues on regardless. There is dinner to make, clothes to iron, his younger daughter Rose to pick up from school and cleaning to do. All this must continue even while his teenage daughter Miriam impatiently waits in the hospital for weeks while being monitored.

Sarah Moss writes powerfully about how the physical space of a hospital is flooded with emotion: “Hospitals have their own gravitational field, their own atmosphere; you can feel it from the car parks.” Anyone who has spent any length of time in a hospital knows this sensation of all thought and feeling being intensely focused on the immediacy of what’s happening and that life is at stake. There are glancing encounters with the trauma other people experience and there are periods of excruciating boredom while waiting for tests and procedures to be conducted. This reminded me of the wonderfully rendered account of a couple’s vigilance over their sick child in the hospital in Lucy Caldwell’s recent short story ‘Multitudes’.

Meanwhile, Adam’s thoughts also frequently roam to an account of the WWII bombing and subsequent reconstruction of the Coventry Cathedral which he is researching and writing about for a walking tour. He considers how when the city was being bombed people had to carry on with their daily lives and that “Domestic routine takes priority over political violence until the very last minute.” His intense engagement with the stories of people’s fate in wartime shows on a macro level the feelings of uncertainty and heartache he’s experiencing on his own micro level. So when he ruminates upon the strategies and plans the designers of the reconstructed Cathedral take it’s almost as if he’s planning how he can also rebuild a stable household for his family following their intense brush with tragedy.

Adam wants his home to be capable of containing the messiness of ordinary life while also not living in a state of constant emergency where he must be constantly vigilant about his children’s health. He wants them to live in that state of blissful ignorance about the daily dangers and fragility of life while also being aware of the gift of a relatively happy and healthy existence: “may we heal enough to take for granted sky and water and light”. He’s aware of how these points of view are all filtered through the stories we narrate to ourselves and each other about the past and our present lives. He remarks how “You think you want a story, you think you want an ending, but you don’t. You want life. You want disorder and ignorance and uncertainty.” He’s aware of the ability stories have to drain the lifeblood out of existence and not faithfully represent the feeling of experience. At the same time he knows that “Stories have endings; that’s why we tell them, for reassurance that there is meaning in our lives.” How to live fruitfully without the need for constant reassurance?

Most people look to religion, but Adam resolutely states: "I'm not a believer. I trust that's already clear." Inspiration comes from Adam’s father who never allowed himself to be confined within the story that was written for him. He spent years travelling the world and living in intentional communities. Living with groups of other people, they tried to rewrite the rules by which our personal lives are played out under the regulations of larger society. Many of these communities weren’t able to sustain themselves in the long term and Adam’s father is very attentive to their shortcomings: “My generation screwed up all right, just like the one before, but we had ideas. Yes, also like the one before.” He doesn’t have a rose-tinted view of where they went wrong, but at least they tried to conscientiously create a better way of life rather than conforming to the standards laid out for them by their parents. Adam gleans from this a strategy for his family to live in a way which doesn’t confine them to a humdrum existence. Incidentally, I really appreciated getting this balanced perspective about a post-war generation’s experiments with intentional communities after reading the rather one-sided view in Kate Atkinson’s otherwise magnificent novel “A God in Ruins.”

Coventry Cathedral tapestry: "His tapestry Christ in Glory, stood the full height of the building, its solid colours and softness a counterpoint to the brilliance of stained glass, gazing down the length of the nave at the ruins behind."

There are many more admirable details contained in this beautiful novel than I can possibly recount in a brief review. It meaningfully points out shortcomings in our current society such as lack of employment opportunities, the shortcomings of academic institutions and the NHS and our own inertia watching cooking shows: “we’re all obsessed with obesity and weight loss and also fucking baking.” But it never comes across like the author is whinging; it’s more like she’s articulating and relating to the frustrations many of us feel living within a problematic society. She’s also highly attentive to the positive things about it in the people and systems which do respond to the needs and welfare of individuals. As well as considering these larger social issues, this is a poignant novel about a marriage with a hardworking wife in full time employment, the gender stereotypes Adam challenges as a househusband and the changing dynamics of the relationship between siblings.

“The Tidal Zone” magnificently captures the real grit and poignancy of daily life while framing it within a bigger picture. It’s an emotionally affecting read with realistic and relatable characters that will keep you gripped worrying what will happen to them. This is the first novel by Sarah Moss that I’ve read, but I’m now eager to read more of her books.

Have you read anything else by this author? If so, let me know which book by her I should pick up next.