Mother Mary Comes to Me by Arundhati Roy

First Impressions

This is a book that radically altered my perspective, and I think it's genuinely going to change how I inhabit the world going forward. I don't say that lightly. I read a lot of books, and this doesn't happen to me very often, but there is greatwisdom in this memoir. Even though it's a very specific, individual story, it carries such a real universal application that I'd recommend it to pretty much everyone. This is a memoir about this celebrated author's life and her very difficult relationship with her mother, Mary, over the decades. But it's also about so much more than that.

A Different Way of Reckoning with the Past

I think we often reach a certain point in life where we start looking back, both on the households we were raised in and the country we were raised in, and we interpret the limitations of those things as having permanently inhibited our ability to fully inhabit the world, as having damaged our emotional well-being to the point that we feel defeated by having originated under circumstances that involved neglect, abuse, discrimination, or corruption, whether within a family or within larger institutions. It's a very seductive frame of mind to take, essentially deciding that's why we can't fully live and be as happy as we want to be. But that isn't the perspective Arundhati Roy takes in this book, and I don't think it's one she arrived at easily or lightly over the course of her life.

The way she describes growing up with her mother, whom she mostly refers to formally as Mrs. Roy, there's a real distance in that naming itself. Her mother severely emotionally abused her throughout her childhood and was constantly putting her down. Roy recounts many of the things her mother said to her, including that she'd wanted an abortion when she was pregnant with her, that she actively hadn't wanted her. For so many people, hearing something like that from a parent would confirm a deep sense of being unwanted in the world, and it would understandably lower their self-esteem and their ability to participate in and enjoy life. But Roy has such a different way of holding it. She writes that her mother was both her shelter and her storm, and that these two ways of seeing her mother can coexist: appreciating her mother and the difficult circumstances she came from, while not denying or glossing over the fact that her mother treated her, and many people around her, abysmally, and still admiring her mother's genuine accomplishments.

Mrs. Roy's Extraordinary, Contradictory Life

What her mother did was, in its own way, extraordinary. She left her husband, who'd become an alcoholic, to raise her children alone, and she campaigned to overturn a prejudiced law in India that prevented daughters from inheriting their father's property, taking her own case all the way to a higher court. She also built a genuinely progressive school from nothing. So she achieved so much in her life, while also not being a traditionally nurturing parent, often antagonistic toward her children, making them feel like nothing. Roy understood this was simply who her mother was, and still loved her and remained an active part of her life, though there was also a long period of estrangement between them, no contact at all for a stretch of time. So many people have had to sever ties, either with a parent or with their own country, because of how they were treated by one or the other, and I think that parallel is really at the heart of this memoir.

From Family to Nation

The book moves in two halves. The first focuses on Roy's childhood and her relationship with her parents, up through the point where she writes her first novel, “The God of Small Things,” which became an international bestseller and won the Booker Prize, turning her into a globally recognized figure. From there, the second half follows her engagement with Indian politics and society: calling out corruption, campaigning against prejudice, and helping to bring about positive change in India. She feels a love for her country even though she is clear-eyed about its imperfections. Interestingly, she doesn't favour being called an activist, doesn't really see a clean distinction between that label and being a writer, even though everything she does: contributing money, contributing her intellectual work, writing articles, raising awareness, protesting, engaging with different groups, reads to me as activism in every meaningful sense.

I'm not trying to draw an exact equation between someone's experience with their parents and their experience as a citizen of a nation; they're not the same thing. But there are real parallels here, because in all of this work, Roy has faced persecution from corrupt police and governmental forces, including a short imprisonment, simply for trying to stand up for what's right. For many people, facing that kind of opposition might lead them to disengage, to stop trying to enact change, or to simply leave and live somewhere else, which Roy could certainly have done. She's chosen not to. There are so many specific instances in the book, decisions she's made, mistakes she freely admits to, that add up to something like a lesson in how to inhabit one's life positively without being defeated by circumstances that, in so many cases, would make it entirely understandable to become apathetic and cynical.

A Specific, Absorbing Life

Beyond the larger message, I found this an absorbing memoir simply for the specificity of her story. She writes about the real struggles, joy, and defeat of leaving home, of a number of different relationships, of the prejudice she's faced as a woman. There's an extraordinary section where she describes how, riding public transport, it's simply accepted as the norm that men will treat attractive women as available for the taking, to grope, to make salacious comments toward, and how that's just the daily reality for so many women. There's also her time in the film industry, her development as a writer, and the overwhelming experience of “The God of Small Things” earning so much attention and love. I read that novel many years ago and really ought to reread it.

She also writes about her second novel, “The Ministry of Utmost Happiness,” which came many years later, and the circumstances and inspirations behind finishing it. I found all of that fascinating, and it made me think back to when the novel was first published, when I was lucky enough to attend an event where she signed my copy. Thinking back now, knowing everything she was going through while writing it, has given me more appreciation for that novel which I felt quite mixed about at the time. I'd like to reread both at some point.

Her Father, and the Deaths That Prompted the Book

Alongside her mother, there's also her father, whom she didn't know for much of her life. There’s an extraordinary scene describing their eventual reunion. The book follows the emotional journey through to both of her parents' deaths, and I understand the initial impulse to write it came from her mother's death and the intense, complicated grief that followed, complicated precisely because Mrs. Roy was such a difficult figure. I felt genuinely devastated toward the end. There are some extraordinary coincidences she recounts around her parents' deaths that, if she'd invented them for a novel, would seem unbelievable, but they actually happened, and it's hard not to feel there's some larger meaning in them, one she's clearly sat with and meditated on, both for herself and for how she moves through the world.

Verdict

This book offers such a powerful example of how to process and emotionally reckon with the circumstances we're born into, while recognizing that we remain independent beings who can determine our own course and choose how much the past is allowed to shape what we do next. That message goes far beyond the specific details of Roy's story, even though that story is, on its own terms, enthralling: a genuinely fascinating life that left me with enormous respect for her and eager to read and reread more of her work, fiction and nonfiction alike. We live in difficult, worrying times, and I think recognizing that our influence is limited but real, that we do have agency to stand up for what we believe in and to live a fulfilling life despite the circumstances we face, is exactly the kind of message I needed right now. I was genuinely blown away by this memoir. If you've read it, or read any of Roy's other work, or have your own book that completely changed how you inhabit the world, I'd love to hear about it.

Things in Nature Merely Grow by Yiyun Li

It's a strange experience following an author's semi-autobiographical publications for years. Unexpected tragedies which occur in reality are honed into books with meaning which is both personal and universal. I've read and been extremely moved by Li's previous books “Dear Friend, from My Life I Write to You in Your Life” in which she alludes to her own suicide attempt and “Where Reasons End” in which she creates fictional conversations with her teenage son Vincent who committed suicide. It's difficult to imagine that there could be any experiences which are more heartbreaking than what Li already lived through. But last year her second son James also committed suicide. Li acknowledges in this new book about James that if this were fiction it would strain belief and that enduring such tragedy is unimaginable until it actually occurs. Nevertheless, this is her reality. In this book she doesn't so much ponder how or why James died, but the experience of still being a mother though both her children are deceased and persisting after such an agonising loss has occurred. The fact of what has happened must be faced and she records her process of “radical acceptance” because “If an abyss is where I shall be for the rest of my life, the abyss is my habitat. One should not waste energy fighting one's habitat.”

Reading about such a personal tragedy might feel too morbid and achingly difficult for many readers, but I'm glad to have read this book for its quiet wisdom, practical approach to dealing with bereavement and people's awkwardness around death. Li describes both invaluable support and callous reactions she's received from different people since being informed about James' suicide. Some people offer a valuable perspective to Li and there are small acts of kindness which assist in the practicalities of daily life. However, it staggers belief how some individuals feel compelled to make one person's tragedy more about themselves. Equally, since Li is a writer and public figure, commentary from the media (especially Chinese news outlets) has been insensitive and cruel in their assumptions and speculations. There's a satisfaction in reading how Li settles the score in this memoir and lays bare the worst side of how humanity can respond to such a tragedy. It's also surprising and horrifying how Li recounts the physical and mental abuse she received at an early age from her mother; this contrasts sharply with the understanding and respect she gave to her own sons. This book also offers a new way of understanding loss – not as a process of grieving, a notion which Li refutes because it suggests there will be an endpoint when the grief will end and normal life will resume: “What is grief but a word, a shortcut, a simplification of something much larger than that word?” There is no normality after such a monumental loss and if reality is to be accepted it must be faced in all its ruthless complexity.

Death wasn't discussed much when I was growing up (I think this is common for many Americans) so whenever I experience the loss of a loved one I feel somewhat unequipped to know how to respond. I'm stupefied and uncomfortable with death, as if the fact of it should be simply acknowledged and then we should all swiftly move on. So I'm grateful for the rational way Li details and discusses surviving through something which feels so irrational and overwhelming. It's also a beautiful testament to the unique qualities of both her sons. She explains that the form her book “Where Reasons End” took was particular to Vincent and the form this book takes is unique for James: “A book is a placeholder, no more, no less. This book for James – what does it hold? All the words that have come to me: many of them fall short; some are kept because they are needed to hold a place for James.” I feel grateful to have got to know a bit about this intelligent young man through Li's recollections. More than that I feel I have a better point of view about the process of bereavement and facing such unimaginable loss – because it's sadly inevitable we will all lose loved ones at some point. As Li states, “There is no real salvation from one's own life; books, however, offer the approximation of it.”

A Flat Place by Noreen Masud

In this memoir Masud describes how flat landscapes have always been supremely comforting to her. Ever since she was a girl growing up in Pakistan's capital she's yearned for these barren vistas and frequently mentally travels to these empty spaces. She recounts the challenges of growing up in cloistered difficult circumstances, the process of moving to Britain to establish her independence and how she deals with complex trauma. Through this she convey a sense of establishing her unique cultural and national identity. She was raised to primarily speak English rather than Urdu and her domineering father placed an emphasis on a British education. So this makes up much of her frame of reference, but she's also highly conscious of the racial stereotypes and colonial history which come with this. These issues and fragmented memories of her early life are considered as she recounts journeys to a number of British locations such as Orford Ness, the Cambridgeshire Fens, Morecambe Bay and Orkney. It's an elegant and moving meditation on finding nurturing environments and methods of reconciling the past.

Something that immediately endeared this book to me is that the opening of the first chapter begins with a quote from my favourite novel Virginia Woolf's “The Waves”. The lines capture the sharply different perspectives and personalities of the story's central characters. I think it resonates with Masud's sense that everyone has a unique way of emotionally translating their view of the world. Some may view empty landscapes as bleak, but Masud finds them nurturing. It's beautiful how she describes the experience to travelling to a number specific location, the interactions she has there and the memories which are raised. Many of these memories come in fragments and remain incomplete. So, rather than seeking a complete picture, she allows them to remain obscure. Thus the past doesn't necessarily define her and she's able to fill her life with what she finds most fulfilling. In this way, this beautifully written memoir delivers an empowering and unique message.

The Death of a Soldier Told by His Sister by Olesya Khromeychuk

Since the escalation of Russia's war on Ukraine in February 2022 the media has widely reported on the battles and unjustified aggression of Putin's forces. However, the killing started many years before this as Olesya Khromeychuk clearly lays out in her memoir about her brother Volodya who died on the frontline in eastern Ukraine in 2017 while defending his country against Russian soldiers. As a historian of war and a Ukrainian, Khromeychuk is well situated to give a contextual understanding about why this occurred from both a personal and political perspective. It's a tender account of her brother's fragmented life and the grief that she and her family experienced after his death. It's also an excoriating look at Western attitudes towards this war, the Ukrainian government's bureaucracy, selective reporting by the media and the fallacy of Russian's advancement into a sovereign nation. Her views are well-reasoned and informed, but if Khromeychuk's frustration about these groups and systems seems harsh it feels fully justified – not from the personal loss she's experienced but the horrifying fact that this brutal war still continues.

It's touching how Khromeychuk's brother is shown to have been an artistic, complicated, brave and sometimes difficult person. An account of such personal loss and the fact he died in battle might easily have lead to a romanticised version of this individual's life. But the author consciously works against this exploring the complexities of her brother's life from her experiences with him before his death and what she discovered after he was killed. This makes him feel all the more real. It's especially affecting how Khromeychuk also created a theatrical play about his death incorporating photos and videos found on his phone. The description of her process doing this and the effect the production had on her family is very moving. It adds to the sense that creative methods are needed to inspire a sense of understanding and change. This book is certainly unique in the method Khromeychuk has created to combine her analytical understanding of larger events with very personal details and a relevant invocation of folklore. Statistics about deaths caused by war will always reduce people who were lost into numbers so it's important to always remind ourselves that these figures include so many individual losses. I'm glad to have read this informative, frank and urgent memoir.

Spare by Prince Harry

My curiosity got the better of me and I read Prince Harry's memoir “Spare”. In the opening section he describes meeting with his father and William who state they don't know why he's done what he's done so he begins by saying “Pa, Willy, World... Here you go.” And I think the main point of his justification is stated later in the book when he says: “My problem has never been with the monarchy, or the concept of monarchy. It's been with the press and the sick relationship that's evolved between it and the Palace. I love my Mother Country, and I love my family, and I always will. I just wish, at the second-darkest moment of my life, they'd both been there for me. And I believe they'll look back one day and wish they had too.” Throughout the memoir he recounts the events of his entire life and states his case against the press and his family's failure to act on his and his wife's behalf.

Most of us have probably seen some of the shocking revelations and statements that Harry and Meghan have made lately in interviews and through their documentary series. This couple have been everywhere! Many are aware of the horrific abuse they've received by some of the press and public, the bickering between Harry and his family leading up to a physical fight with William (which is detailed in the book), the testy relationship between Meghan and Kate – all of which lead Harry to officially break away from the Royal family. I think it's been well covered already how Harry openly talks in this book about his drinking and drug use, losing his virginity and what were probably his biggest public gaffs of wearing a nazi outfit to a fancy dress party and using a racial slur when talking about a friend because he “wasn't thinking” and because of a “failure of self education” which he humbly admits he needs to improve. However, there were several things I read in Spare which I found surprising and I discuss them in this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRdsfxXzWwI

There's no doubt Harry has undergone an extreme amount of physical and mental hardship and he's shown great resilience. He's clearly a talented and dedicated soldier (and it's a shame he wasn't able to continue in service because of risks to him and his colleagues). He's in some ways an ordinary guy who shops at TK Max, eats Nandos (bizarrely he places an order for this during the birth of his first child while sucking down laughing gas to help calm himself) and binge watches Friends – but he's also obviously in an extraordinarily privileged position. As one example, he labels himself a Chandler and later physically stays at Courtney Cox's house. So there's this odd mixture of the mundane with the extraordinary throughout the book which I guess is the thing that really makes us so fascinated by the Royals and what Harry calls his “fancy captivity”.

I felt a limited amount of sympathy towards him after reading this book and I think it's effective in showing his point of view but I don't know if I'm convinced he's right and those he's speaking out against are wrong. Or that anyone in this situation can be completely right or wrong. Many claims are made about leaks from within the Royal House to the press and how the Queen's close aides were basically manipulating her before her death. However, most of this comes across as conjecture and paranoia with little evidence apart from his word - though it's not at all surprising Harry would be highly suspicious given all the backstabbing and dirty deals that apparently go on in these circles.

How much should we trust his word? He states early in the memoir that he has an extraordinary memory for spaces but not dialogue from the past. There are many conversations recounted throughout the book in which he comes across as supremely reasonable while others sound irate. Should we trust that these were the things actually said? They might be roughly true but it feels like they mostly emphasise the fact that this is a one-sided account. Overall, I'm just left feeling the entire Royal mess is in a sad state of affairs. I'm not sure if this book will work positively towards fixing things or just fuel the fire which he seems so desperately to want to put out. But it makes sense that he'd put this book out there and it seems remarkable that we now have such a candid account from someone in the inner circle. I wouldn't recommend reading it unless you have a keen interest in the Royals and are really intrigued by such a personal account. However, if you do read it don't expect any clear answers.

Zami: A New Spelling of My Name by Audre Lorde

Great coming of age tales are enthralling because we can all relate to the awkward transition from childhood to adulthood. However, they can also attune us to the challenges some face because of a particular individual's identity or circumstances. “Zami” draws on much of Audre Lorde's autobiographical experience to form what she calls a “biomythography”. It's a process of understanding and defining herself as separate from the ways in which she has been categorized by her circumstances and the way other people view her. We follow her piercing observations of the world around her being raised in Harlem through to her independence and early adulthood in the 1950s. She charts her journey towards being proudly “Black, female, gay and out of the closet” in a time and society with widespread racism, sexism and homophobia. With evocative and emotive detail Lorde captures the difficult process of establishing an independent state of being within the circles of family, friends, lovers, community and country. It also endearingly charts her progress towards becoming a great reader and writer.

The depths of loneliness Lorde felt being so different from those around her is powerfully related in celestial terms: “I grew up feeling like an only planet, or some isolated world in a hostile, or at best, unfriendly, firmament.” This intense sense of alienation is carried forth as she is sensitive to the hostilities of other people's opinions and the ways they look down upon her. It has a persistent physical effect upon her as she describes: “I could feel bands of tension sweeping across my body back and forth, like lunar winds across the moon's face.” This is such a clever way of framing her mental and physical state in her early years. By casting herself as a planetary body she shows how she is at once cognizant of her inherent greatness but also painfully aware of her distance from others.

There's so much powerful imagery from her childhood which brings this bygone era to life. From descriptions of her glasses which frequently broke to a briefly known playmate we come to understand the world of her youth through the things she valued the most. One of my favourite sections is about the West Indian pestle and mortar in her family kitchen. It's both a symbol of the Caribbean island her mother came from and a beautiful object which she attends to with an almost hypnotic intensity. Seemingly everyday items such as this are elevated to near religious significance when understood within the context of a household because it's what ties this family to a particular lineage, culture and history.

Lorde also deftly differentiates her understanding of her environment as a child from what she knows now viewing it in retrospect. For instance, there were occasions when out in public white people would spit at her but her mother explained it away as people who were simply careless. She realises that “My mother and father believed that they could best protect their children from the realities of race in america and the fact of american racism by never giving them name, much less discussing their nature.” So it was only through experience and her own rationale that she came to truly understand her position in this society as a black woman.

I appreciated how there are detailed accounts of her economic struggles as a young woman who found it especially difficult to find steady and decently-paid work because of the colour of her skin and her educational background. Gruelling experiences of working in a factory are described with such intensity. The paltry safety measures in place had to be ignored in order to produce the demanded workload leaving employees dangerously at risk to exposure or injury. However, one point I found it difficult to understand was her self-proclaimed lack of typing skills. She describes how with every move to new lodgings she made she laboriously carried with her a typewriter which she used to write poetry. Yet at every job interview she insists “I had never really learned to type” which closes many opportunities. I'm guessing she means she never learned how to type a certain amount of words per minute, but because this was such a barrier to finding jobs other than manual labour it seems strange she didn't teach herself to properly type while regularly using a typewriter.

It feels especially meaningful that even when Lorde is able to enter liberating spaces as a young woman she discovers there are barriers which prevent her from finding true happiness or being truly equal to those around her. She feels an instinctual desire to move to Mexico and there “Wherever I went, there were brown faces of every hue meeting mine, and seeing my own color reflected upon the streets in such great numbers was an affirmation for me that was brand-new and very exciting. I had never felt visible before, nor even known I lacked it.” Yet, such freedom is short lived as she must return to America. Also, when she gradually discovers a lesbian community she finds they are united in a belief that “as lesbians, we were all outsiders and all equal in our outsiderhood... It was wishful thinking based on little fact; the ways in which it was true languished in the shadow of those many ways in which it would always be false.” Lorde pointedly describes how there's still discrimination and aggression because of her blackness which is mostly unspoken because an oppressed community doesn't want to believe they are also capable of being oppressors.

An interesting stylistic choice of the book is how the linear story of her development is interspersed with short italicised sections. Earlier in the text these seem to be youthful poems and later on they become more narrative-driven to articulate her burgeoning understanding of the world. These poignantly add to the sense of her evolution as a writer and intellectual. It shows how her growth as a literary artist has been an ongoing process running alongside larger issues to do with family, work and lovers as “Writing was the only thing that made me feel like I was alive.” It's such a gift that Audre Lorde insisted upon documenting her experience and thoughts in this way for future generations. Jackie Kay, a contemporary writer I admire, commented that “I came across Audre Lorde's Zami, and I cried to think how lucky I was to have found her. She was an inspiration.” Reading this book is an enriching and wondrous experience.

A Line in the World by Dorthe Nors (translated by Caroline Waight)

I enjoyed the unique narrative of Dorthe Nors' novel “Mirror, Shoulder, Signal” so I was curious to experience her first book of nonfiction which is a meditation on the coast of her native Jutland. She visits various points along the line of the map where the land meets the North Sea including villages, churches, lighthouses, power stations and surfing beaches. It's an area where she was raised and where she currently lives, but she poignantly captures the seemingly paradoxical sense of being from this place as well as being a perpetual outsider. She frequently refers to the “schism” where identity is formed. This is an intersection between time, memory, landscape and community which the individual uneasily occupies. At the same time she reflects upon her personal history as well as the factual and mythic history of the people found here. However, she realises that there cannot be one true chronicle as details of the past become muddled: “When does a story begin? Always somewhere else, always further back in the text, beyond the horizon, in the unknown”. What she offers instead is a personalised view of the beauty and dangers of this natural environment as well as the courageousness, warmth and occasional narrow mindedness of its people.

The memoirist style of this book is pleasurably meandering and broody. Specific instances of erosion, pollution, religious conflict and colonialism have affected different areas of this landscape. Nors shows how these issues raise larger points regarding how the narrative of history is formed and the function of community. I was reminded of Keegan's novel “Small Things Like These” when she describes the tension surrounding how locals want to defend a local company because it employees so many people, but at the same time it's poisoning the land and water with chemical waste. Nors meaningfully recounts the mission of Denmark's first environmental activist known as 'Amber Aage' and observes how “The silence that can close around someone who says what mustn't be said in a small community isn't for the faint of heart.” The drive to maintain the status quo is also reflected in the way women have been traditionally treated in this location and how outsiders are regarded with suspicion because of provincial attitudes that: “Big cities, free speech and foreign lures are the work of the devil.” At the same time Nors recounts the humour and warmth she experiences with many of this coastline's inhabitants. I admire the way she shows how we can have so many mixed feelings about our homeland and how it's an inextricable part of our character.

Cells by Gavin McCrea

Amidst the anxiety and tumult of the recent lockdown, being restricted indoors for long periods of time inspired many people to seriously reflect about both the past and future. Slightly before the pandemic, novelist Gavin McCrea (author of the excellent “Mrs Engels” and “The Sisters Mao”) had moved back in with his mother in Dublin during a writing residency. While there he worked to complete his second novel and care for his mother who showed signs of early dementia. As the country locked down, he found himself confined in the home and country which he'd previously vowed never to return to. Amidst the relatively peaceful daily routines in the rooms/cells of this small apartment, a tension mounted regarding unresolved issues to do with McCrea's uniquely challenging upbringing and school life where he experienced years of daily homophobic abuse. He deeply felt that “The problem was that I did not feel at home in my own home.” This account is his personal reckoning with that history, a confrontation with the woman who gave birth to him and an account of the formation of his distinct artistic sensibility.

It's a heartrending experience reading about McCrea's strife in his family and community which naturally leads to intense feelings of pain, suffering, anger, frustration and isolation. However, he is not self-pitying. Instead he seeks to articulate and understand his position and the factors which lead to this situation. There's a rare honesty in how he interrogates the past and the human body itself. He examines the light/dark in himself and those around him including his reserved father who committed suicide and the untrustworthy boyfriend who infected him with HIV. Rather than allowing these tragedies to overwhelm him, they add to his fuel for artistic literary expression. The blunt fact of his survival through these tribulations heighten the moments of rare joy in this memoir such as quietly watching his mother enjoy a book or taking tearful pride in seeing a stack of his novels on sale in a bookshop.

While it's admirable that he extends empathy and patient understanding to people who have wounded him (including a gang of homophobic Irish adolescent boys who violently beat him a few months prior to lockdown), I wish McCrea had spent more time recounting the ways in which certain people have enhanced his life. Figures such as a steadfast childhood friend and his supportive literary agent only get brief mentions. If equal weight had been attributed to them in this dissection of his life it may have given more lightness and balance to this largely elucidating account of trauma. Nevertheless, it's an extremely edifying experience reading this inspiring story. By making his life the subject, McCrea shows how the individual spirit is both beautifully fragile and frightfully robust. Not only does the title refer to our biological makeup, but also the emotional/physical state of being a prisoner in one's own home, country and society. McCrea describes the challenges and (sometimes) impossibility of escaping from these circumscribed aspects of being in a deeply relatable and intelligent way.

All the Young Men by Ruth Coker Burks

Recently I went to see a good new production of 'The Normal Heart' at The National Theatre and it reminded me that I meant to read this recent memoir. In the mid-80s Ruth Coker Burks was visiting a friend in an Arkansas hospital when she noticed a nearby patient's door was painted red and the nurses were arguing about who had to go in to tend to the patient. Feeling concerned for whoever was inside, she entered herself and found a man dying of an AIDS-related illness. Rather than succumb to fear as many people did at that time (and especially in that highly-religious, predominantly-conservative part of the country) she was overwhelmed by human sympathy for a man in pain and alone in the last hours of his life. From there she started caring for other young men suffering and dying from the same affliction. 

As her involvement grew, she not only assisted them at the end of their lives and help to put their remains to rest (when some literally abandoned these men's corpses) but she also became an activist trying to source medication, spread awareness, distribute food and sexual protection amongst the gay community and create political change. Her intense dedication to this cause is in some ways astounding because she was a single working mother who was also Christian and heterosexual. By associating with and helping these reviled men she and her daughter were ostracised themselves. But, at the same time, she saw her involvement as the only possible response to help people who were clearly suffering. I admire how she refused to compromise her sense of caring for those in need even when she felt the same fears those around her were experiencing because there was so little understanding at the time what AIDS was or how it is spread. We follow not only her story getting involved in this cause but learn about the many individuals she befriended and lost because of AIDS because these men were never just a number or statistic to her.

Naturally, given the subject matter, there is a lot of heartache and sorrow in this book. But there is also a lot of humour, joy and love as well which is largely driven by Burks' effervescent personality. It's shocking reading about the hatred of certain people who confront her and object to what she's doing, but it's also funny reading her witty responses and bitchy asides about these people. For instance, when a woman is absolutely horrible she remarks how this lady's camel hair coat was expensive at one point but that time had past. Equally, since she worked for a long time selling time shares, it's very funny reading about the clever psychological strategies she employed to get people to sign up. This soft approach also served her well in trying to rally support for the cause she fought for. What comes across in all her interactions with people is a real empathy in trying to understand their position and form a real connection. Although she encountered a lot of blatant hatred and hypocrisy, she also met people who were surprisingly sympathetic and there are beautiful moments of small kindness. There are also many dynamic personalities in the gay community who shine through these pages though the men themselves died long ago.

I'm so filled with admiration for Burks that it doesn't feel appropriate to critique this book's writing style or construction in the way I might other books. The subject matter and people it describes are so engaging and interesting that I was completely drawn into her story and the plight of the individuals caught in this tragic time of history. It's impressive that Burks refused to turn away when some men in the gay community itself preferred to pretend it wasn't happening even while their own friends and lovers were dying around them. I also really appreciated how this account shows a different part of the country since most stories about AIDS in the 80s centre around NYC or San Francisco. This memoir is not only a beautiful memorial to the many lives lost, but also the perseverance of individuals dedicated to doing what's right rather than what's easy.

Manifesto by Bernardine Evaristo

It was such a thrill to be at the award ceremony on the historic night of Bernardine Evaristo's Booker Prize win for her novel “Girl, Woman, Other”. At the time I was a great admirer of the book and was aware of her reputation, but I had no idea how many years of hard graft and dedication the author had devoted to reaching this point. Now, reading her memoir “Manifesto”, I also have such an admiration for this creative individual who has fused her experience and imagination to produce a body of literary works which artistically reflect the breadth of our culture and celebrate individuality in all its wondrous forms.

In concise sections Evaristo lays out how she got to this point by describing her diverse family background, the places she's lived, the relationships she's had, the community and politics she's engaged in, the development of her distinct form of fiction, the writers and figures who've inspired her and the ambition to persist as a creative person. She describes her experience with such charm, wit and wisdom it's extremely enjoyable to read. Evaristo wholly embraced the platform which winning the Booker Prize gave her and I've been in awe seeing how busy she has been chairing this year's Women's Prize, speaking on panels, providing endorsements for books and curating the 'Black Britain, Writing Back' series which included the excellent novel “Bernard and the Cloth Monkey” which I read earlier this year. This memoir is subtitled 'On Never Giving Up' and the book is really a wonderful testament to how the creative individual must persist and express themselves no matter what hardships are encountered. 

While Evaristo poignantly describes her fluid sexuality engaging in affairs with men and women, one of the most arresting things about her story is learning about the abusive relationship or “torture affair” she had with a woman she calls “The Mental Dominatrix”. Here she found herself in a dynamic where she was mentally and physically abused in a way which sapped her creativity and spirit. Not only does this testify to how we can become trapped in such a destructive dynamic, but it sheds new light on the section of “Girl, Woman, Other” concerning the character of Dominique who was in a very similar situation. Knowing now that Evaristo was writing from experience makes this part of her novel all the more heartrending.

I also greatly appreciated her many pithy observations about how aspects such as gender, race, nationality as well as sexuality all play a part in who we are and how we exist in society but don't define us. In an ideal world these things wouldn't even need to be defined but because of the various imbalances and prejudices which persist they still play an important role. For instance, she describes how “Men and women live in the same world, but we experience it so differently.” It means that fiction and art play such an important role in expanding our point of view to really see how other people see the world. I admire the dedicated way which Evaristo has persisted in doing so over her life no matter the peaks and pitfalls of her profession as a writer and how she will continue to reflect the world back at us in exciting new ways.

Unicorn: The Memoir of a Muslim Drag Queen by Amrou Al-Kadhi

Coming out stories will always be an important part of LGBT literature since the way we arrive at a queer identity is a unique journey for every individual growing up in a predominantly heterosexual society. Sometimes I'll idly wonder if we've had enough of them and then come across a tale which is so moving and says something vital about how difficult it is to grow up feeling different in the world today. Amrou Al-Kadhi's memoir is like none I've read before as it describes their life growing up in a strict Iraqui Muslim household, moving to England and developing a fearless drag queen persona named Glamrou. 

Even though Amrou's life is very different from my own there were so many aspects of their feelings of alienation and moments of solace that I found relatable. From fancying a cartoon fox to intensely identifying with bizarre undersea lifeforms, I connected strongly with the experiences described. Other parts of this story felt new and surprising to me especially how Amrou became a perfectionist in their studies as a way of dealing with being rejected from their family. From the outside it's difficult to understand a mania to get everything exactly right but when a child feels like they have no value it makes perfect sense.

Amrou brings a meaningful level of context and critique to their own story – not simply describing the extraordinary experiences of their life but the meaning and reasoning behind their actions. A justified level of criticism is directed at their family as well as the patriarchal society and Islamophobia in Britain, but also at how Amrou participated in that prejudice after internalizing these sentiments. This self-critique shows an admirable level of maturity and understanding. There's also something so lively and playful about Amrou's tale which finds humour in the many missteps and confusion there has been along the way while taking seriously the blistering pain of growing up queer and misunderstood.

This is such an absorbing and emotional story which carries a heartening message that connections can be found in the most unexpected places.

In Memory of Memory by Maria Stepanova (translated by Sasha Dugdale)

At some point in life we all wonder about our family history. Who were these ancestors whose coupling through succeeding generations has unwittingly resulted in us? What do any surviving photographs, stories and momentos say about them and can we ever obtain a meaningful understanding of these lives from the past? Maria Stepanova has been trying to construct an account of her family history for a long time and become its narrator like a documentary filmmaker: “I would become a stranger, a teller of tales, a selector and a sifter, the one who decides what part of the huge volume of the unsaid must fit in the spotlight's circle, and what part will remain outside it in the darkness.” When her Aunt Galya dies she sifts through the belongings Galya left and discovers that “The meek contents of her apartment, feeling themselves to be redundant, immediately began to lose their human qualities and, in doing so, ceased to remember or to mean anything.” 

Thus, Stepanova presents us with memories, anecdotes, letters, diary entries and other documents alongside her journeys to significant locations from her ancestors' lives to form a loose picture of their past. In doing so we gain access to not only her personal family history, but Russian Jewish life over the course of the 20th century. There are innumerable accounts of this period of European history, but Stepanova brings a new perspective of rigorous enquiry into how we memorialise people from the past and how their narrative has been self-consciously shaped. More than this, Stepanova rigorously questions how we interact with fragments from the past and what memory means: “This book about my family is not about my family at all, but something quite different: the way memory works, and what memory wants from me.” The result is an utterly enthralling rumination on this subject which sheds light on what the past really means to us and the responsibility tied to the act of remembering.

Some books take me longer to read than others and this was one I really needed to be patient with – not only because it's 500 pages long but because the text contains such a density of ideas I often stopped to copy passages out, look up references or documents such as the short film 'Diversions' by Helga Landauer and ruminate upon the many dilemmas the author presents. She gives so much to consider when contemplating the meaning of memory and includes numerous scholarly, literary and artistic references through which to probe how we relate to the past. At some times it does feels too cluttered and that it could have been usefully cut down to streamline the points she's making. Of course, part of the point is: how do you begin to form a story about the past with the enormous amount of material which survives, especially when so many of these things don't really mean anything anymore? She elegantly summarises how “Pointless knowledge expands at an unstoppable rate: not like a building, which grows with the slow addition of floors, more like that terrifying wartime spring thaw when the bodies were slowly exposed by the melting snow.” But it feels like there's a lot to wade through before getting to Part 3 which beautifully summarizes her own unique mission to memorialise the story of her family. Though she concedes at the beginning of the book “I need to make it very clear at this point that our family was quite ordinary” I grew to feel real affection for them through some of the fragments Stepanova includes and her own reflections on deceased family members. There is so much which remains unknowable about these array of individuals including her young male relative who died in combat as part of the “ill-fated Sinyavinsky Operation” of 1942 or a female ancestor who studied to be a doctor in Paris. However, it's not answers about their lives but the abiding mystery which is what's important.

This book does something truly revolutionary. Rather than present dry historical documents which we inflict our imaginations upon to imbue them with meaning, Stepanova demands we grant a dignified independence to people who can no longer speak for themselves and not shape them into a desired narrative. At first this message felt too unsentimental and accusatory to me, but as I continued reading I came to more dynamically understand the moral implications of fixing people from the past within a certain story. How much of our family histories is true and how much embroidered with fiction? And how do we deal with the feeling that to recite the facts is dull but to fabricate is to deviate from history? It's given me such a new perspective on memory and family history which will continue to impact how I think about the past. At times, Stepanova risks sounding curmudgeonly in her point of view when she forcefully dismisses the prevalence of selfies or damns pornography as the lowliest form of documentation. I'd certainly not make a case for the lasting importance of either of these things, but she doesn't fully consider their broader meaning. While I didn't always agree with a number of the author's points, I've learned so much from this book and it's expanded my perspective on the enormous subject of memory. It's also encouraged me to take a more active engagement in my own family history and speak with my parents about where we come from.

Real Estate by Deborah Levy

It's easy to get drawn to looking at a real estate agent's window and dream of the ideal home you might inhabit. In this book Deborah Levy muses upon how she's done this too especially because her “crumbling apartment block on the hill” is far from ideal. But, rather than planning to acquire bricks and mortar, Levy more often muses upon what shape her “unreal estate” might take as well as the homes and possessions which might be included in her “portfolio”. This playfully allows her to imaginatively craft and mould a fictional space and habitation that's not anchored to reality. Moreover, it leads to more searching thoughts upon what it means to inhabit a life through a particular lens; in Levy's case as a writer, a daughter, a mother, a friend, a divorcee and a woman who is about to turn sixty. These autobiographical meditations obviously have a deep personal meaning for the author but they also speak to what it means to be human and the troubling question: how do we inhabit the present moment when we can so often be preoccupied by what we've lost and what we wish to have? 

There's a delicious exuberance to Levy's journey as she moves between temporary residences in Mumbai, New York, Paris, London, Berlin and Greece. This takes place over the course of 2018 as she's working on her novel “The Man Who Saw Everything” and it's so compelling to read about the images, themes, places and influences “David Lynch, one of the film directors who had most inspired my approach to fiction” which helped shape that book. The same was true of the previous instalment of Levy's memoirs “The Cost of Living” when she was writing her novel “Hot Milk”. The three volumes of what's been branded Levy's 'Living Autobiography' thus make up a fascinating commentary on the writing process and an invaluable exploration of the influences which fed into the creation of her unique novels. However, I have to admit, I favour reading Levy's memoirs more than the fiction itself which I admire and appreciate but don't love as much as reading about her thought process and endearing experiences. Deep issues to do with art, feminism and humanity are paired with humorous wit and flights of fancy which make the 'Living Autobiography' a delicious and richly enjoyable experience.

Somehow Levy makes the mundane and embarrassing things in life seem wonderfully glamorous. She collects an eclectic range of objects “Electric bikes, wooden horses and silkworms would be part of my property portfolio”. She makes drinks when people visit her by chilling glasses or squeezing oranges and she goes to great lengths to recreate a particular guava ice cream. She's the ultimate eccentric aunt whose party I want to crash as a shyly curious Patrick Dennis. Towards the end of the book Levy herself crashes a London literary party and has an unsavoury encounter with “a male writer of some note, but not in my own hierarchy of note”. It's delectable how she puts him in his place. Equally, she hilariously mocks the way we project images of our lives and habitations on social media: “Look! Look on Twitter: our ducks are sleeping under the willow trees!... Look! Look at you looking on Instagram! Here we are, setting off on our country walk with Molly, our sweet-natured Burmese python!” She rightly identifies the physical accumulations and projections of our lives as flimsy illusions disconnected from any true sense of security or happiness. She brilliantly describes how “If real estate is a self-portrait and a class portrait, it is also a body arranging its limbs to seduce.”

There's something deeply consoling about following Levy's non-conventional approach to living, creating art and establishing a constantly-evolving amorphous sense of home. I drank deeply from this book and savoured every drop, but I'm still wondering what filthy rhyme she invented to remember the code to get into her Paris apartment. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, she'll one day sing it for me. More seriously, although this is labelled as “the final volume” of the ‘Living Autobiography’ I don’t see any reason why it should end and we shouldn’t hope for further instalments detailing Levy’s life and valuable insights.

The Truths We Hold by Kamala Harris

I'm not someone naturally inclined to read memoirs by politicians, but the tumultuous “leadership” in America over the past four years has been so horrendous and upsetting to witness I wanted to do something more to celebrate and engage with the inauguration of President Biden and Vice President Harris rather than just following the news. Also, other than knowing the professional roles Kamala Harris has held as a senator from California and attorney general as well as the policies she spoke about in the vice presidential debates, I had little knowledge about her background or beliefs before reading her memoir “The Truths We Hold”. So it was wonderfully engaging to read in her own words how her convictions have been shaped by her experience of working on tough political battles concerning everything from crime to health care to same-sex marriage to climate change to immigration to education to the economy. This was not so much about ticking through a list of hot-topic issues but proving she intimately understands the numerous challenges facing the country. And what America sorely needs now is knowledge and experience to guide it! 

One of the most heartening things about reading the accounts of her professional work is how Harris knows the day by day effect that political decisions have for countless people and the consequences of not taking action. She feels the urgency. She cites specific examples of cases she's been both instrumentally involved in and others she's engaged with as part of a much larger process. Additionally, she proudly writes about her personal background as the daughter of a biologist born in India and a professor of economics born in Jamaica. That a woman of mixed heritage has now reached one of the highest political positions in the country is so encouraging and important. We follow how she met and married her husband and became the mother to two step children as well as the emotional rollercoaster of her election campaigns. She explains why having Sunday dinner with her family is so important to her. She gives an intimate view of both the personal challenges she's faced and how setbacks have only fuelled her to work harder. It's inspiring to read how her values and sense of justice drive her to enact real progress.

There was a somewhat snippy review of this memoir which appeared in the Guardian when this book was first published in early 2019. True, this might not be the most artful work of literature ever created and might serve as an extended political campaign pamphlet. It's narrative is controlled in a way to be personable without tipping into anything too revealing or risque. But so what? This book is full of heart and sincerity. It gave me a close understanding of Harris' point of view and her convictions. I fully understand that in entering the vice presidency she might have to make compromises and that she won't entirely fix every problem in America. But something she asserts towards the end of the book is that “words have power.” As we know all too well from recent events, when a political leader speaks carelessly and purely out of self interest the integrity and security of the entire country is at risk. I believe this book is filled with pledges and promises Harris will do her best to realise, but even if it’s nothing more than campaign promises – and I don't think that's all it is – she says the right things here. It fills me with teary-eyed optimism to know that these are the words which will lead the nation for the next four years alongside the new president.

The Fragments of my Father by Sam Mills

Being a carer for a loved one isn't always a strictly defined role like other professions, yet it's a vital service which helps support the most vulnerable people in our society. It's also a job that no one plans to take on until it's needed. When author Sam Mills' mother died in 2012 she inherited the duty of caring for her father who has grappled with serious mental health issues throughout much of his life. As she gradually becomes familiar with his particular form of schizophrenia, she also learns to deal with the extreme challenges and sacrifices involved with being a primary carer. Her insightful and heart-wrenching memoir relates her personal journey alongside a wider view of how mental health and the duty of carers have been managed throughout time. As society has progressed there's been a more enlightened and humane view of how to care for those afflicted with mental illness and support the people who take on the responsibility of care, but it's far from a perfect system and Mills makes a strong case for how it still requires more governmental and financial support. “The Fragments of my Father” broadened my understanding about the needs of carers and it will no doubt be a great source of consolation for anyone who has been in a situation where they've had to devote an extensive amount of time, energy and money caring for loved ones.

Since the struggles involved with care mostly take place in private it can be incredibly isolating. It's powerful how Mills describes this condition: “Being a carer can be a lonely duty; you can feel as though you are the only one in the world suffering in restrictions whilst everyone else around you are living lives of butterfly freedom.” She dynamically conveys how caring for her father takes a large toll on her personal relationships, professional life, finances and her own mental health: “I was not a full-time carer, yet my caring made my full-time work hard to sustain.” It's encouraging how meditation serves as a solitary activity which helps stabilize her amidst her daily whirlwind of duties.

As an author and publisher at Dodo Ink, Mills also poignantly considers how past literary lives were shaped by the duties of being a carer in the examples of Virginia and Leonard Woolf and Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. She describes their very different journeys and relationships as well as how these have been interpreted in competing biographical accounts. It’s a very different perspective on grief and illness from what was portrayed in “All the Lives We Ever Lived”, another memoir which filters personal family experience through the example of Woolf’s life and her fiction. Mills gives an insightful new view of these literary lives from the point of view of carer and how this strongly influenced the literature these writers produced. So, alongside Mills' own story, I found myself engrossed in her dramatic accounts of these authors.

This memoir very movingly frames the dilemma of a carer who wants to do the best for her parents but wrestles with the challenges that must be faced within this role. It presents such a beautifully dignified and loving personal portrait of both the author's parents alongside a strong political message. Mills notes how during times of austerity it's funding for those who need it the most which often gets cut first. Given the enormous economic recession we're facing as a result of the pandemic, this memoir also serves as a timely reminder to be vigilant about government policy in regards to care programmes and how the challenges and struggles that carers face behind closed doors can't be forgotten.