Chasing the Scream by Johann Hari

Growing up in the 80s in the northeast of America my afterschool TV viewing was filled with anti-drug and ‘Just Say No’ campaign commercials. Nancy Reagan appeared on ‘Diff’rent Strokes’ to warn the children and shake their hands. Punky and Cherie were offered drugs by “cool girl” gang the Chicklets on the show ‘Punky Brewster.’ Jessie became a caffeine pill popper on ‘Saved by the Bell.’ I was inundated with fear surrounding drug use and drug dealers. Maybe the messages affected me or maybe they didn’t, but I’ve never taken an illegal drug in my life. The main reasons for this are probably more to do with lack of exposure (I’ve always been the geeky bookish boy who has only been offered illegal substances a handful of times) and fear of addiction. I have quite an obsessive personality so have tried to steer clear of overindulging in things like drinking, gambling or eating Circus Peanuts – all of which I’ve binged on when given the chance. My personal opinion on the drug war has been that it’s an insolvable hopeless battle. With the factors of high-profits and addictive chemicals there will always be drug pushers and drug users. I’ve felt there’s no alternative but to continue the fight in the same way it has been conducted for the past one hundred years. Reading “Chasing the Scream” I was surprised to learn about this war’s real origins and that my assumptions about addiction and addicts were ridiculously simplistic. This book shows the true historical complexity of this issue, the reason why the war on drugs has failed so abysmally and why legislative change and support for addicts is necessary.

Johann Hari recounts the stories of many people involved in the war on drugs over time from the initial days of the criminalization of marijuana to its most recent legalization in the states of Washington and Colorado. These individuals encompass a wide socio-economic range and hold a diverse spectrum of opinions about drugs. They include heads of state, governmental officials, community activists, gang members, addicts, scientists and health professionals. It’s incredibly engaging how these oftentimes harrowing and remarkable personal stories take you into heart of the battle to show the real individuals who are affected by the war on drugs. Their experiences often change their own opinions about the way it should be fought and say something significant about how we perceive the drug war.

The person of most significance with the longest-lasting impact was Harry Anslinger, the first Commissioner of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics, who pumped up his department’s usefulness after the end of Prohibition in the 1930s by spreading fear about the evils of drug use. Many of his arguments were indelibly linked with racial prejudice and played upon white America’s discomfort about racial minorities becoming more integrated in their communities. As Hari explains, because Anslinger’s messages to the public connected addiction with “Negro people… He could wage the drug war – he could do what he did – only because he was responding to a fear in the American people. You can be a great surfer, but you still need a great wave. Harry’s wave came in the form of race panic.” The war on drugs in America and many other countries has continued to be closely connected with racial prejudice ever since. Much later in the book he explains how a lawyer who was a fervent advocate of ‘Just Say No’ realized she was “acting as part of a racist machine, against her own intentions.” She later went on to become a strong campaigner for the legalization of marijuana. It’s particularly fascinating and tragic the way that the author explains how the singer Billie Holiday was hounded and used by Anslinger as a public personality that needed to be made an example of.

A 1980s public service announcement by Pee Wee Herman about crack cocaine.

After reading the many stories Hari recounts and well-researched points he makes it seem astoundingly clear why the war on drugs has failed. He sums it up most succinctly here: “Prohibition – this policy I have traced across continents and across a century – consists of endlessly spreading downward spirals. People get addicted so we humiliate and shame them until they become more addicted. They then have to feed their habit by persuading more people to buy the drugs from them and become addicted in turn. Then those people need to be humiliated and shamed. And so it goes, on and on.” It’s a horrific cycle that needs to stop and one important way we need to begin is with how we perceive addicts. So often we’re inclined to judge people who are addicted to drugs as being at fault when really the cause of their addiction is due to deeper internal issues rather than poor will power or even chemical dependency. Hari eloquently explains how contrary to popular belief “addiction isn’t a disease. Addiction is an adaptation. It’s not you – it’s the cage you live in.”

The debate over whether to legalize drugs is complicated and difficult. But look: prisons are overflowing, society-scorned addicts are dying because they don’t really know what they’re putting in their bodies from dodgy sources and increasing amounts of money is spent on law enforcement chasing drug gangs which are only renewed as soon as they are shut down. Of course drug use can’t ever be fully eradicated, but it can be so better managed and controlled. Hari admits that “Legalization slightly increases drug use – but it significantly reduces drug harms.” It’s vital to understand that proper regulation and overseeing of distribution by medical professionals is so much better than leaving it to gangs who control the monopoly. “Chasing the Scream” is such a well-researched, powerfully-told and convincingly-argued book that shows why the present laws, bloody battles and villainization of addicts needs to change.

The book also has an interactive and informative website: http://www.chasingthescream.com/

Physical by Andrew McMillan

I work part-time as a massage therapist and this job has made me highly conscious about how we inhabit our bodies. Although the basic structure of our physical being is the same, the way we carry ourselves varies dramatically. The relationship between mind and body can be as changing and tumultuous as our relationships with other people. The poems in “Physical” by Andrew McMillan speak beautifully and meaningfully about how we live within all this flesh and bone, the ways in which physical intimacy can make us redefine ourselves and the transformative impact our presence has upon our surroundings.

Many poems in this book focus in particular on the male body and queer experience from relationships with boyfriends to anonymous gay encounters. ‘Saturday Night’ creates a dialogue with a poem by Thom Gunn bridging commonalities of gay life over time touching upon the disappointment, exhilaration and insecurities tied up with cruising and romance. Online porn is an inevitable part of men’s experiences and in relationships it can play both positive and negative roles. In ‘Screen’ McMillan shows the complications which emerge from mingling mental images with the physical presence before you. More darkly, a mixture of violence and sensuality permeate the poems ‘Choke’ and the mythological-inspired ‘Leda to Her Daughters.’

Masculinity is referenced directly and indirectly in several poems. In ‘Strongman’ the challenge from a male family member is recalled. This physical provocation takes on deeper meanings than simply a macho test of strength. The closeness of the encounter provokes questions about intimacy and homophobia within the family. A unique challenge to all men is the experience of standing beside one another at urinals. In ‘Urination’ McMillan uses the mixture of embarrassment and excitement of these encounters to speak about the degrees of closeness we have with others throughout our lives. As in several poems in this collection, there is a switch partway through from the impersonal to the personal. Here, the commanding voice speaking to “you” evokes the sensory experience and power of connection found in the most intensely domestic morning setting.

Sometimes the form of the poems themselves casts scrutiny over the way men are meant to behave. ‘How To Be A Man’ is set out like a dramatic play where a man is prompted how to react to the impending loss of his father. It’s a contradictory aspect of traditional notions of masculinity that a man should build muscle and puff himself up physically, but also keep all his emotions in. McMillan literally bursts this understanding in his poem ‘The Men Are Weeping In The Gym’ where emotions spill out not in tears but in sweat. The denial of feeling takes on an eerie destructive sensation as McMillan observes how the process of weightlifting tears muscles apart to make them stronger.

The poem ‘Yoga’ speaks about the way we relate to our own bodies and the way physical connections with others can change the way we see ourselves. However, others poems such as ‘I.M.’ and ‘The Gift’ are about the insurmountable gaps created from lost connections and repressed emotions where physical distance exists. But unity is found in the poem ‘The Schoolboys” where a young group witnesses the burning of Thatcher dolls following the former prime minister’s death where they have little understanding of the historical context which has led to such celebrations.

Listen to McMillan read the final poem in this book 'Finally'

The most sustained poem in this book ‘Protest of the Physical’ fills the entire second section and it begins with an epigraph by Virginia Woolf from her ingenious prose poem of a novel “The Waves.” In a way, this is the most hypnotic and elusive piece in McMillan’s collection as it weaves together elements of a physical local landscape and a broken relationship. Language breaks down “what town of day is it?” Images and ideas literally slosh back and forth across the page as if the words are grasping for escape from the confines of the page and the voice from the confines of the body.

The poetry in "Physical" has the unique and astounding ability to make you reassess how you exist in your own body. It provokes ontological questions about whether a person’s mind is couched in the gray masses in our heads or the neurological connections within our bodies. Throughout the book the author has a disarming way of dividing physical acts from the body and then drawing them back in to distil the accompanying feelings so they are more concentrated. What's left are the intense emotions which have overwhelmingly permeated the memories of physical encounters. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting with many of the poems in this forceful, moving collection. I discovered fresh insights and asked more questions with each rereading.

Support the Launch of Dodo Ink

We need original, daring fiction. A lot of great books come out of bigger publishers, but there are experimental/challenging voices which just don’t fit into the mainstream. Some of the most exciting fiction I read is published by smaller, independent presses like Galley Beggar, Pushkin, And Other Stories or Peirene Press. I’m excited to hear that a new press is soon opening called Dodo Ink. It has a fantastic team of enthusiastic readers behind it. They’ve already discovered some powerful manuscripts to launch as their first titles. I know because I’ve read extracts from these on their website. They need support in getting this press launched. I really believe in it and have made my pledge. I hope you will as well by clicking on this link and reading about how passionate they are: https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1528815432/the-grand-dodo-ink-kickstarter

The State We’re In by Ann Beattie

Some short story collections are made up of disparate pieces of fiction which authors have written over time and gathered together. Such was the case with Rose Tremain’s book “The American Lover” published last year. When I was at a reading Tremain gave I asked the question of how she chose what stories to include and how to order them; I was shocked to be told that this was mostly her editor’s work and she had little to do with it. It felt to me the movement from the beginning to end of the book took the reader on a distinct emotional journey. Clever editor.

Other short story collections are put together with a particular theme in mind or interrelate in ways which directly inform each other. It feels like “The State We’re In” is firmly a part of this later methodology, although I have no insight into how Ann Beattie composed this collection. The stories within form an arc of experience for the character of Jocelyn who appears throughout several (including the opening and closing story.) She’s been sent to stay with an aunt and uncle in Maine while attending summer school where she’s given the task of writing a story/essay using elements of magical realism. Jocelyn dreads writing this assignment, but by the book’s end she’s found a strategy to compose it. Yet, we’re made to wonder what the mechanism of story-telling means and how the telling interacts with living. In between we’re given the stories of distinctive personalities mostly set in Maine which include a collection of voices full of neighbouring gossip and local struggles. Jocelyn feels that “real life – you couldn’t write.” But that’s just what Beattie goes on to do.

There is a sense of being suspended in a physical place, but also in an emotional state. Some characters are established and content like a 77 year old woman who writes poetry, but it’s the accomplishments in her life which provide a counterpoint to poets past. Other characters are extremely anxious like a woman whose been asked to provide her back garden for a friend’s wedding when she despises the groom. Still others are trapped in an insolvable emotional mess like the character Moira in ‘Road Movie’ who is the lover of a married man. The configuration of their arrangement won’t change and the fact they are caught enacting clichés doesn’t make the emotional stress of the situation any less painful. This self-conscious awareness shown throughout the stories demonstrates how people can continuously narrate their lives while being unable to prevent themselves from becoming characters within them.

With my father in front of my childhood home during a typically snowy Maine winter

In some ways I felt a lot of the details in these stories washing over me as if I were listening to a gossipy neighbour I met in supermarket who won’t stop talking. Tales of terminal illness or a boy’s suicide attempt might come surprisingly in the middle of a speculations about what to have for dinner. There are details which surprise and delight, but I frequently wondered why am I being told this? It’s observed at one point that “The whole world’s full of stories. I never doubted that. Every writer will tell you the same thing: it’s next to impossible to find the inevitable story, because so many needles appear in so many haystacks. Most writers spend their entire careers – those who are lucky enough to have them – considering endless piles of hay praying, just praying that needle will prick their finger.” The experience of reading this collection is like doing this sort of sifting. But I did feel like I was startled to attention several times because sometimes a point of view struck me as so disarmingly true it was like being pierced.

I can’t help having a personal connection to this book since it is set in Maine and that is actually the state I grew up in. Many of the characters felt very familiar and it’s a social landscape I really recognized. In many ways, Maine is a very insulated place which lives by its own rules separate from the rest of the country. But at the same time it reflects the country where longstanding poverty uncomfortably rests against a small section of affluence. Beattie excellently captures the flavour of Maine with all its idiosyncrasies from pie making to barn auctions. This is a quietly unsettling and beautiful book of stories which is probably best read in order from start to finish.

The Guardian First Book Award 2015 LongList

I am a big fan of debut fiction. So I was thrilled to see the Guardian First Book Award long list appear today and with such a fascinatingly diverse group of titles. As many of you probably know, I’ve been a huge supporter of Mrs Engels from the day it came out. Gavin McCrea is an astoundingly good writer. The Fish Ladder is a fantastically beautiful and original memoir I read early in the year. The Shore was long listed for the Baileys Prize and I was hoping it would make the short list as it’s a strange and surprising family saga. Coincidentally, I’m already in the middle of reading the startling and beautiful poems in Andrew McMillan’s book Physical. The Fishermen is also on this year's Booker long list. I’ve been hearing such praise for Grief is the Thing with Feathers and The Wallcreeper so I’d really like to read these as well.

What do you think of the list? Have you read any of the below titles? Are there any outstanding debut books you’ve read this year that you think deserve more attention?

Sophie and the Sibyl by Patricia Duncker

Like many people I first came to George Eliot when I was at university reading “Middlemarch.” I’ve rated it highly as one of my favourite novels ever since. Later on, I started an online discussion forum with the mission to read all of her books – although I still haven’t read “Felix Holt, the Radical” or “Daniel Deronda.” Eliot is an endlessly fascinating author who took serious ideas and wove them into fantastic tales. With “Sophie and the Sibyl” Patricia Duncker has taken the historical author George Eliot – referred to primarily as The Sibyl within the novel – and inserted fictional characters to interact alongside her within the historical framework of the final eight years of the author’s life. It’s written in the style of a Victorian comedy of manners/romance, yet there are sections where Patricia Duncker herself intrudes to comment upon the characters or give her thoughts on literary traditions. This all sounds very self-conscious and artificial, but this novel works both as a stunning tribute to George Eliot and a gripping, moving, spectacular story in its own right.

Max Duncker is the younger brother of George Eliot’s German publisher Wolfgang Duncker. (It’s not a coincidence that they share a name with the author of this book.) He’s been roped into the family business when he really wants to spend most of his time gambling or visiting whore houses. He’s sent on a mission to meet Eliot who lives with the writer George Lewes (who was famously and scandalously already married). Eliot takes a shine to the star-struck boy, but only ever shows fraternal feeling for him. Sophie is a teenage countess and heiress to a great fortune. She’s also the daughter of Count Wilhelm von Hahn who is also published by the Duncker brothers. The Count and Wolfgang plan that Max and Sophie should marry as it is an arrangement that is socially and financially advantageous to both of them. The couple are willing to do this, but there is disruption when George Eliot unexpectedly comes between them through a series of dramatic events.

Sophie is an ardent fan of Eliot’s writing, but her opinion changes when she feels betrayed by the writer. The books we love have a way of deeply affecting us and sometimes that ardour can spill into a fanaticism for the individual author herself. Eliot inspired many to feel this way. One character Edith Simcox spends all her days hovering outside Eliot’s residence hoping for scraps of information from people associated with her or a brief audience with Eliot. Although we can sometimes feel a spiritual connection to authors, we don’t really know that person. This novel beautifully encompasses this complicated relationship between writer and reader.

“Sophie and the Sibyl” is also a powerful story about the degree to which our egos play into relationships in general. Late in the novel it’s observed that “We barge into other people’s lives, desperate to make ourselves heard, to have our feelings noticed, our rage and blame taken into account.” Much ardent passion and many romantic entanglements come out of a desire to “play out” feelings which are pent up within us. Yet, to be seen as someone worthy of this attention is a beautiful thing and can lead to meaningful connections. At one point in the novel Eliot states: “This is undoubtedly the deepest pleasure on this earth: to deserve the love of those close to us, and to see that diffusive goodness spreading ever outwards.”

Patricia Duncker observes within this novel how Eliot is subject to a ferocious desire to be wanted as well. Specifically in regards to Edith Simcox she notes: “George Eliot loved to be loved. We have had to wait a hundred years for all the lesbian attachments to be revealed, and even now I’ll be accused of tendentious anachronism for even mentioning that fatal word, and for suggesting that the great writer herself harboured Sapphic sentiments.” Although any possible lesbian relations Eliot might have had don’t play into the primary plot of this novel, Duncker gives a fascinatingly “queer” spin on the tale and doesn’t hide the fact she’s giving an interpretation on Eliot’s life coloured by her own agenda.

“The men are simply generic: husband, son. It’s the women who count. This struggle between women marks the spiritual history of the whole world.”

One of the most refreshing things about this novel is the way Patricia Duncker directly participates in it. Somehow it’s as if she becomes the reader of the story alongside you, providing commentary and observations while you’re reading. You might assume that such a device could be too intrusive, but for me this only added to the gusto of the story’s flow. It’s as if Duncker has combined the 19th century comedy/romance novel form (for instance, each chapter heading lays out what that chapter will contain) and the experimental meta-fictional sense of Ali Smith to create an entirely new novel form which enlightens the reader while entertaining them. I truly cared about these characters even though I was frequently being reminded that they were only characters in a story. Part of why Duncker is so successful at this is the emphatic deep-feeling and meaningful ideas she addresses in this novel ranging from the question of physical/spiritual beauty to contemplations about the nature of mortality. This is a seriously intelligent novel, but never reads like an essay because the concepts are deeply felt by the actors (characters) in the drama Duncker has created.

This book is the most beautiful love letter to George Eliot. Reading the dialogue between Eliot and other characters, I felt as if I could actually hear Eliot’s voice in my mind. Of course, like all idols we aren’t blind to their foibles. Duncker admits that “I have not loved her unchangeably.” Towards the end, Eliot’s motives and the way she engaged with people comes under scrutiny, but there is no question that she was a tremendously intelligent and important figure. Duncker states that by creating this story she “wanted fiction and history, as the historian Richard Holmes once put it, speaking of the biographer and his subject, to shake hands across time.” It will be fascinating to come back to this novel again and again to pick out what’s real and what Duncker made up especially after (re)reading Eliot’s novels and the many biographies written about her. That’s something I really want to do now: run out and read things by and about George Eliot. It’s brilliant that a novel can inspire this kind of feeling. I absolutely loved “Sophie and the Sibyl” and I don’t think you need to be an Eliot fan to appreciate what a revolutionary book and fantastic story it is.

The Sunshine Cruise Company by John Niven

Four women who range in age from 60 to 87 decide they have nothing left to lose in lives which have treated them poorly. Susan, a housewife for the majority of her life, finds she’s been betrayed by her humdrum accountant husband who harbours secret passions. Her life-long friend Julie is forced to work a series of menial jobs after having been betrayed by a younger lover. Grandmother Jill spends her time desperately trying to raise funds for an operation to save her grandson’s life. Former showgirl Ethel Merriman is wasting away in a retirement home with people who don’t appreciate her bawdy humour. These women have been defeated by life, but decide it’s time to get their own back by staging a bank heist and running for the border. This is a high-speed comedic chase novel which shows women entering their later years misbehaving in the most fantastic way.

Fans of author John Niven’s writing which has traditionally contained an overriding sense of masculinity will be interested to read the same thrilling brashness applied to a group of aging women. The elderly character of Ethel in particular is as foul-mouthed and sexually-driven as they come. She disarms men with her sexual suggestiveness and sings smutty rugby songs while munching on hard sweets in her wheelchair. What’s more Niven shows a sympathetic feeling for the ways female friendships can morph and change over an expanse of time: “lifelong friendships are curious things – the yardsticks by which we often measure ourselves. They were deep pools where there were tensions, currents and strange eddies that it was best to steer clear of. But, at the end of the day and all that, here they were, both turning sixty this year.” Buried secrets and resentments from Susan and Julie’s pass emerge over the course of their frantic attempt to flee through France.

Barrelling after the women on the run is a hefty flatulent detective named Boscombe who seems the embodiment of the crass, reactionary British male. There is a lot of humour at his expense while his poor suffering partner and chief back in Britain can only shake their heads in embarrassment. There is something incredibly satisfying about reading the adventures of these women as they charge through a traditionally male landscape thwarting policemen, stuck-up hotel managers, sleazy aging playboys and dangerous gangsters along the way. The title refers to the final big heist robbers decide to pull off before retiring from crime, but after the exuberance of their stunt it’s like these aging women are just getting their start late in life. This is the female answer to the 1979 geriatric caper film Going in Style. “The Sunshine Cruise Company” enthusiastically smashes stereotypes of women heading into retirement and it’s a funny fast-paced thriller.

On the Move by Oliver Sacks

Why do some people feel so compelled to write about their thoughts and experiences? Most of us are happy to let our perceptions and feelings recede into the back of our minds. Yet others, like Oliver Sacks have been compulsively writing journals, articles and books for the majority of his life. He describes in this autobiography how even at a concert he might sit writing constantly. It feels like this desire to write must come from an intense curiosity about the world and a desperate need to engage with it through the written word. By reading widely and conversing with patients, colleagues and friends, Sacks has been able to connect ideas and progress the field of neuroscience taking a more holistic approach where patients’ lives and experiences are taken into consideration. What’s more he’s able to eloquently shape how particular neurological disorders can enlighten our understanding of how most people perceive and interpret the world around us. “On the Move” is a direct, personal book where Sacks seeks to get an overarching understanding of his experiences and what has driven him to keep moving forward physically and mentally in life for over eighty years.

One of the fascinating things about this autobiography is that it shows how the physical process of writing itself is the way in which Sacks processes thought: “The act of writing is an integral part of my mental life; ideas emerge, are shaped, in the act of writing.” So writing isn’t necessarily where he tries to set out to a particular idea, but it’s where the process of thinking through his ideas actually takes place. It’s not surprising to read then that after finishing many manuscripts for his best-selling books he’ll go back and rewrite extensively or want to add innumerable footnotes because he is still thinking through his ideas and continuously adding to them. I believe this is why so many people who aren’t specifically interested in science can connect with Sacks’ writing – because of the overriding passion to truly understand which he demonstrates in his engaging writing. Given his seemingly-insatiable curiosity, Sacks has written an extensive amount and it’s somewhat tragic to learn in this book that many manuscripts have been lost over the years.

No doubt this autobiography will surprise many of Sacks’ fans who probably perceive him only as an introspective whiskered scientist. Yet we learn from early on in his professional life in California that “By day I would be the genial, white-coated Dr. Oliver Sacks, but at nightfall I would exchange my white coat for my motorbike leathers and, anonymous, wolf-like, slip out of the hospital to rove the streets or mount the sinuous curves of Mount Tamalpais and then race along the moonlit road to Stinson Beach or Bodega Bay.” Sacks has been an enthusiastic motorcyclist from early on in his life in England. Riding seemed to represent for him a freedom from the confines of his highly intellectual household. While his environment nurtured his intellect, he found it somewhat constrictive due to the homophobia of both his mother and the country at that time where “Public attitudes were, on the whole, as condemnatory as the law.” As many people have done, moving to California seemed to give Sacks the freedom to become the man he wanted to be in a more uninhibited way by pursuing the science which interested him the most, riding his motorcycle extensively, indulging in the mind-altering states of drug use and becoming a record-breaking body-builder. His recollections about the freedom he found in this are brilliantly vivid and engaging to read about. He’s anything but a sheltered geeky scientist!

Oliver Sacks at the New York screening party for the movie of his book Awakenings, starring Robin Williams as a character based on Sacks, 1990.

It’s touching to read about Sacks’ friendship with the poet Thom Gunn. The title of this autobiography is taken from an exquisitely beautiful poem by Gunn. Sacks shows his own poetic sensibility in some of his descriptions of travelling on his motorcycle – particularly when it involves a level of romantic or sexual frisson. When riding on his bike with his friend Bud behind him Sacks describes how they were “so closely jammed together we sometimes felt like a single leather animal.” It’s admirable how Sacks seems to have been confidently assured about who his desires are directed towards from an early age. He meaningfully describes some of the strongest love affairs of his life – most of which weren’t long-lasting or reciprocated. However, there is a curious mystery presented when Sacks pointedly declares in one section that he became celibate and remained so for some thirty five years thereafter. There is a strange lack of reflection about why this occurred whether it was from guilt or shyness or a concentration on his profession or a simple lack of opportunity/interest. Having achieved his freedom in physically and mentally moving away from the constrictions of his English boyhood, he doesn’t indulge in long-lasting romance or sexual freedom. Of course, love is hard to find, but total celibacy seems more of a conscious choice than an accident. It’s difficult to know whether he refrains from discussing in this book why he thinks this occurred. Perhaps it’s something he’s reluctant to mull over or it simply doesn’t interest him. Nevertheless, it’s heartening when in the last chapter he describes finding a partner to lovingly share his time with in a way which is mutually supportive and beautifully nurturing.

“On the Move” is an extremely enjoyable and fascinating autobiography. It records a life lived with a rare degree of courage and love for the world around him. No matter the obstacles - whether they were a publisher rejecting him or a bull attacking him on a mountain in Norway - Oliver Sacks persevered and continued to engage with world around him. The physical acts of riding his motorcycle or, later in life, swimming every day seem physiologically linked with his desire to mentally push forward our civilization’s knowledge of science. I empathized a lot with Sacks reading this book and developed a tremendous respect for him learning about his experiences.

A Year of Marvellous Ways by Sarah Winman

It’s been some time since I’ve been instantly beguiled by writing as beautiful as Sarah Winman’s. There is a lush, enchanting way she uses language that lulled me and drew me into this strange other world she creates. A ninety year old woman named Marvellous Ways lives in a near-deserted town in Cornwall. She goes for nude swims every day and tells tales of how her mother was a mermaid. This all sounds very whimsical, but as the novel progresses it shows how it is grounded in a much more serious reality. It’s 1947 and the country is still recovering from two world wars: “The triumph of two years ago hadn’t gained access to wallets or purses or homes. People were poor and the city was crumbling.” A soldier named Francis Drake returns from France with a letter from a dying soldier that he promised to deliver. Marvellous and Drake strike up an unlikely friendship which feels something like the pairing in the film Harold and Maude. They tell each other stories, riffle through the past and establish a warm kinship.

One of the most fascinating characters is named Missy Hall, the romantic love of Drake’s life. She remained in London throughout the war and her perspective of surviving through the blitz is strange and new. She developed a deep friendship with a woman named Jeanie. Together they find liberation through the upheaval in society and explore new sexual experiences in the dark corners of bomb shelters. There is a blunt handling of the emotional repercussions of sexual encounters: “Shame’s shame no matter what perfume you spray on it.” When the war ends its back to reality and Missy finds it hard to readjust or slip into the pre-war relationship she started with Drake. It’s a shame she doesn’t appear throughout the entire novel.

The central character is, of course, Marvellous herself whose radical perspective frequently disarmed me. She’s someone who prizes the stripped-down simplicity of the world over heedless progress: “Some things are best left untouched, she said. Tides rise and tides fall. That is perfection enough.” She communes with inanimate objects which sounds fanciful but comes across as a deep, meaningful conversation she’s having with herself more than the world around her. Over the course of the novel, we learn about the three great loves of her life. Her first lover was a woman, but rather than dwelling upon trying to define sexuality its refreshing how she moves from that to relationships with men without ponderous reflection or attributing any meaning to it. She’s also someone dealing with dementia and her struggle with the loss of memory is meaningfully related.

From the cover, this isn’t the kind of book I’d normally pick up because the title and artwork make it seem frivolous. I was drawn to it more because of the endorsement from Patrick Gale whose writing I adore and respect. But there is something very interesting and meaningful going on in this novel. There are times when Winman’s writing does get too florid. While she’s mostly good at simultaneously giving the hard facts of reality alongside ornate musings upon life, there is a short section of wartime France which feels too fleeting and scantily-written to give the impact it needed. However, overall I was charmed by this novel and intrigued by Winman’s unique perspective of the world. “A Year of Marvellous Ways” is a refreshing read whose story I completely sank into.

A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James

Some books leave you reeling in astonishment and “A Brief History of Seven Killings” certainly does that. I feel like I've been startled awake and can still hear the multiplicity of voices contained in this novel. Marlon James creates several distinct narrators to tell the story surrounding an assault upon Bob Marley’s house on December 3, 1976 by unknown gunmen who attacked Marley, his wife, manager and band mates which left them seriously injured. This mysterious incident occurred two days before he was due to sing in a concert which was meant to inspire peace between two warring Jamaican political groups. Nevertheless, Marley performed at the concert as scheduled. This novel is told from the point of view of dons (or territorial/gang leaders), CIA agents, a journalist, gang members, a woman trying to escape Jamaica, a hit man and a deceased politician. It spans a decade and a half from 1976 to 1991. It is specifically about the Singer and Jamaican politics, but it’s also a fantastic exploration of identity (national, racial, gender, sexual, spiritual). This is a book that challenges your assumptions about who you think you are and how you see other people.

Although Marley is central to the story we never get his voice. As such, the characters talk about him and (in some cases) directly to him, but we don’t hear his point of view. This is important because, as the novel progresses, it becomes about much more than the incident and extends its meaning into the larger culture. The author could very well be revealing his mission for this novel when a character states at one point: “there’s a version of this story that’s not really about him, but about the people around him, the ones who come and go that might actually provide a bigger picture than me asking him why he smokes ganja.” In this way, Marley is mythologized in a way similar to what Gabriel García Márquez does in “Chronicle of a Death Foretold” where the murdered man central to the story becomes so filled with all the characters’ opinions about him that he ceases to be a physical man and becomes more of a symbol. At the same time, I felt incredibly anxious for and sympathetic towards Marley’s plight as he was caught in an overwhelming web of scheming and ideological battles. He was extremely vulnerable as one man observes: “Once you climb to the peak of the mountain, the whole world can take a shot.”

As well as offering a wide range of perspectives on Marley, the novel also gives a fascinatingly complex understanding of race as viewed from the perspectives of multiple characters. There is the white journalist Alex Pierce who scoffs at white Americans who affect black sensibilities, but who can’t fully integrate into the society. Or the CIA man who observes that “Racism here is sour and sticky, but it goes down so smooth that you’re tempted to be racist with a Jamaican just to see if they would even get it.” Throughout the book there is an awareness of skin colour being a factor in social class depending on lightness or darkness. An enforcer and don, Josey Wales, states that “In Jamaica you have to make sure that you breed properly. Nice little light browning who not too dry up, so that your child will get good milk and have good hair.” These points of view bring to mind for me Chimamanda Adichie’s observation that race isn’t a genetic issue, but a social issue. There are conflicted levels of racism inherent to everyone’s point of view which are demonstrated by the way they interact with and think about others.

For a novel so dominated by a multiplicity of male perspectives, the female narrator Nina Burgess gives a refreshingly different take on women in this novel. She’s someone who I felt a tremendous level of sympathy with both for her yearnings and her need to escape her culture to create a new identity. Burgess exposes the sexism women must face in Jamaican society – how the threat of sexual violence is something which can go unreported and be overlooked by officials even if it is (as they may very well be the perpetrators.) It shows how fear of it can be a kind of torture: “I can’t imagine anything worse than waiting for a rape.” It’s shown how rape is used as another instrument of war and the quest for domination. Importantly, the novel also shows how stereotypes or expectations about the way women might be treated in Jamaica don’t always play out in the ways you’d expect in specific circumstances. Another female character who defies stereotypes is Griselda Blanco, a drug lord who is one of the toughest and most fearsome characters in the entire book.

At the same time, James gives a sympathetic understanding towards his male characters – even when they are ruthless killers. Many feel trapped by circumstance and cornered into taking certain actions based on what opportunities are available to them. Some experience a crisis of consciousness and develop or recess back into old habits of being. The character of Josey Wales meaningfully realizes that “When you come into the real truth about yourself, you realize that the only person equipped to handle it is you.” There aren’t avenues of support to encourage gang members out of the life they live. The horrific fact about the violence that many of the men engage with is that it is self-perpetuating and has no end: “The problem with proving something is that instead of leaving you alone people never stop giving new things to prove, harden things.” So the violence must escalate as the men feel they must maintain and protect their place within their social group.

Jamaica has a notoriously bad reputation for the way it treats its queer community. That rampant homophobia is reflected in this book where one of the most common insults casually doled out is “batty man.” This isn’t surprising and fully justified given that many of the voices are by macho tough men. What is surprising is that two of the voices (that of a complicated gang enforcer named Weeper and a dangerous hit man named John-John K) are men who actively have sex with other men. There is a level of acceptance for their actions by some gang members who acknowledge their different sexuality but overlook this fact because they don’t consider them “that” type of gay man. Equally there is a complex understanding of their own sexualities within each man’s narrative. They challenge stereotypes: “Don’t think the man getting fucked must be the bitch.” Bottoms can also be bad ass.

Watch Marlon James discuss his inspiration for writing this novel

In many ways, these two characters also hide their true natures as a means of surviving in their stridently heterosexual social groups. There is a level of self-consciousness where the men must “perform” a role and this reveals the fallible nature of our social identities. There is talk of male prostitutes being used and then killed to hide the shame of what happened. Only in New York City can Weeper establish a somewhat steady sexual relationship with another man on his own terms. Weeper and John-John K also have a fascinating dialogue about sexuality when they finally meet in a climactic scene which offers very different points of view rather than a singular outcast gay man’s voice. This is such a refreshing and challenging thing for a novel to do. It’s fascinating to consider how the author might also still be facing his own struggle with sexuality given that in the last sentence of the acknowledgements he warns his mother away from reading the fourth part of this novel which contains some very graphic gay sexual content.

It’s astounding to me a novel can encompass so many different voices and do so in a way that is entirely convincing, but also beautifully written. Some of the most lyrical writing is that of the deceased politician Sir Arthur Jennings who oversees the spanning interstices of time between sections. One of the most striking lines which I keep musing upon comes from the journalist looking upon the ghetto thinking “Beauty has infinite range but so does wretchedness…”  However, some of the most forceful, terrifying and hypnotically-written passages that flood your mind like a river are by the young gang members rapt in the heat of drug-fuelled violence. This novel builds voices in layers giving a complex understanding of our culture in a way that only a novel can. Interestingly, it uses multiple narrators to create a polyphonic perspective of a place and time surrounding a specific incident that's very similar to Ryan Gattis’ “All Involved”. I was also struck how one plot-line of the book sees a caregiver get attached to an older man who loses his short-term memories every day which is a story that is superficially similar to Yoko Ogawa's "The Housekeeper and the Professor" which I read earlier this year. Of course, James' novel is very different from these books in content, but I think it's a positive thing when great books remind you of other great books.

It is commendable Marlon James engages with this period of Jamaican history and culture in such a complex and intelligent way. Perhaps he felt the need to answer his own challenge set by his character Tristan Phillips who suggests: “Maybe somebody should put all of this craziness together, because no Jamaican going do it. No Jamaican can do it, brother, either we too close or somebody going stop we.” This is a view of Jamaica that only this author could give, yet its meanings extend so far beyond the boundaries of that country and the individual voices it contains. It is a long read, but it becomes utterly mesmerizing. As an enticement to stick with it, you should know that the significance of this novel’s title and the killings it references isn’t revealed until near the end. “A Brief History of Seven Killings” is a novel I feel like I could go on and on about. I’ve only just touched on some of the fascinating themes and ideas this book brings up. It’s better if I just write you should definitely read it and end here.

Not My Father’s Son by Alan Cumming

Reading a celebrity’s memoir isn’t usually my sort of thing. But this book actually has very little to do with being a celebrity. Alan Cumming’s extraordinarily complex and difficult family story is reason enough to read this memoir without the need for salacious Hollywood gossip (of which there is very little in this book). “Not My Father’s Son” is primarily about Cumming’s incredibly problematic relationship with his estranged father and overcoming the horrendous abuse he and his brother experienced as children. However, it is because of his fame that he was able to participate in the program Who do you think you are? where celebrities get to trace their heritage and uncover hidden facts about their family. In this book we’re given his personal take on discovering more information about his mysterious maternal grandfather who was a war hero and whose life came to a shocking end. What was going on between his immediate family while this was being filmed is even more extraordinary than what happened in this television program. There are events and revelations in Cumming’s life happening simultaneously while the show is made with bizarre connections linking the past and present.

This memoir turns into a kind of thriller as it progresses because of the anticipation of what family details will be revealed. It moves back and forth in time from Cumming’s childhood and budding acting career to the time of filming the TV show. Interspersed are family photographs which become particularly poignant as more of the story is revealed. Cumming’s complex story naturally raises questions about the meaning of family and how much genetics determines who we are. It also meaningfully conveys strategies for dealing with the aftermath of abuse. I found the story in “Not My Father’s Son” extremely moving. It’s about survival, identity and what really makes people family.

The Mark and the Void by Paul Murray

I’ve been really looking forward to reading “The Mark and the Void.” There’s been what I think of as “rumblings” about it for some time including mentions on Twitter and in the press (both very positive and very negative reviews). Now that Booker predictions are already being made it’s tipped by some as a strong contender. References to it have made blips on my radar and, after receiving enough blips, I was sufficiently intrigued to put it at the top of my TBR pile. At one point I was chatting with two authors I really respect and both enthusiastically praised Murray and this new novel so I became determined to read it. Now I wonder if it’s one of those tragic cases of a book receiving too much hype because my overall response to this novel is something of a shrug.

It’s a fun idea which Murray self-consciously outlines at the start. A banker with hidden depths of spirit meets a writer who turns out to be a shallow charlatan. This combo yields thoughtful passages about the banking crisis in Ireland and observations about the interplay of art and life. French banker Claude uses his background in philosophy to assess the meaning of value for things and people in the modern world. It’s observed that “Life and the living of it have, for the first time in history, become separate. In recording our own reality – that is, in simultaneously experiencing and deferring experience – we pass from the actual into the virtual.” At the same time, the writer Paul makes a foil to Claude’s search for meaning in the modern malaise by seeking to exploit these foibles with his schemes to get rich. So he seeks to use our desire for intimate personal connections in real life filtered through the safety of virtual arenas to create a website Hotwaitress.com where you can be served by actual waitresses while knowing a profuse amount of personal details about their lives.

This is ridiculous and funny – the dark humour being that such sleazy disgusting websites do exist. Unfortunately, much of the humour in this novel feels quite broad and not all that haha. So periphery characters like Paul’s immigrant stripper wife who is also a well-educated literary theorist, protestors that dress like zombies and an artistic gay couple who slyly confess to adoring the musical Mamma Mia came across as a bit clunky to me because they’ve been inserted into scenes that read like situational comedy. It was difficult to feel much for them. There were some exceptions that show more of the shady reality of the world. For instance, Claude’s female co-worker Ish is put in the extremely uncomfortable situation where potential investors demand she get a lap dance at a gentlemen’s club (a situation she thankfully escapes). Her gradual disillusionment with her profession is effective, but she has a lovesickness for Claude which felt cloying. Probably the character I found most endearing was Paul’s young son Remington whose absurdist interjections provide a light relief.

All this might be okay if protagonists Claude and Paul succeeded as characters. Their relationship reminded me strongly of Stefan Zweig and his biography of Balzac. Like Claude, Zweig was devoted to the way art can elevate us out of the mire and pettiness of daily life. Yet he’s continuously frustrated because, like the character Paul, Balzac’s primary motivation was to get rich through ridiculous ploys which fail miserably and he only goes back to writing out of necessity to pay off debts. This tension makes for amusing interactions in “The Mark and the Void” but it’s a relationship so strained it comes across as unbelievable. If it weren’t for the author’s controlling hand Claude would certainly block Paul out of his life. Because their connection is the impetus for the story, they can’t be separated so the charade continues. Maybe that’s the point and, as the novel progresses, we’re made more and more self consciously aware of the limitations of novels. It’s stated that “The stories we read in books, what’s presented to us as being interesting – they have very little to do with real life as it’s lived today… People looking back over their lives, people having revelations, people discovering meaning. Meaning, that’s the big thing.” This condemnation of literature would seem to make the pursuit of reading fiction pointless because all the little insights we find within don’t offer any succour in reality. But if you take away the story there is little left to appreciate but clever artifice and I would have preferred to read a non-fiction book about the banking crisis in Ireland.

The trouble is that highlighting the characters and situation as a sort of post-modern construct means they never get much beyond that. It’s difficult to feel any heart. To be honest, there were long passages of this novel I found boring. This too is self consciously pointed out in the novel: “He’s boring, his life is boring, isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what makes his story true? He’s the modern man, he lives in his cocoon of numbers, he has everything anyone could want – or rather, he has enough money to buy anything anyone could want – yet his life is empty.” So the novel moves along giving details of the inner-workings of banking while the protagonists engage in a game of cat and mouse. I wanted more than that because I could feel real anger and frustration from the author about the financial crisis in Ireland. In one passage, seemingly out of nowhere, there is an extended searing critique of “the Irish, with their demon priests, their cellulite, their bus queues and beer bellies…” and later it’s remarked “the fact is that the Irish are at root a slave race.” This chastisement a man has for his own countrymen in relation to the economic disaster of his time is what I would be thrilled to read about – not a novel as an intellectual postmodern game-play. Anne Enright’s recent novel “The Green Road” did much more to capture the Irish in all their complexity and say something meaningful in the lead up to the housing bubble.

I don’t mean to condemn this novel because there are a lot of interesting things in it. The title itself takes on multiple meanings throughout the book. People target each other to exploit and use one another for empty monetary pursuits in a way that drains life of meaning so we’re left “swimming around in this void together.” An accusatory finger points from character to character to author to reader. “The Mark and the Void” made me wonder about the way we’re lulled into absenting ourselves from taking responsibility for participating in all of this. It has force and something to say; for me it just didn’t find the right framework to express it in or give me the fully immersive experience I want from a novel.

Devastation Road by Jason Hewitt

It may feel sometimes like WWII is a subject that has been so well documented and fictionalized we don’t want to hear about it anymore. However, in the last year I’ve read some gripping novels that give a surprisingly different perspective on the war by focusing on the struggles of individuals on the periphery. Some of these include Lissa Evan’s “Crooked Heart” about con-artists on the home front, Ben Fergusson’s “The Spring of Kasper Meier” about the plight of German citizens in post-war occupied Berlin and Audrey Magee’s “The Undertaking” about a wartime marriage of convenience which turns into a harrowing tale of loss. Jason Hewitt takes an even more radically new view of the war showing the days leading up to its end and the immediate aftermath. However, “Devastation Road” doesn’t simply recount the complicated historical details of this significant time. Instead we travel on a journey down an anonymous road that has been ravaged by the war. Owen wakes to find himself bedraggled and disorientated near a river that is awash with bodies and without any clear recollection of the past five years. During his travels through a devastated Eastern Europe he slowly regains an understanding of who he is and what led him to this critical moment. His odyssey illuminates the way war is above-all made up of individual struggle and the terrible choices people must make to survive.

The trauma of war and a head injury have caused Owen to lose his short-term memory. At first this is a real struggle and he must write down what’s happening in order to remind himself what he experiences day by day and the fragmented memories which flash through his mind. He soon encounters a passionate Czech refugee named Janek who doesn’t speak English and a mysterious Polish woman named Irena who desperately wants to get rid of her baby. They accompany him on his journey trying to find people they have lost. Owen’s experiences and the way his life story gradually slots together cause him to entirely re-evaluate his identity. At one point Owen realises that “He was beginning to feel like a fugitive; or as if he had two lives running in parallel – the one he remembered and the one here and now.” This shows how our sense of self can become very thin and flexible, especially when challenged by something as traumatic as war. It causes people to both completely lose themselves or reinvent themselves as a necessary method of endurance.

Owen is a draughtsman helping to design planes for the war.

The story becomes both a thrilling and horrifying adventure as the truth is gradually revealed about the protagonists and the plight of people in the aftermath of war. With so many people displaced and communities’ infrastructure so broken, Owen wanders through a land of virtual chaos. We see how the war’s ending didn’t simply mean peace. The repercussions of the damage and continuing struggles of looting, fighting and rape persisted. A welfare officer remarks that “The war might as well still be raging for all the good the peace is doing us.” The way forward is uncertain. It’s compelling seeing how Hewitt’s characters adjust to this new environment by either triumphing or breaking down. Betrayal is a consistent theme in this novel where lovers, family and country are deceived out of necessity. The author explores the consequences of this in ways which are subtle and surprising. In particular, I found Irena’s character be extremely compelling as she is someone who felt thinly-drawn at first but her complicated story proves to be one of the most heart breaking.

It feels as if Jason Hewitt has taken the concept of Cormac McCarthy’s novel “The Road” and placed it in a historically specific time and place. Only through encounters and glimpses of the ravaged landscape do we piece together what has happened. While the physical and emotional damage of the war is real and painfully-felt, what’s in some ways equally disturbing is the way people’s sense of humanity has been so violently shaken. There are beautiful small acts of good will and terrifying scenes of vicious cruelty. “Devastation Road” takes you on a journey where you experience the extremes of war; you ultimately arrive somewhere that makes you very grateful for the gracious comfort of home.

Here is an article written by the author about displaced person's after WWII and the formation of the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Agency which feature in this novel: http://www.historiamag.com/?page_id=1494

Your Father Sends His Love by Stuart Evers

Usually I take my time with books of short stories. I’ll maybe read one a day in the morning before work or read one aloud to my boyfriend in the evening to help him get to sleep (my voice is quiet & soothing: I could charm an angry lion to sleep) or pick up a book of stories on a restless afternoon to read only one and not go back to the book for a month. But the stories in “Your Father Sends His Love” made me greedy. I started with the first and I wanted another, then another and another like a bag of sweets. Stuart Evers has an uncanny ability for placing you right into a subtly dramatic situation so it feels so immediately real and entrancing. Many involve initially simple scenes such as a woman getting a tattoo, a father caring for his infant son during the weekend, a man consuming a bag of oranges. But you are quickly made aware there is more at stake here. Someone has a longstanding feud with his son, someone’s hope of a simple happy home has been shattered by larger circumstances, someone is channelling all their energy into an imaginary life. These diverse stories drew me in to challenge and entertain me so that I wanted to read them all immediately.

Family plays a crucial role in most of these stories. There is resentment which is dramatically played out as a self-destructive son extracts revenge on his egotistical father; a woman chides her husband’s occasional snack indulgences despite carrying on a hidden intense affair; a man develops a close friendship with his granddaughter where he gets her on his side against his son/her father. However, many of the stories also bravely feature the intensely tender and caring feelings between families which aren’t easily portrayed in fiction without giving me a toothache. A father defends his son from homophobic abuse; a mother seeks to honour the memory of her long-deceased sister; a man tries desperately to show how much he feels for his grieving best friend. These are meaningful and skilfully realized situations which made me care about these characters. It felt like their lives and relations expanded out far beyond the short space of a mere twenty odd pages.

One of the things that Evers does to make these stories feel so real is to capture the awkwardness of social interactions – sometimes with excruciating accuracy. In ‘Live From the Palladium’a boy tries to impress a girl he has a crush on with a joke he inherits from his mother only to bungle the thing up horribly. In ‘Charter Year, 1972’ while visiting a new family a man makes ominous suggestions that he’ll take prizes away from them unless they make public appearances. The story ‘Something Else to Say’ is structured in a way where mental lists of things to talk about are continuously made and nervously reshaped as a man meets his friend in a pub. Our social lives are filled with a clutter of trivialities which distract from larger and more crucial issues happening between us. These stories inventively portray how these interactions are played out while subtly hinting at the bigger emotions stirring beneath the surface.

An outstanding thing about the range of characters in these stories is how Evers represents diversity in way which is subtly woven into their very fabric. So there are characters across a range of races, nationalities and sexualities presented where identities are varied but they are first and foremost individuals. It’s a talent to do this in a way which doesn’t make difference into an issue, but includes it because it is simply the reality of the world. It’s something which should be happening more in fiction and Evers shows in these stories the right way it can be handled.  

Many of the stories have a Raymond Carver feel to them because of their realism and delicately balanced interactions between characters in poignant locations. For instance, a time-worn affair is played out between couples in a disused nuclear war bunker turned tourist attraction in ‘This Is Not a Test.’ However, Evers also shows a range of styles with the title story ‘Your Father Sends His Love’ feeling at times like a Samuel Beckett play or his story ‘Swarm’ which takes us into a world of virtual reality where people “link” for a price. Reading the stories all together, I could see the way each story adjusts the tone of voice and rhythm to more suitably match the differing subject matter. Evers does this in a way which makes each story feel unique while also giving the collection overall a satisfying cohesion.

This is simply excellent story telling. Eat them up in one greedy feast or, if you have more restraint than I do, enjoy reading them at a civilized pace.

The House in Smyrna by Tatiana Salem Levy (translated by Alison Entrekin)

How do you reconcile the national identity of your ancestors with the person you are today? The children of recent immigrants will most likely have a stronger sense of duality because they are exposed to their parents’ culture which was brought from somewhere else and that of the society which they’ve been raised in. The main characters in “The House in Smyrna” have an even more blended sense of self because their family has strong roots in Portugal, recent ties with Turkey and eventually moved to settle in Brazil. Rather than tell the story of how a child of immigrants embraces or rejects her various cultural influences, Tatiana Salem Levy does something radically new with her narrative by moving between characters and periods of time in brief image-driven sections. This creates an emotionally-charged story which blends disparate elements together to show how there can be no true cohesive sense of self.

The primary drive of this tale is a key left to a character whose grandfather tells her it is for the house he left in Smyrna, Turkey. Alongside her journey (which might be real or imagined) to seek out this ancestral home there are the stories of a man caring for his dying mother, a heated and tempestuous lovers’ relationship, the incarceration and abuse of a political dissident and a writer whose body is breaking down. This may sound like a lot to include in such a short novel. At first it can prove a bit confusing between these strands of narrative because few names are used. However, they quickly take on the characteristic of a unified voice searching and seeking out a place to call home. The narrator declares: “I was born in exile, and that’s why I am the way I am, without a homeland, without a name… I was born away from myself, away from my land – but, when it comes down to it, who am I? What land is mine?” This narrative embodies this sense of anonymity as a strategy for contemplating these insolvable dilemmas. Imagery is repeated throughout different sections making the experiences of the characters feel unified. Strong sensations of pleasure or pain are carried between one part and the next fusing them together. The line of time is subverted through these methods to suggest subtleties not available in traditional ways of storytelling.

Inevitably, this sometimes gave the disappointing effect of making me want to know more about the specifics of certain characters and their dilemmas. In particular, the sections about the brutality of the Brazilian military during the dictatorship feel like they deserve a wider space to deal with the complexities of the situation. However, the pointedly strong imagery which appears in some sections makes up for this consciously shortened style of storytelling. Scenes of grief, isolation, discovery, pleasure are rendered with impeccably-crafted prose making them strongly resonant. There are instances of sexual power play, the sense of exploration in a foreign country and the bitter sting of mourning which are depicted in a way that really transported me. The novel also includes some plot twists which give these tales a strikingly charged quality making the piles of detail you’d get in more traditional narratives feel superfluous.

“The House in Smyrna” is an emotional, startling novel that makes every sentence earn its place. As a narrator in the novel passionately declares: “If my writing doesn’t bleed, it doesn’t exist.” The intensity of writing here does feel as if the writer has shed her life into it. This is a book written by someone who is deeply concerned about the meaning of identity and finding a way to express the full complexity of it. It’s what makes this such a noble and intense novel.

Read an excellent interview with the author here: https://scribepublications.co.uk/explore/insights/tatiana-salem-levy-q-a/