Underland by Robert Macfarlane

It can be so easy to get caught in the here and now of life when most of it consists of a routine path between home and work. I’ve certainly found that where day after day I take the same trains while passing by the same trees and buildings. After a while I barely notice them because I’m so fixated on looking at my phone or a book. But reading Robert Macfarlane’s “Underland” gives a radically new perspective on time and space as he describes his various journeys to subterranean landscapes. From ancient caves in England and Norway to the bottom of glaciers near Greenland to the subterranean chambers of London and Paris, Macfarlane explores terrain that few people have tread but which has always existed under our feet. In doing so he explores the concept of deep time where he can see the marks of many past centuries inscribed upon the rocks and ice hidden here. This is where resources are extracted from, bodies are buried, waste is disposed of and treasure is hidden. It’s also where scientists can detect changes to the environment and archaeologists can study the oldest traces from human history. Macfarlane recounts his experiences in these places, sympathetically describes the colourful individuals who guide him through them and meaningfully reflects on our hidden relationship to these subterranean regions.

It’s interesting how many people that he meets who either work, study or inhabit these spaces under the land have a strong sense of character. Many are devoted to a particular cause such as preserving the environment, snubbing the law to form a culture of undercity dwellers or mining resources for the good of society. It’s often just as interesting learning about his companions as it is about the underland spaces they’re exploring and Macfarlane shows what a deeply empathetic person he is in how he interacts with them and recounts their perspectives. One of the most compelling people he meets is a boisterous and fiercely independent fisherman named Bjornar who lives on a remote island in Norway. He’s the descendent of generations of such men and this deeply entwined relationship with the sea and landscape have given him a deep understanding of this environment far more meaningful than the oil companies scanning it for resources and the environmental impact of extracting them. I appreciate how Macfarlane gives voice to a plethora of points of view showing how battles over the land are such a complex social issue. However, the crisis of climate change is made absolute clear in the transforming landscapes he explores.

What elevates Macfarlane’s account above a standard travelogue is the beautifully poetic language he uses to evoke these varied subterranean spaces as well as his own state of being when passing through them. He also makes poignant connections referencing different poetry, novels and music so the book functions as a way to philosophically define our relationship to the natural world. But it never comes across as pretentious as he frequently feels humbled by what he finds. In fact, there are points where language is utterly defeated because it cannot describe what he’s seeing such as the glacial ice in Greenland: “Here was a region where matter drove language aside. Ice left language beached. The object refused its profile. Ice would not mean, nor would rock or light... a terrain that could not be communicated in human terms or forms.” This book gives a powerful sense of being humbled before the vast expanse of our world’s history and invites the reader to recall our part within it.

Mary Barton by Elizabeth Gaskell

I’ve been curious to read Elizabeth Gaskell for some time and I have a geeky habit whenever reading a classic author for the first time to start with the first book they ever published and then read all of their books in the order that they appeared. Or, at least, that’s the aim. I’ve tried doing this with authors such as Iris Murdoch, George Orwell and Vladimir Nabokov and I’ve still not got around to reading some of their final novels or skipped ahead to read a novel I’m more interested in. In any case, there’s often an assumption that a writer’s first book will be weaker than their subsequent ones because they haven’t fully found their voice as an author yet. However, “Mary Barton” is so confidently and skilfully done. It’s a sympathetic portrait of working class families in Manchester and begins in 1839.

The central romance of the novel concerns heroine Mary’s torn affections between Jem, an honest hard-working labourer, and Harry Carson, a scheming wealthy mill owner’s son. A bungled proposal of marriage and a dramatic incident sends her on a perilous journey to save a man from being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit. Along the way, Mary has a heart-wrenching reunion with her aunt Esther who has become a street-walker. These characters are richly brought to life with dialogue filled with Mancunian speech (as well as Liverpudlian when the characters travel there.)

The main criticism I’ve seen made about this novel is that it’s a book of two halves. The first is concerned with detailing the plight of the working class including starvation, poor living/working conditions, alcoholism and appeals to reform labour laws which are rebuffed by the government. The second is more plot driven as it concerns the fallout of a violent crime performed as an act of protest against the gentry. I agree that the novel does have a different feel in these two parts yet they both work well. I also appreciated the switch to be more involved with story because in the first part it sometimes felt like the characters spoke too self-consciously about their struggles as a way for the author to make points about the working class. But on the whole I thought the characters were rendered sympathetically and realistically. The story also dramatically demonstrates the complex points of opposition between different classes. It’s poignantly done and I’m eager to read more of Gaskell’s fiction in the future.

Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor

The year 1993 was incredibly important for me personally as I was just becoming a teenager at that point and awkwardly figuring out my own identity. This is the year in which Andrea Lawlor’s wickedly funny and absorbing novel is set. Its story bears all the marks of that era with references to zines, mix tapes and an increasingly assertive queer population that enthusiastically formed tight-knit communities outside of mainstream heterosexual culture. So I felt a strong affinity toward Paul, the novel’s 23 year-old hero who is more interested in hooking up with a wide variety of people than completing his college degree. We follow his journey navigating urban life between seedy gay hotspots, lesbian communes and leather bars while having lots of sex with men and women along the way. It’s quickly revealed that Paul has a special ability to morph like a mythological figure and physically transform into a woman. This allows Paul to change his body and genitals to suit the desires of any man or woman whether they are gay or straight. In this way he gains intimate access to the bedrooms and communities of a whole spectrum of people in his quest to understand where he belongs. It’s an inventive way of memorializing the many-varied and radical subcultures of this time period as well as questioning the meaning of gender identity.

There’s a great tradition of queer literature which Lawlor’s book references including many poets and novelists who’ve dealt with LGBT and gender issues, especially Woolf’s “Orlando” – though Paul self-consciously defines how he differs from this figure. Some other excellent recent novels that include protagonists who criss-cross or blur the line between male and female are “The Night Brother” and “The Lauras”. Lawlor’s novel gives another refreshing perspective on how gender is a social construct. However, it’s not didactic in the way it deals with this subject matter as Paul is portrayed as an extremely flawed and oftentimes superficial individual. In his relentless quest to transform himself to fit in with whatever subset of people he’s trying to ingratiate himself with Paul discovers that every community has different guidelines in how its members are expected to dress and act in order to be admitted. For instance, he hilariously becomes painfully self-conscious about the way he chops vegetables while in a kitchen full of lesbians or gets treated with contempt for not being suitably attired in a bar full of leather men until he reveals at the piss trough what a sizeable member he possesses. I admired the way this novel shows the superficial reasons by which people judge whether an individual can be allowed into a community or alienated from it.

Paul is highly cognizant of how to transform himself because he too quickly casts judgements about everyone he meets based on their manner and attire. When he reveals his true nature to someone at one point he gets his heart broken, but he’s also prone to breaking hearts by discarding people soon after having sex with them. I felt his complicated nature made him very sympathetic as well as the real-world economic struggles of a young adult living from pay check to pay check. The novel records in detail Paul’s ever dwindling bank balance and his frequent struggles with money. Lawlor also interjects several self-contained fables into the narrative in a way which brilliantly reconfigures the moral conundrums of Paul’s story. All these aspects made me fall in love with this book which encapsulates the way we function as social and sexual organisms. It’s bold how frankly Lawlor presents bodies in a wide variety of combinations and how these individuals constantly yearn to both satiate their desires and be desired themselves.

Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson

I’ve been meaning to begin reading Anne Carson’s poetry for some time. Multiple people recommended I start with “Autobiography of Red” and I’m so glad I read this incredibly inventive book! Carson translated the existing fragments of a poem about a red winged monster with a human face named Geryon which was written by the Greek lyric poet Stesichorus’ who lived from 630-555 BC. In the opening sections Carson imaginatively discusses Stesichorus’ life and the legend of his being rendered blind for insulting Helen of Troy. Carson has said she found it difficult to satisfactorily translate his writing successfully so she’s taken the liberty of imaginatively filling out the story of Geryon’s life in this epic narrative poem which reads more like a novella. It takes elements from Geryon’s story but inserts them into a blend of the modern and mythic following his relationship with his mother, sexual abuse by his brother and his romantic entanglements with a man named Herakles (in the myth Heracles kills Geryon by shooting him with an arrow.) It’s stunning how she captures the sensations of Geryon’s life and his unique perspective: his feelings of alienation, artistic aspirations and sexual yearnings. And it’s so beautifully written with many complex lines and metaphors that made me pause and think.

Carson sympathetically portrays Geryon’s gradual awareness of his otherness as he gets older. There the obvious differences in how he appears as his body is red and he possesses wings which he learns to conceal. But he also perceives the world in a different way and at some points Carson describes his synaesthesia so that he can hear “noise that colors make. Roses came roaring across the garden at him.” So Geryon becomes aware that he’s an outsider who can never fully integrate with the people around him or have a traditional relationship with Herakles. He’s a part of society but outside of it and learns he can’t live without it: “There is no person without a world.” Yet there’s a tremendous wellspring of emotion within him which is symbolised by a pilgrimage he and Herakles take to a volcano. He also takes up photography as if becoming an observer and recorder can emotionally remove him from reality.

This is book filled with so many profound and beautifully-made observations I’m sure I’ll return to it again and again.

The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa (translated by Stephen Snyder)

On its surface “The Memory Police” feels like a typical dystopian novel about an oppressive military force. The narrator lives on an island where certain objects such as roses and music boxes totally disappear. Not only do these things vanish overnight but so do people’s memories of them. Anyone possessing or even recalling these things after they’ve been outlawed disappear themselves through the enforcement of an impersonal group known as the memory police. This leads people (such as the narrator’s mother who is taken away) to conceal objects which were supposed to disappear and people who remember outlawed things go into hiding. Events such as the systematic burning and destruction of outlawed objects have obvious parallels with historic fascist regimes. While it portrays this nightmarish world in a moving way, Yoko Ogawa’s novel isn’t as concerned with the mechanics of totalitarianism as it is with the philosophical mysteries of the human heart as well as the meaning and function of memory.

The narrator is a novelist and over the course of the book we also get snippets of a story she’s writing about a typist and her instructor. As the novel progresses the parallels between the narrator’s world and the typist’s world become surreally aligned as they seem to reflect her internal reality. While I found the sections of the narrator’s novel-in-progress somewhat intrusive at first they take on an increasing power as her reality grows increasingly bleak and restricted. The interplay between these stories is given a further complexity in how the narrator’s editor (only referred to as R) goes into hiding and tries to coax the narrator into remembering what’s been lost in the disappearances. It’s so interesting how this shows the complex process of memorialisation and prompts the reader to question things like: what’s vital to remember and what’s better to forget? How much do we imaginatively insert false memories into the truth of what occurred in the past? To what degree is our memorialization of certain things or people about our own ego rather than honouring what’s been lost?

From reading Ogawa’s previous novel “The Housekeeper and the Professor” it’s clear these complex issues about memory are ones which doggedly preoccupy the author. I admire how she explores them in surprisingly subtle ways and from different angles in her brilliantly unique novels. She also has an interesting way of approaching the parallel issue of romance – both romance between people and our romantic relationship with our own pasts. In “The Memory Police” there’s a lot of discussion about the heart and how “A heart has no shape, no limits. That’s why you can put almost any kind of thing in it, why it can hold so much. It’s much like your memory, in that sense.” When things disappear it’s described as leaving holes in the hearts of people who can’t remember them and, because their absence forms these “new cavities”, it drives people to destroy any remaining physical trace of the thing. It’s like destroying sentimental letters, photographs or mementos when a relationship ends or a person dies – as if that can cancel out our feelings of bereavement.

The narrator’s mother is a sculptor: “My mother had loved to sculpt tapirs, even though she had never seen one in real life.”

In contrast to the resistant attitude of the editor R, the narrator also has a long-time friend and supporter in a figure only referred to as the “old man”. Although he assists the narrator in hiding the editor and rescuing disappeared goods, he has a more apathetic attitude about the worrying frequency with which things vanish. He states: “The disappearances are beyond our control. They have nothing to do with us. We’re all going to die anyway, someday, so what’s the differences? We simply have to leave things to fate.” Paired with the disappearances of memories is an inertia and lack of resistance from most of the general population who simply comply. This echoes many examples from history where people are unwilling to defend their values, way of life and the lives of others when threatened by a perceived authority. I’m sympathetic to this dilemma and it’s a complex subject. I admire the way this excellent novel wrestles with these issues that we all face both as individuals and citizens of our communities.

Love by Hanne Ørstavik (translated by Martin Aitken)

There’s an aching feeling of loneliness as well as a foreboding sense of danger throughout Hanne Ørstavik’s short, razor-sharp novel “Love”. The story concerns Vibeke and her son Jon who have recently moved to small town in the north of Norway. The narrative continuously switches focus between the mother and son’s points of view without any line breaks or indications that it’s changing. This produces the curious effect of a synchronicity and connection between the two so the border between them appears to blur. But, as the novel continues, it becomes apparent there’s a dangerous disconnect as they embark on independent journeys deep into the night meeting strangers and driving separately through the freezing near-empty landscape. Jon is about to turn nine years old and he’s expecting his mother to bake him a cake to celebrate, but her mind is decidedly elsewhere. Although there’s little plot, a quiet tension hums throughout each section making this a deeply meditative, haunting and curiously mesmerising novel.

I was reminded of Virginia Woolf’s novel “The Waves” when reading this book because there’s an intense interiority to both the mother and son’s sections – as well as a sense of ceaseless flow between them. However, there’s a pared down style to Ørstavik’s prose in her use of many straight-forward declarative sentences which is very different from Woolf’s more poetically charged writing. Nevertheless, I was struck by certain lines such as when Vibeke declares to herself “I’ll sheathe us both in speechless intimacy, until we’re ready for the abruptness of words.” This is the sort of subconscious speech similar to something Rhoda would say in Woolf’s novel.

Even though this novel mostly isn’t narrated in the first person, it feels like we’re so deeply embedded in the consciousness of each character as we’re aware of their fleeting sensory experiences. There are numerous succinctly accurate observations such as “He can feel in his nose when he breathes in how cold it is.” Anyone who has been in an extremely cold climate knows this feeling. I also felt a deep sympathy for the characters especially when Vibeke feels drawn to the solitude of reading: “She feels the lure of sitting with a good book, a big thick one of the kind that leave an impression stronger and realer than life itself.” It’s interesting how the novel plays out the tension each character feels of wanting to be alone but also desiring to make a meaningful connection with some unknown person.

Ørstavik also has a masterful way of depicting how reality is mixed with her characters’ imaginations. Jon frequently pictures himself engaged in some sort of adventurous battle or running from a phantasmagorical threat. Meanwhile, Vibeke continuously tests the romantic boundaries with a man named Tom she meets at a fun fair – but only in her mind. I found it so interesting coming to this novel after reading Andre Aciman’s recent “Find Me” which also presents several meaningful encounters with strangers. But in “Love” these meetings felt much more real to me because the bulk of the interactions which take place here are filled with awkward or uncertain silence. In this way the novel powerfully shows the singular way we navigate through the world and continuously negotiate our relationships with other people. It also captures an eerie sense of estrangement from those we’re supposed to be closest to.

The Novels that Shaped Our World

The BBC have published a list of 100 novels that shaped our world to mark the 300th anniversary of the English language novel. You can see the full list here, but I’ve also made a video discussing my reaction to the books listed, my feelings about the 42 that I’ve read and a couple more novels I’d add. Important to note that this is a list only about novels from the English-speaking Western world – so when they say “our world” they don’t mean everyone’s world. They’re quite clear about the parameters for making this list but I think it’s worth saying anyway since they’ve titled it this way. Overall, it’s quite an interesting and diverse group of books which incorporates a lot of recent titles and some slightly more obscure novels amongst more established classics.

It’ll be fun to watch the upcoming three part series on BBC 2 they’ve made about these books and others that have changed our culture and society by particularly focusing on the subjects of ‘Empire and slavery’, ‘women’s voices’ and ‘working class experience’. Of course, it’s impossible to quantify how much a novel has really “shaped our world” since it feels like books often only subtly change people's ideas over time or maybe expand their empathy in ways which aren't directly obvious. But I think the way certain stories or language or ideas from certain novels work their way into public and political dialogue can really have a big impact - both on popular culture and the values of society.

It's great the BBC are taken this initiative to get people discussing novels more and it’ll be great to see books discussed in depth on TV again! Of course, one of the best things about a list like this is hearing what books people think ought to be added onto it. What do you think about the novels on the list? What others would you add?

Olive, Again by Elizabeth Strout

Without a doubt “Olive, Again” is one of the books I’ve been most anticipating this year. Elizabeth Strout is a favourite author of mine not only because she writes so beautifully and movingly about the lives of ordinary people, but I often feel a special personal connection to her fiction which is so often set in Maine - where I also grew up. This means her characters and their culture feel so immediately recognizable and familiar to me. However, such inside knowledge isn’t needed to appreciate the drama, comedy and astute insight found in Strout’s enthralling fiction. Certainly one of the author’s most beloved characters is Olive Kitteridge who first appeared in the 2008 “novel in stories” named after her. Olive is loveable in spite of or maybe because of being such an irascible, strong-willed individual. She’s the sort of character I love to read about but would be terrified to meet in real life.

Strout’s new novel picks up with Olive in her later years when she takes a new husband, makes an uneasy reconciliation with her son and transitions into old age. But, as is typical in Strout’s books and because this is another novel which also functions as a series of interconnected short stories, certain sections focus on other characters in Olive’s community as well. As I talked about in a video earlier this year, I love how this form of novel gives a more rounded picture of a group of characters since you get a series of individual perspectives but also better see their relationships and perspectives on each other. Later parts of this new novel bring certain characters together and you discover what happened to them after their individual sections conclude. In some sections Olive only makes a brief appearance or is referred to glancingly, but essentially this novel revolves around her.

One of the interesting recurrences in this novel are moments where characters are so shocked and unsettled by unexpected incidents that they remember them throughout their lives. It’s remarked how they can’t believe something happens and this disbelief makes it such a haunting experience for them that they don’t entirely trust their memory that it even occurred. This is such a true mark of individual experience in how certain occurrences like this will doggedly and inexplicably stick with us. We’ll obsessively think over them again and again like a puzzle we can never solve. It’s really moving how Strout captures this trait of human experience and how this creates an open-ended sense of life where there are no firm conclusions but only a series of unsettling mysteries which remain from our interactions with others.

A wonderful trait the author gives to Olive is a phrase where she’ll dismiss someone who disagrees with or ignores her by remarking “phooey to you.” While it’s a funny rejoinder, it also takes on a poignancy over the course of the novel in how it shows Olive’s essential alienation from other people and how rather than trying to find a more dynamic way to engage with them she’ll simply emotionally cut herself off. This leads to a relatable sense of loneliness she experiences and feels much more keenly as she grows older and must depend on other people more because she can’t remain as physically independent. What’s so clever about this recurring phrase of Olive’s is that it serves as a verbal tic the character possesses like Scarlett O’Hara dismissing objections people make about her actions by blithely stating “Fiddle dee dee” rather than seriously engaging with them. It’s an idiosyncrasy Olive possesses and something she must learn to mitigate if she is going to form meaningful connections with others.

While it’s often poignant how the novel shows her making this journey, there are moments when the message becomes too overt – such as when Olive finds a way to communicate with a Trump supporter she initially cuts herself off from. In instances like this it’s like the author is intruding upon the narrative too much to make a statement about how we need to form a dialogue between politically opposed individuals in the US. I’m not saying I disagree with this sentiment but in a novel it comes across as overtly didactic. Nevertheless, it shows a consistency of character since Olive is someone who always identified as a liberal democrat who angrily lashes out against republicans like the final section of the first novel “Olive Kitteridge” where Olive is outraged to discover Jack Kennison voted for George W. Bush.

Frances McDormand so perfectly embodied the character of Olive in the miniseries based on the first novel I’d love to see her reprise the role in an adaptation of this new novel.

I appreciated how the novel uses different stories to trace the transforming moral values of the culture over many years and different generations. One section concerns a daughter who returns home to inform her parents she works as a dominatrix and that a documentary has been made about her. Meanwhile, her father participates in Civil War re-enactments to physically inhabit an idea of the past. This contrast of activities creatively shows how we test the limits of our identities by inhabiting different modes of being. It also shows how there have been so many changes to what’s deemed permissible in society over time such as an elderly woman who recounts how she was stigmatized when she was a teenager for producing a child out of wedlock, a wife who has an affair with her therapist and a daughter who is estranged from her father after coming out as a lesbian. I’m glad the novel delves into these very different experiences by using this form of a “novel in stories” because it gives a more panoramic picture than if we were only limited to Olive’s point of view.

There’s been a lot of cynicism expressed recently regarding literary novels such as “The Testaments” and “Find Me” that are sequels to previous books. But I’ve enjoyed how each of these books creatively carries their stories forward. It’s like visiting past friends and catching up with them. It also allows for a more expansive portrait of these complex characters and the communities they inhabit – just as Strout has done previously with her character Lucy Barton who she picks up with again in the sequel “Anything is Possible”. Reading “Olive, Again” also speaks to my experience as a person who has changed and grown since first reading about Olive Kitteridge over a decade ago. Like Olive, I’ve had a lot of new experiences since then but I’m not sure I’m particularly any wiser; life just goes on. I loved having this chance to fictionally meet Olive again. More than that, this is a novel filled with so much humanity and exhibits a rare honesty about our relationships and individual foibles.

Good Day? by Vesna Main

Vesna Main’s novel within a novel is mostly composed of a conversation between a husband and wife who discuss the wife’s novel-in-progress about a husband (Richard) and wife (Anna). Their daily chats often begin with the casual question “Good day?” – hence the title of this book. The wife’s novel is about how Anna discovers that Richard has been visiting prostitutes for years and the subsequent breakdown of their relationship. The writer and her husband discuss the moral complexity of this situation and its emotional impact on all the characters involved. And while listening to her describe details of the plot and characterizations, the husband grows increasingly frustrated at the liberties the wife takes in borrowing names and situations from their real life and putting them in her novel. The line between fact and fiction blurs so there’s an intriguing suspense where the reader wonders about the truth of this couple’s life. But it also raises questions about the dynamic interplay between the imagination and sex as a physical act. While this might all sound too meta-fictional and self-conscious, there’s a wonderfully comic tone to the situation as well as a poignancy in certain sections where there’s a clear disconnect or breakdown between them.

Relationships, fidelity and sex are infinitely complex subjects – that’s why there are so many novels about them! So I admire how this novel approaches these issues in a refreshing style which shows how they can be entangled with the fragility of our egos. In a way, the wife and husband’s dilemmas are entirely imagined (like the child in Edward Albee’s play ‘Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?) and the drama that plays out from their conversation is in some ways for the sake of drama itself rather than any real betrayal. We form narratives in our heads about the multitude of relationships we have with people and these can become dangerously fixed in stone. Main’s story shows how these relationships can be tested out in our minds before being played out in reality or forgotten. But the novel also takes seriously the perspective of the prostitutes and one in particular named Tanya. The wife and husband’s conversations regarding plotlines about them show how our attitudes towards prostitution are wrapped up in judgements and how uncomfortable we are openly discussing sex in our society.

The novel also obviously plays a lot with issues to do with creative writing itself and the function which fiction serves. When do stories feel true to life and at what point do they become cliched? Do we need to sympathise with characters in order to have empathy for them? Should fiction be read as a veiled form of autobiography or a work entirely created in the imagination? These are all questions “Good Day?” raises and toys with in a compelling way. Like “We Are Made of Diamond Stuff” this is another novel I was compelled to read because of its listing for this year’s Goldsmiths Prize. It certainly takes an innovative approach in dealing with common plotlines about relationships and twisting them on their heads. And there’s a deliciously teasing way in which this novel ultimately asks if we’re writing our own stories or are our stories writing us?

We Are Made of Diamond Stuff by Isabel Waidner

I've been wanting to read Isabel Waidner for a while, but the recent Goldsmiths Prize shortlisting of their novel “We Are Made of Diamond Stuff” encouraged me to finally buy a copy. Because it's an award which honours books which “open up new possibilities of the novel form” I was prepared to read something experimental but I think this must be one of the most original novels I've read for some time. This novel is ‘Stranger Things’ fan fiction while also being an avant-garde form of social commentary. It’s at once fantastical and as real as grit caught in your teeth. These dualities might feel too testing for the reader if it weren’t for the wonderful sense of humour this novel possesses in satirising the dominant institutions and ideologies which inhibit its protagonists. In its playfulness it carves an opening in the world for its narrator and Shae who work for minimum wage in a hotel on the Isle of Wight. They ally themselves with or battle against the logos of corporate institutions which come to life as well as contending with the manager who withholds their wages, the locals who exclude them and the government which restricts their access to citizenship. Seeing the world through their point of view this story questions the meaning of belonging and nationality in a way which is poignant and personal. 

One of the things which struck me most was the layers within layers of exclusion that Waidner identifies. In their efforts to create a pride float these characters come to question the meaning of pride itself when Pride celebrations are commandeered by capitalist institutions or right-wing members of the queer community. Rather than uniting groups of people this ironically forms more divisions and it prompts the rhetorical question “How many times can you divide a minority culture?” They seek to connect these disparate groups in art and optimistically form a fashion label which will cross social boundaries. They also identify with and draw inspiration from contemporary non-mainstream writers and marginalized figures such as the poet Tommy Pico, Dennis Cooper and Tonya Harding. In forming this dialogue they seek to better identify the historical processes by which class divisions are upheld and interrogate the meaning of nationality. As someone who has also taken the 'Life in the UK' test in order to become a citizen these are issues I've personally grappled with as well. I appreciated and enjoyed the inventive way Waidner created a story which theatrically plays out these ideas on a fabulous stage. 

Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky

Since I’m so accustomed to reading novels I sometimes find it a challenge to get in the right mindset to read a book of poetry because my instinct is to look for a narrative. In a way, I didn’t have to adjust this instinct to read Ilya Kaminsky “Deaf Republic” because there’s a definite overarching story and the book even begins with a list of “dramatis personae”. It takes place in an unspecified village during an unspecified time period. The village has been occupied by military forces who publicly execute citizens. The focus is not so much on the ethos or machinations of this oppressive regime but the fate of a family of puppeteers, the lives of the local population and their frequent passivity to resist the war on their doorstep. When a boy is shot and killed the sound of the gun causes the villagers to go deaf. Like Jose Saramago’s novel “Blindness” the collective absence of this sensory experience powerfully symbolizes the limitations of people’s empathy and a dangerously wilful ignorance. These poems consider issues to do with individual political responsibility through resonate imagery and flashes of dramatic action/inaction. Though the narrative has the feel of a fable, the first and final poems are unmistakeably contemporary in their American setting with references to greed in “our great country of money” and our silent witnessing of gun violence.

The book’s form is somewhere between a parable and play, but it’s definitely structured as a series of individual poems. Though I followed the arc of the story by reading it through from beginning to end these poems still function as stand-alone pieces. As the theme would suggest, many poems consider sound or the absence of sound. It’s especially poignant how a gunshot is not described as such but as a haunting image: “a sound we do not hear lifts the birds off the water.” Over the course of the book the lack of what’s audible creates a deep sense of interiority “silence which is a soul’s noise” as well as a terrifying reverberation of guilt for people who don’t speak up: “We let them take him, all of us cowards. What we don’t say we carry in our suitcases, coat pockets, our nostrils.” It’s moving how this describes the way remaining silent out of fear can make these unuttered words stick to us. Kaminsky also describes the way inaction can sometimes speak louder than being the one brave enough to raise an objection: “no one stands up. Our silence stands up for us.”

Another innovative aspect to this book is the way it incorporates pictorial representations of (an invented) sign language. These hand gestures are initially defined so that by the end of the book when a group of signs are shown together we understand what this private silent language is saying. This is such an inventive way of conveying poetic meaning without words. It shows how we are forced to invent other forms of language to communicate when we can’t speak about what’s socially or politically unacceptable. In this way over the course of the book language begins to feel squashed into different localized and personal arenas: “I teach his children’s hands to make of anguish a language – see how deafness nails us into our bodies”.

“Deaf Republic” contains a powerful message about the real danger of not speaking up when faced with unconscionable policies or oppressive actions. It readjusts the meaning of the ensuing devastation so that it is owned by the viewer rather than something which he passively sees: “There will be evidence, there will be evidence. While helicopters bomb the streets, whatever they will open, will open. What is silence? Something of the sky in us.” When faced with such destructive life-threatening dangers the choice between self-preservation and political action disappears. This collection is saying it’s time to speak up.

The Booker Prize 2019 Winners

Well this was a result I never expected! What a shock when chair of the judges Peter Florence announced there would be two winners of The Booker Prize this year because they are “two novels we cannot compromise on.” And it was a further surprise when those winners were announced to be “The Testaments” and “Girl, Woman, Other”. Maybe it’s the year of doubles with the recent Nobel Prize in Literature being awarded to both Olga Tokarczuk (for 2018) and Peter Handke (for 2019) – a decision which was controversial in a different way. Certainly there’s a strong love and respect that many readers have for Margaret Atwood, but it seems a curiously unnecessary thing for her to share the award with Bernadine Evaristo. Atwood herself said when receiving the prize “I kind of don’t need the attention.” Her stature and popularity will be little affected by this win, whereas it will be a huge boost to Evaristo who has produced several well-regarded novels but doesn’t have the same kind of national or international reputation. In the press conference after the award was announced Evaristo said “I’m not thinking about sharing it. I’m thinking about the fact that I’ve got here with it.”

I’m thrilled that “Girl, Woman, Other” has won the award since I loved this novel so much. Given the enormous anticipation for “The Testaments” I assume most people who were desperate to read it have now done so. Hopefully, those readers and readers who follow The Booker Prize winners to guide them in what to read next will now read “Girl, Woman, Other” as well. I’m eager to continue discussing it and plan to reread it at some point. I don’t think the prize being awarded to two authors detracts from the significant fact that Evaristo is the first black woman to win the Booker, but it would have been nice if she’d been able to stand in the spotlight on her own.

Personally I feel that if the award had to go to two novels I would much preferred to see it given to Lucy Ellmann and Bernadine Evaristo because I thought “Ducks, Newburyport” is a more accomplished novel than “The Testaments” and she’s an author whose reputation equally deserves to be enhanced. However, there is hope in the fact that “Ducks, Newburyport” is also shortlisted for The Goldsmiths Prize – an award that rewards fiction which breaks the mould or extends the possibilities of the novel form. While “The Testaments” is an engaging and moving read it certainly doesn’t do anything wildly inventive in its structure or style. Maybe recognition from The Goldsmiths Prize will highlight how “Ducks, Newburyport” is such an edgy and exciting novel while also being a deeply pleasurable read.

It was also thrilling to attend The Booker Prize ceremony for the first time this year and witness all the excitement in action. I had a wonderful time speaking with journalists, publishers and authors including Lucy Ellmann and Elif Shafak. It was a thrill to see such a grand event being held in the name of literature and regardless of the controversy I’m glad that the prize has sparked so much discussion and engagement with all the excellent novels listed this year. Whoever wins a book award doesn’t matter to me as a reader because what the prize has already done is encourage me to read both “Girl, Woman, Other” and “Ducks, Newburyport” – I’m not sure I’d have got around to reading either novel without the prize’s encouragement. And now I can continue encouraging other readers to pick up these great books as well. You can watch my video about attending the Booker Prize ceremony here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqNe4R4K7bg

The Offing by Benjamin Myers

With our current political preoccupations concerning citizenship, immigration and nationality there’s a lot of talk about borders. (What borders will be formed between the UK and Europe?) But in Benjamin Myers’ recent novel “The Offing” the borders directly referenced are invisible lines in the natural environment. The title refers to “That distant stretch of sea where sky and water merge. It’s called the offing.” These are borders that we only imagine exist because of our subjective point of view. And the novel begins with 16 year old Robert Appleyard stepping out of the borders of his small Northern coal mining town, the place where he’s been raised to believe he should spend his life working in the pits that men in his family have toiled in for generations. But he’s determined to see something of the world first. What he discovers is a point of view and way of seeing which is very different from what he’s known in his circumscribed existence. During his journey he meets and befriends Dulcie, a reclusive and highly-cultured older woman who doesn’t play by society’s rules. Myers presents in this beautiful tale conversations which cross borders of class, gender, sexuality and nationality to speak about the importance of preserving our individual voice and creative spirit – especially during times of political strife.

The novel begins like a fable or quest story where a young man embarks out into the unknown and this gives it a timeless feeling at first. I know from reading Myers’ brilliant novel “Beastings” that his prose frequently gives a sense that the story could have occurred in any time or place. But, as Robert encounters more people, he sees families who have lost sons in the war and there’s talk of fighting Hitler. It’s interesting getting a story set around WWII where the characters are so removed from it but still feel the reverberations of its impact. Robert is puffed up with nationalist spirit, but Dulcie cautions him against categorizing groups of people solely on their national identity. She explains how it leads to otherness and borders between people which leads to war: “Nationalism is an infection, Robert, a parasite, and after years of recession many were willing hosts.” Although this isn’t an overtly political novel, I found it really powerful how Myers describes ways of seeing beyond the rhetoric of government and social structures to show how these are illusions.

This point of view is embodied in the character of Dulcie who is so spirited and funny while having a sometimes spiky edge and a secret past. I felt really sympathetic to the narrator because I would have similarly gravitated to and been eager to learn from someone like Dulcie who casually refers to her close acquaintance with Noel Coward. I enjoy how their friendship develops in tentative steps as both Robert and Dulcie are guarded with their feelings and hesitant to admit they need other people. Myers is excellent in capturing the subtly of emotions in characters who aren’t very outwardly emotional. There’s also a dramatic tension which builds as the mystery surrounding Dulcie grows when an unpublished manuscript of poetry is unearthed.

Dulcie frequently makes Robert nettle tea.

Another great strength of this novel is in the evocative and poetic way it describes the natural world – which is another consistent characteristic of Myers’ writing. Not only is Robert’s journey through the English landscape beautifully described, but it’s a form of tunnelling into history and shows it to be a repository of the past: “the cliffs were in a perpetual state of reshaping, where chimneys and scarps and shelves periodically fell crumbling, and where time was marked not by years or decades or centuries, but by the re-emergence of those species trapped in the clay here: the ammonites, haematites and bracken fronds pressed flat between the pages of past epochs. Each was a bookmark placed in Britain’s ongoing story, and the land itself was a sculpture, a work in progress.” I admire how this positions the landscape not as a possession to be claimed and fenced off, but an artwork which is shaped by inhabiting it.

Reading “The Offing” I got that satisfying sensation where my curiosity gradually built to a rapt attention and I felt wholly enveloped and charmed by the story. It speaks poignantly about the importance of moving beyond the life which you’re assigned to discover who you really are and what you want. It’s also a tribute to the enduring power of poetry.

Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng

The story begins with a missing teenage girl named Lydia Lee and, while this mystery may sound like the premise of a thriller, “Everything I Never Told You” focuses more on the interior lives and complex relationships of the girl’s family members. Celeste Ng describes how Lydia maintained an image of being a popular and successful student, but in reality was a loner who was failing at the science and math courses which her mother Marilyn pushed her to excel at. Like many families, there’s harmony on the surface but dark undercurrents to the lives of these characters. Over time they’ve become so accustomed to not speaking about personal pain and emotional need that they become in some essential ways unknown to each other. The hidden nature of their lives becomes untenable when faced with the enormous tragedy of Lydia’s disappearance. Gradually we learn about their unexpressed desires and unacknowledged pain – especially in regards to both overt and more subtle racist treatment the children receive as the only mixed race children in their Middle-American town.

The father James is the child of Chinese immigrants and has worked hard to achieve a position as a professor, but struggles to be accepted as fully American despite being born in this country. The mother Marilyn is equally academically gifted, but didn’t receive opportunities to fulfil her scholarly promise. Nor did she obey her mother’s wishes not to marry an Asian man leading her to be estranged from both her family and her ambitions to become a doctor. As such both parents place different kinds of pressure on their children to succeed in ways they were not able to in their own lives. However, there is also a lot of tenderness in their attempts to connect and encourage their children. There’s a heart breaking scene where James buys a Christmas present for Lydia hoping she’ll appreciate it but realises how badly he’s disappointed her. Equally Marilyn frequently buys Lydia scientific texts hoping to inspire her, but her daughter has no interest in them. I found it moving how James encourages his children to keep up with the latest trends and fashions even though he was hopelessly disconnected from what’s really happening in the children’s world. The parents obviously mean well, but they don’t realise the negative pressure they place upon them.

There’s a tragedy at the heart of this story but I appreciate the way Ng creates an optimistic picture whereby the family can take steps to be more upfront about their feelings and form deeper connections to each other. Perhaps one of the most important characters is the youngest child of the family Hannah. Though she’s largely silent and doesn’t play much of a dramatic role she’s very observant and watches the changes occurring within her family life. I felt I could strongly relate to her in the way she often feels like an outsider, yet finds this advantageous in some ways as she’s not subject to the same pressures to conform. I appreciate how this novel shows that there can be a terrible silence at the centre of many families which prevents them from supporting each other in the ways that they should and how important it is to accept the unique qualities of every member of the family rather than trying to make them become something they’re not. I was encouraged to finally read this novel since it’s Ng’s debut and I just went to see her speak at the Southbank Centre in London a couple days ago. She has a powerful way of writing about families, motherhood and the pain of being made to feel different.

The Dutch House by Ann Patchett

There are some novels where I instantly feel connected to the narrator as if he were an old friend. Something about the way Ann Patchett presents her central character of Danny Conroy in her new novel “The Dutch House” hooked me to his consciousness. Maybe it's the tone of his wide-eyed innocence and ignorance as he looks back at his childhood, family life and the home he was cast out of. It's a sensibility I can relate to now that I'm in my early 40s and think back to the mysteries of my early life wondering why certain decisions were made. Danny and his sister Maeve grow up in a grand house with a prosperous father, but their mother abandoned them in their childhood. When their father marries a new woman named Andrea who brings her own two daughters into the house, the Conroy children feel themselves growing even more estranged from their aloof father. In their teenage years they are unceremoniously ousted from their family home and must fend for themselves. Danny recounts this story and the haunting way he and his sister often linger outside the house they've been cast out of ruminating about the past and the truth about their family. In a way, every adult must feel this way reflecting on what Joyce Carol Oates calls “the lost landscape” of childhood. Patchett also poses a number of tantalizing mysteries about this particular family which kept me gripped and I admire the subtle way she raises lingering questions to do with the meaning of family, belonging and home. 

The Dutch House of the title was purchased by Danny's father very cheaply in an auction after the family who built and inhabited it fell on hard times and eventually died out. He moves his whole family into this place which still contains all the furnishings and possessions of the previous owners. I like how on top of Danny's wonder about his own family circumstances there's the added mystery of the family that came before them. All their dramas and tribulations seem seared into the structure of the house so that we only see hints of it. This too feels very relatable in the way that we move into a new residence without knowing the story of those who lived their before but we have this odd intimacy with the people who proceeded us because we're inhabiting the space they lived their lives in before. But in Patchett's novel this has a kind of gothic feel as portraits of the previous family adorn the walls staring the Conroy family in the face and co-existing with them. It also has a bigger meaning when thinking about issues to do with capitalism, ownership and how the people who come to possess land and houses aren't always the people who are “justified” in inhabiting them. After all, aren't auctions and “bargain” prices on houses just legal ways of taking advantage of other people's misfortunes and unfortunate circumstances?

Patchett also perfectly frames a feeling of uncertainty and chaos in Danny's life. He grew up accustomed to a certain lifestyle and a belief in what he would become. But because things take an unexpected turn he's suddenly rudderless and doesn't know what direction he'll take: “There are a few times in life when you leap up and the past that you’d been standing on falls away behind you, and the future you mean to land on is not yet in place, and for a moment you’re suspended, knowing nothing and no one, not even yourself.” It's so powerful how Patchett captures this feeling of being suspended in nothingness and being tormented by a terrible unknowningness.

There's also a terrifying sense in the novel that no matter how bonded we feel to our families they can turn out to be strangers. Since their mother left them early on and their father is so emotionally distant, there's an absence of the love which is supposed to make Danny and Maeve feel secure. They're profoundly disconnected from their parents. So much so that Danny wonders if they're a family at all: “It sounded so nostalgic when he said it, the three of us, as if we had once been a unit instead of just a circumstance.” Even though the brother and sister find trust and rely on their relationship to each other, there's a sombre and haunting sense of loss that their parents never gave them this security. Danny also realises that the bitterness they feel about this becomes an addiction: “We had made a fetish out of our misfortune, fallen in love with it.” So part of their periodic vigilant sessions sitting in a car watching the house they grew up in is clinging to that sense of injustice while silently accusing their parents of abandoning them since their parents aren't there to emotionally stand trial.

There's a pleasure to the style of Patchett's story which has a fable-like feel and is in some ways a kind of modern Cinderella tale. But it also feels modern and relevant in how it reflects on deeper issues to do with our changing society by detailing how families have been made and disintegrated amidst larger economic fluctuations. The novel also creates a new kind of storytelling for which there isn't a precedent in how their mother leaves them for so long because “There is no story of the prodigal mother.” So, unlike “The Odyssey” which is driven more by a roaming father's ego and lust for conquest, their mother Elna's story is driven more by a compulsion to nurture a broken world rather than the children she's given birth to. I admire how these deeper meanings build throughout a novel which (on its surface) is quite a simple story with little plot, but after spending an extensive amount of time in Danny's consciousness I deeply felt their resonance. It proves how Patchett is an incredibly skilled and accomplished novelist.