There’s an eerie tension at the centre of the short stories in Ho Sok Fong’s collection “Lake Like a Mirror” but it’s not a conventional tension to do with plot. It’s more an uncertainty about how reality might bend around the perspectives of the characters involved. They might be consumed by plants or become amphibious or escape in an air balloon. Some stories slide more into the surreal while others confront harder realities such as women who are institutionalized or teachers who are dismissed for teaching liberal ideas. These tales revolve around the lives of different Malaysian women who are trapped in certain circumstances often to do with religious or social pressure. The title story is one of my favourites as it delicately describes a sense of how other people’s distressed lives touch upon our own and how we’re sometimes powerless to help them. But I also enjoyed the unsettling humour of the story ‘Summer Tornado’ where a woman attaches herself to a family at an amusement park and forces them to continue going on rides with her in manic desperation. Although many of the characters seem trapped in a sluggish existence there’s often a frenzy bubbling beneath the surface which warps the world around them in surprising and, sometimes, terrifying ways.
I had a plan. It was a beautiful and logical plan that I was so excited to start. Having tried and failed to read Hilary Mantel’s “Wolf Hall” several years ago because I felt confounded by the politics of the Tudor period, I thought reading a biography about Thomas Cromwell would give me an informed background to start reading the novel again. “The Mirror and the Light”, the third part of Mantel’s much-lauded trilogy about Cromwell’s epic rise and fall is due to be published in March. So I want to catch up on the first two novels. Reading Mantel and MacCulloch side by side should be the perfect pairing because both authors compliment each other’s writing in their respective books. But wading through this biography was a big effort. MacCulloch conducted a lot of research using period documents and letters to piece together a narrative about Cromwell’s life detailing his instrumental role in the court of Henry VIII and the English Reformation. While this did give me a broad overview of the events surrounding his life and his political manoeuvres during this period of radical reform, it felt to me more like an academic book for people who have a specialist interest and knowledge about this historical period. As an amateur who wanted some basic understanding I felt alienated.
I know I must sound like a lazy schmo, but I frequently found so much of this book tedious. There are endless lists of names carefully detailing the trajectory of these individuals’ ranks and social status. There are long passages about political strategies which made my eyes glaze over. Even when it came to the bloody machinations of Henry’s reign that saw whole slews of people being beheaded or chopped up, the descriptions of these events made them sound like tiresome inevitabilities. Certainly there were some sections I found more engaging. Certain events gave me an interesting and different perspective and as well as new knowledge – especially concerning false starts in the Reformation and the economics surrounding the dissolution of the monasteries. I also occasionally found some small details interesting such as the large amount of money Henry spent creating a massive library – though he probably had other people read most of the books for him rather than reading them himself.
Where this biography really frustrated me was in what it brushed over in its 752 pages. Cromwell’s early life, development, marriage and early status as a widower are quickly dealt with to get to the meat of his professional career. Details about his downfall also feel strangely sparse as if the author wanted to quickly move onto his legacy and Henry’s regrets about having Cromwell’s head chopped off. I realise as a historian MacCulloch must stick to what can be verified rather than speculate or guess on the emotional status of the parties involved. In one section, MacCulloch even refers the reader to a scene from Mantel’s novel if they want to get a feeling for the inner lives of these historical figures. So this biography failed to come alive for me in the way that reading Matthew Sturgis’ equally long biography of Oscar Wilde did for me earlier this year. I think because I don’t possess a passion for this period of history or a reverence for the individuals involved I simply got impatient as if I was listening to a monotonous lecture.
This leaves me a bit apprehensive about restarting Mantel’s trilogy. It might be a blissful relief to experience these people and events dramatized in her imagination… or it might feel like being sat back in the classroom. I wouldn’t normally make such an effort to reread a novel, but I’ve read and loved Mantel’s novel “Beyond Black” and memoir “Giving Up the Ghost”. So I think this is an author worth making an effort for. The two novels in her trilogy thus far are also hugely critically acclaimed award winners so it makes me feel like an odd duck for not having fully engaged with them. I don’t mind having the dissenting opinion as there are novels such as “Milkman” and “First Love” which didn’t work as well for me as they did for the majority of readers. But I feel like I have to give “Wolf Hall” a second try before having a proper opinion about it. While I feel better equipped to do so having read this biography, it was an enormous slog I wouldn’t recommend to anyone who doesn’t have a scholarly interest.
I enjoy discovering new book prizes which highlight literature from different angles. The Portico Prize celebrates all forms of writing including fiction, non-fiction and poetry which “evoke the spirit of the North”. But only one book will be awarded the prize and £10,000 on January 23rd 2020. It’s a biennial prize based in the Portico Library in Manchester and presented in association with Manchester Metropolitan University. In fact, it’s not a new prize as it ran from 1985-2015 but has been on hiatus for the past few years. Past winners have included biographers, historians and novelists such as Jenny Uglow, Anthony Burgess, Val McDermid, Sarah Hall and Benjamin Myers for his fantastic novel “Beastings”.
I was very excited to see the shortlist announced this morning as a number of the books are ones I’ve been wanting to read and I always find book prizes give me a good excuse to put those tempting titles at the top of my TBR pile. Earlier this year I heard author Jessica Andrews read from and discuss her debut novel “Saltwater” and I’ve been very intrigued to read it since then. It’s about a young woman from a working-class neighbourhood in Sunderland who starts university in London and finds the city isn’t what she expected. “The Mating Habits of Stags” by Ray Robinson has been sitting on my shelves since it was published earlier this year. The novel’s intriguing plot revolves around a former farmhand in his seventies who is on a quest for revenge. It’s also an especially beautifully presented book!
Former winner Benjamin Myers is shortlisted again this year for his new non-fiction title “Under the Rock: The Poetry of a Place”. The author makes a personal exploration of an area called Scout Rock in West Yorkshire. I’ve also been longing to get to this book since I’ve had a desire to read more nature writing having recently read and loved “Underland” which won The Wainwright Golden Beer Book Prize earlier this year. Myers has also been especially busy since his excellent novel “The Offing” was also published this year. Another novel I’ve been intending to read since it was first published last year is Glen James Brown’s debut “Ironopolis” which follows the changes that come to a housing development in North East England over three generations. This book was also shortlisted for the inaugural Orwell Prize for Political Fiction earlier this year. I just started reading it this morning and I’m already hooked.
The six authors shortlisted for this year’s Portico Prize
The final two shortlisted books are the novel “Black Teeth and a Brilliant Smile” by Adelle Stripe and the non-fiction “The Boy with the Perpetual Nervousness” by Graham Caveney. If I have time I’ll be keen to read these as well. But I’ve also been reading more poetry this year and two books of poetry which were longlisted for this year’s Portico Prize are “Zebra” by Ian Humphreys and “Us” by Zaffar Kunial. So I’m hoping to make time for these as well. In any case, it’s great to have a set of fantastic looking books to explore over the holiday break and I’ll be keen to see which title is awarded the prize in late January.
Let me know your thoughts on any of these books if you’ve read them or which books on the list you’re keen to read now.
The best suspense novels always have a teasing ambiguity about whether you can trust the characters at the centre of their stories. Abby, the protagonist of Joyce Carol Oates’s most recent novel of suspense PURSUIT, can barely trust herself. At the start of the book she steps in front of a bus (whether on accident or on purpose is unclear) and is rushed to hospital with a concussion. Willem, who Abby only just married the day before, stays faithfully by her side and hopes to discover the reason why she has such persistently disturbing nightmares. Abby’s past is shrouded in secrecy as Willem has never met any of her family and eventually learns that her birth name was entirely different from the one she uses.
What follows is the tale of Abby’s self-invention born out of a violent upbringing and a broken home similar to that of Oates’ previous novel THE GRAVEDIGGER’S DAUGHTER, but here there is a gothic pallor to the atmosphere steeped in a consciousness so traumatized that Abby can scarcely separate fantasy from fact. There’s a teasing ambiguity to this story which entrances the reader with its swift momentum as well as its chillingly precise psychological and physical details. In trying to free herself from the catastrophic destruction of her parents’ marriage, Abby becomes tragically entombed within a fairy tale of her own creation.
There’s an attentive detail to the vulnerability of girls and mothers as well as the domineering and controlling nature of certain paranoid male personalities. Early on Abby acquired strategies to placate men: “As a girl you learn not to offend strangers by rebuffing them. Especially men. Strangers, but also employers.” This habitual silence is mirrored in the experience of Nicola, Abby’s mother, who learns that speaking out about abuse and threats does nothing to protect her or her daughter because there isn’t institutional support which can help her.
Yet Oates is also cognizant of the way violence is taught and bred into some men who enter the armed forces. Llewyn, Abby’s father, is a war veteran who is haunted by memories where “Maybe he’d shot (some of) the (Iraqi) enemy. So much confusion, he never knew… More than once it was kids they were shooting at, no more than thirteen years old. Moving targets. Just followed orders like everybody else, but even then sometimes he didn’t – not much.” Llewyn is someone trained to react violently against perceived enemies but he’s also prone to manipulating the story he tells himself to suit his own outcome.
The novel dramatically shows how these social teachings and repetitive ways of thinking can lead to calamity and psychological breakdown. In some of Oates’ recent fiction such as the novel HAZARDS OF TIME TRAVEL and the short story “Fractal” the author has exhibited dualities in her storylines. Entirely different narratives coexist and compete for the reader’s understanding of what is true. A similar strategy is taken in PURSUIT where the reader is hauntingly left to wonder whose reality we’re inhabiting. The world warps and the truth remains teasingly out of reach because the characters are so intent on reshaping their own stories. It’s chilling effective in its ability to disturb and leave the reader desperately searching for clues.
As we near the year 2020 there have been a lot of ‘best of the decade’ lists coming out and here’s another one! Many such lists seem top heavy with more recent titles. So I wanted to challenge myself to pick only one book from each year of the past decade and it has to have been published in that year. This naturally forced me to consider what books have meant the most to me in the long term and which continue to resonate for me personally long after reading them. You can also watch me discussing these books in this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kPlIpLHj7Q
It made me reflect on how we’ve lost a great talent this year with author Andrea Levy who died at a relatively young age. I felt a bit melancholy opening my copy of “The Long Song” and seeing her signature which she inscribed when I went to see the Booker shortlisted authors read in 2010. If she’d have won that year (rather than Howard Jacobson) she’d have been the first black woman to win the prize. So it’s a shame she didn’t live to see Bernardine Evaristo win this year’s Booker.
Julian Barnes’ “The Sense of an Ending” didn’t make much of an impression on me when I first read it but (now that I’m a bit older) rereading it made me realise just how its story is so poignant. Other favourite authors such as Joyce Carol Oates and Ali Smith have produced a number of books in the past decade, but the stories in “Lovely, Dark, Deep” and the novel “Artful” feel especially meaningful to me and show these brilliant writers at their most formally daring and innovative while still retaining emotional resonance. Maybe there’s something to be said for the length of a book deepening its impact because the novels “The Luminaries” and “Ducks, Newburyport” are both massive. They still vividly reside in my imagination and I’d gladly go back to reread their hundreds of pages.
Probably the most obscure book on my list is “The Parcel” which also stands as one of the most heart-breaking novels I’ve ever read. It challenges the reader to consider many difficult moral questions, but it also made me fall dearly in love with its characters. Choosing this list made me consider how it’s not always book prize winners who should be most noted, but the books which receive multiple prize nominations. “Mrs Engels” was listed for the Desmond Elliott Prize, the Walter Scott Prize, the HWA Goldsboro Debut Crown, the Guardian First Book Award and the Green Carnation Prize (which I actually helped judge that year.) It sadly didn’t win any of these awards, but its inclusion by a wide range of judges certainly testifies to its quality. Finally, I was also reminded how there are accomplished and much-respected writers such as Colson Whitehead and Sarah Moss whose back catalogue of books I still need to explore.
Obviously I had to make some tough choices when limiting myself to a list of only ten books. Some years included many extraordinary new publications which I also loved such as “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing”, “H is for Hawk”, “Lila”, “A Brief History of Seven Killings”, “Almost Famous Women”, “Under the Udala Trees”, “Dinosaurs on Other Planets”, “A Book of American Martyrs”, “Lincoln in the Bardo”, “Sight”, “The Years” and many many more. But the whole point of lists like this is to provoke discussion and get readers to chide me for making some obvious omissions while championing their favourites. So I’d love to hear in the comments below about some books from the past decade that you consider to be the greatest!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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?
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.
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?
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.
