American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins

It’s a strange coincidence that within the novel “American Dirt” there’s a scene which takes place in a bookstore where a character remarks: “Sometimes the experience of reading can be corrupted by too many opinions.” Since this novel’s publication last month it’s been beset by heavy criticism from the Latin community, Latinx writers and the wider literary world. It’s also had defenders such as writer Sandra Cisneros and Stephen King (who, incidentally, gets name-checked in the novel when the central character finds one of his books which “transports” her to fondly-remembered better days from her past.)

A balanced look at some of the debates about this book was given in this NPR programme which I’d recommend listening to: https://www.npr.org/2020/01/29/800964001/digging-into-american-dirt?t=1582044209799

I wanted to make up my own mind about this novel but because I’ve been following how it’s been so widely debated and discussed in the media I couldn’t read it without these warring opinions in mind. Normally I prefer to read a book before looking at any reviews however with inflammatory accusations such as writer/critic Myriam Curba who calls it “trauma porn that wears a social justice fig leaf” and Luis Alberto Urrea who calls it a “minstrel show” it felt right to consider many different opinions alongside reading the novel itself. That’s not to say critics don’t get it wrong sometimes, but because the novel is partly Cummins’ self-conscious exercise to raise awareness about the migrant experience (as she explains in the afterward) it felt both useful and important to also listen to voices from the actual region it portrays.

I know this has probably unfairly influenced my reading of the novel and I certainly didn’t read it just to bash it, but it also made me vigilant about the self-conscious mechanics of its construction. My overall impression is that it is primarily a straightforward thriller where a mother named Lydia and her eight year old son Luca are on the run from a dangerous entity which frequently comes close to catching up with them. It could be any sinister force which is following them but here it is the cartel who has decimated her family and actively searches for Lydia. The story is set over a perilous migrant trail between Mexico and the United States. In other words, it’s a somewhat generic plot placed within a politically-charged setting.

I can understand the accusation that this is a novel about Mexican immigrants written for a white/American audience. Lydia is a middle-class owner of a bookshop: a sympathetic character who is probably very similar to the novel’s (presumed) reading audience. During her journey she devises a means of escaping the cartel by hiding amongst groups of migrants and has a startling moment of realisation that she won’t just be posing as a migrant but has actually become one. I think this is the point which is intended to transform the reader from being sympathetic to the plight of migrants to knowing that anyone can become one under certain circumstances. While this is an effective technique to draw the target audience in it also feels heavy handed.

The situation is also given a ridiculously heightened melodramatic element where the head of the cartel was formerly a customer in Lydia’s bookshop. Because she and this criminal leader developed a strong intellectual and emotional relationship, the chase after Lydia and her son is deeply personal. I felt this forced emotional element really pushed this book more into the generic thriller realm. It detracted from an ability to feel like this is a situation that could really happen. Likewise many of the people Lydia meets along her journey came across more like pieces in the puzzle for the migrant experience Cummins sought to portray rather than having their own integrity. They often come across as voice boxes self-consciously explaining the mechanics and terrain of being a migrant.

In terms of the writing, Cummins sometimes has awkward ways of translating emotional experience into the physicality of her characters. For instance, she describes how “Lydia funnels gratitude into the slow blink of her lashes.” I felt some laboured passages like this strove too hard to capture a visceral sensation. Again, I didn’t read this novel simply to criticise it. And there were moments when I felt emotionally engaged with Lydia and Luca’s characters. The way in which grief sometimes burst into moments of their gruelling ordeal and how they had to supress these feelings or memories in order to deal with the present was meaningfully portrayed. But overall I felt like I was being taught a lesson through a form of suspenseful entertainment rather than being presented with a humanized portrait of the migrant experience.

I think the debates surrounding this novel have raised some important issues surrounding publishing, the question of fiction’s intention and the degree to which literature can inspire empathy or complacency. However, I have to say, the whole furore has left me with a sour feeling. The excessive vitriol and hate heaped upon Jeanine Cummins feels unwarranted, but the content of this novel and the manner in which it’s been published is certainly not above critique. Cummins definitely didn’t see herself as writing in isolation about this subject matter and thanks a number of Latinx writers in the afterward of her novel. One of the good things that has come out of all the debate surrounding the book are lists of other authors that have written about this experience including this Guardian article, an article in the Texas Observer and countless social media threads giving shoutouts to other books about immigration. I look forward to reading some of these books and was glad to recently read Mexican author Fernanda Melchor whose novel “Hurricane Season” has just been translated into English. All these lists of books reinforce the fact that literature is at its best when it includes a plethora of voices rather than just one book which is hyped as “the book” about a particular subject matter.

Hurricane Season by Fernanda Melchor (translated by Sophie Hughes)

At the centre of “Hurricane Season” is a mysterious murder in a small Mexican village. The locals only referred to this notorious individual who is found floating dead in a body of water as “The Witch”. There are tales that she hoarded vast quantities of rare coins and valuable jewels in her home, that she had mystical powers to cast spells and that she regularly hosted depraved orgies. This makes her a figure of high intrigue as well as a target for violence. The novel gives a series of accounts from several individuals who were acquainted with the Witch and gradually explains the dramatic events and circumstances which lead to her death. Many of these characters are mere adolescents or teenagers engaged in very adult situations. In reading the dizzying fervour of their stories we get a wider view of this deeply troubled community and receive the author’s stealthy commentary upon it. It’s utterly hypnotic, gripping and filled with dexterous storytelling.

There’s a mesmerizing propulsive intensity to this novel which comes from a narrative of long unbroken sentences as well as from the raging force of its central characters. I found it hard to put down despite the horrors it describes. Not only is there physical and sexual violence, but the sensibilities of its characters are imbued with an odious array of prejudices including misogyny, racism and homophobia. There are also unsettling descriptions of female adolescent sexuality with a troubling look at the question of consent and abuse. I feel like if this novel were written by a man these aspects would come under a lot more criticism. Not that a woman can’t write misogynistic novels, but it’d be much easier for readers to confuse the intent of the narrative. However, I felt that the novel was slyly critiquing all these troubling views by embodying them so fully and presenting the full force of such unwieldy complex social power structures. By following the minutiae of these characters’ logic through the momentum of their voices, we see the complexity and contradictions of people who appear simply villainous on the surface. This creates a powerful depiction of a community of drug dealers, thieves, rapists and murderers who would otherwise be dismissed.

It’s unsurprising that in the acknowledgements at the end of the novel the author refers to reading “The Autumn of the Patriarch”. Melchor’s book has a very similar feel to a lot of Gabriel García Márquez’s writing with its documentary style of reportage and the way it circles around the same events many times from a variety of perspectives until the meaning of truth seems to be utterly obliviated. It’s also a way of depicting a certain prominent character through a series of points of view which leaves the reader still wondering about the real identity of that individual. The Witch is alternately described as a criminal, a sex maniac, a secret man, a drug fiend and a benevolent carer who helps local women get rid of unwanted pregnancies. I was left with a feeling of longing to really know the Witch’s background. But I think the novel was showing that there are people who can never be known, especially if they are the subject of lurid gossip and endless speculation. This is the real tragedy which Melchor depicts with such brilliant power.

Weather by Jenny Offill

Although I read Offill’s novel “Dept. of Speculation” over five years ago during one joyously long reading session on a plane, it stands out in my mind as so stylistically unique with a voice that seamlessly blends humour with poignant critiques on love and modern life. Her new novel “Weather” uses a similar style of narrative while engaging more overtly with current politics and social anxiety. Rather than a linear story we’re presented with clipped sections of text surrounding the life of Lizzie Benson, a librarian and mother living on the east coast of America. Brief scenes from her life are interspersed with paragraphs from journals or jokes. Together these form an impression (rather than a complete portrait) of her life and a sense of being in the time proceeding and immediately after Trump’s election. Hanging over the book is its characters’ impending sense of doom and a need to develop survival strategies for what they assume to be an inevitable disaster. 

I love how close I came to feel with Lizzie even though the author consciously leaves out so many specifics and details about her life. It’s not exactly like stream of consciousness writing, but more like snapshots of experience that build to a wider worldview. She wryly notes encounters with some patrons at the library with their oddball questions or requests – this felt very true to life especially after reading about the kinds of encounters librarians must endure on a daily basis in Susan Orlean’s “The Library Book”. Throughout the book Lizzie will often recount facts or explain the background behind certain things. When she's asked at one point “How do you know all this?” she responds “I’m a fucking librarian.”

She also describes moments with her family from tender encounters to points of conflict. Her son might casually make a dismissive, insulting remark about her or there might be a description of her recovering drug addict brother Henry’s alarming erratic behaviour. Other times she'll reflect on the puzzling nature of relationships: “Funny how when you’re married all you want is to be anonymous to each other again, but when you’re anonymous all you want is to be married and reading together in bed.” Just a small snippet of dialogue or brief detail in this novel can unfold in a way that left me feeling I’d read a much longer and more fleshed out scene. It’s an impressive technique that compresses experience down to what’s most essential and impactful.

It's interesting to compare this novel to “Ducks, Newburyport”, one of my favourite books from last year. They both capture something essential about our modern day experience: how opinions are filtered through the media to form a consensus without proper debate or facts and how a profusion of news about global issues leads to deep-felt private anxiety. Lizzie has internalized this so much she often compares reality to the structure of a disaster movie and wryly notes how everyone assumes our planet must be soon abandoned: “Today NASA found seven new Earth-size planets. So there’s that.” But where Ellmann's novel brilliantly embraces the endless barrage of her protagonist's thoughts and the hilarious peculiarities of her internal logic, Offill presents a skilfully abbreviated view of one woman's reality as she navigates an increasingly absurd world. “Weather” is such a brilliant and accomplished novel.

Strange Hotel by Eimear McBride

Staying in a hotel room on your own can inspire a special kind of self-reflection. This is a space that’s meant to simulate feelings of relaxed domesticity, but it’s more likely to make you feel anonymous. It’s somewhere you can either radically confront yourself or create yourself anew. The nameless female protagonist of “Strange Hotel” seems caught in the impermanence of this liminal space that is “A place built for people living in a time out of time – out of their own time anyway. And if that isn't always the reason why they came, it is often the reason she has.” It’s not so much an escape from her reality as it is an escape from the boundaries of time itself with all her past disappointments and anxiety about the future.

If this sounds like a novel more concerned with ponderous thoughts than plot that’s because it is. The pleasure a reader can find in it will probably depend on how much they are prepared to engage with this amount of ambiguity and intense interiority. I was in the right mood to read this novel so found it a pleasure to follow the teasing twisted path of her inner journey. Exactly who she is and what she’s doing in the many hotel rooms she inhabits around the world is never fully explained although there are oblique hints. Like taking off layers of makeup or complex clothing, it takes time to get to the real person beneath. For instance, after using room service to order a couple bottles of wine she finds “a few drinks bring the further joy of shearing away the female body’s perpetual role as ill-fitting attire.”

Inhabiting these hotel rooms is part of her process of disengaging a degree of self-consciousness which comes from performing as a social being. Early on she becomes aware of how we talk to ourselves as if we’re always being observed or trying to justify our actions: “But, she explains to no one, it’s been a very long day… The perennial problem recurs. If only no one could be banished as easily as bade. It gets wearing, the contortions of the critic in her head to whose scrutiny she must, however, submit.” I enjoy how she points out the exhausting nature of this inner dialogue when you are in fact all alone, but still feel like you must act as if you are not. Part of the pleasure of following such an anonymous protagonist is nodding along to all these astute observations about silly habits which make us human.

There are also some excellent moments of humour. For instance, she uses alliteration to mock the simultaneous ridiculousness and joy of pornography (which can be so easily ordered on TVs in hotel rooms): “Primarily pinkly personnelled pornography. Popularly, perseveringly and – periodically perceivably painfully – protractedly pursuing previously private perspectives of perfectly pumped penii practically pummelling professionally pruned pudenda”. While we’re not given a description of her watching this it’s easy to imagine a figure who is in a slightly drunken fug casually watching such a video to make fun of it while also enjoying it.

Sometimes we’re given indications that things have occurred even if we’re not entirely sure what they are. At one point she touches a cold window and feels “It’s good to know, despite all that’s passed this hour, she has a body still affected by the world.” Yet what exactly has happened in that hour is unclear. Equally she sometimes considers jumping out the hotel window or imagines punching the wall so hard her fist is bruised, but what motivates such drastic potential actions is unknown. In a sense, she doesn’t need to explain it because if this narrative is meant to be some form of pure reflection of her mind such details wouldn’t naturally surface. She already knows herself entirely. And, as a counterpoint to the Ancient Greek aphorism, she states “I knew myself. I always knew myself. Which means that kind of declaration is as impossible to make as denying the inescapable state of knowing myself has invariably made matters worse.”

I found it especially fascinating reading this new novel after Nina Leger’s novel “The Collection” which was published last year. Both these books depict an unnamed woman visiting many hotel rooms and meeting various men, but no specific details their lives are ever divulged. Part of the reason for their ambiguity seems to come out of a frustration about assumptions which are made about people when details of someone’s circumstances or background are given. This is especially true when it comes to how society categorizes women. So, in a sense, withholding such information allows the reader to understand these characters in a more meaningful, unimpeded way than if they were presented with a trolly full of such baggage.

The narrative voice Eimear McBride has established over the course of her three novels is so distinctly her own. It’s a point of view that scoops out great heaps of interior experience and puts it on display so that we can wonder at all its absurdity, contradictions and weirdness. While it appears intensely confessional it’s also opaque because true understanding always feels just out of reach. It’s also a language very much aware of all the trappings and pitfalls of its own design. “Strange Hotel” feels less poetically-charged and more abstract than “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing” or “The Lesser Bohemians” but it’s also a story that is blissfully unbothered about presenting dramatic peril. Instead, its protagonist is unbound by the specifics of identity to inhabit a freer state of mind.

The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Ta-Nehisi Coates has an inimitable reputation as a journalist and writer of nonfiction about cultural, social and political issues. So his first novel comes with a tremendous amount of expectation and it's wonderful to see those expectations have been met. I've been eager to read “The Water Dancer” since it was first published in America a few months ago and received such rapturous acclaim. Many have likened the book to Toni Morrison's fiction which is very understandable. The story concerns a man named Hiram who is born into slavery in the pre-Civil War South and possesses a magical ability to transport people over long distances using a power known as “conduction” (a talent which the Underground Railroad movement is eager to utilize.) The way the novel considers issues to do with memory, grief and history regarding African Americans is so reminiscent of Morrison's writing it feels directly descended from the late great writer. 

But it also reminded me of Charles Dickens' fiction in the tone and character of its story. Hiram is born into bondage, but his father is the plantation owner. He's tasked with serving and caring for his half brother Maynard who is entirely white so viewed as the natural successor. Hiram is far superior to Maynard in his intellectual and social abilities, but because he's mixed race can never inherit Lockless, the family's Virginian estate and tobacco plantation. So there's a dramatic tension in this injustice and it's riveting to follow how a gifted young downtrodden man might supersede his circumstances by utilizing his talents and exhibiting tremendous resilience. It feels like a very Dickensian trope to show how the progression of time results in miserly defeat for those who shore up their power and abuse the vulnerable. The way Coates traces Hiram's changing relationship to Lockless over time and the complexity of his birthright is so movingly portrayed.

What really emotionally drew me into the story though was Coates' meaningful depiction of a multitude of characters who must contend with excruciating effects caused by the manifold evils of slavery. I could feel a range of conflicted relationships to the past in each individual person Hiram meets along his journey. That Coates makes each of their experiences feel so distinct through subtle characterisation is really powerful. With lineage and familial relationships torn apart, each individual wrestles with different processes of reclaiming their heritage, trying to remember the past or consciously forgetting in order to suture the emotional wounds caused from such trauma. And at the heart of this story Hiram provides a fascinating counterpoint of someone who possesses a photographic memory but whose memories of his mother remain painfully obscured. The process he goes through as he grows into adulthood and finds a place he can claim as his home is described so intensely. It's brilliant storytelling that reinforces the immediate importance of stories themselves.

The 2020 Dylan Thomas Prize Longlist

Recently the longlist for the 2020 International Dylan Thomas Prize was announced. The prize is celebrating it’s 15th anniversary this year. It’s open to any author aged 39 or under. Since it’s one of my goals this year to read more poetry and short stories, I’m keen to follow this prize as the 12 books on the longlist include 3 books of poetry and 2 short story collections – as well as 7 novels (many of which are ones I’ve been meaning to read anyway.) You can watch me discussing all these books here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P81rIwrpRIE

Coincidentally, I’ve already read two of the books of poetry including Jay Bernard’s “Surge” which is extraordinarily powerful and one of the best books I read last year. More recently, I enjoyed Mary Jean Chan’s “Fleche” which won the Poetry category at the Costa Book Awards. I found these poems so immersive and emotional. I’ve also been very keen to read Stephen Sexton’s collection “If All the World and Love were Young” as I heard him read some poems from it at the Forward Prizes last year.

I’ve really enjoyed reading Kirsty Logan’s short stories in the past so I’m particularly keen to read her most recent collection “Things we say in the Dark” and I’ve heard lots of good things from readers in America about Bryan Washington’s story collection “Lot”.

Interestingly, two debut novels on the list represent their authors first forays into long-form fiction. Helen Mort and Ocean Vuong are both established and well-regarded poets. I’m always curious to see how authors modify their writing style when changing form. The results can really vary. For instance, I thought Garth Greenwell’s poetic sensibility works very well in his narratives, but poet Katharine Kilalea’s first novel didn’t work quite as well.

Two novels on the list I began reading but set aside are “Exquisite Cadavers” and “Stubborn Archivist”. Although I loved Kandasamy’s novel “When I Hit You” I found the high concept of this new book made it difficult for me to engage with the story. It’s a dual narrative where the author is telling a fictional story alongside all the real-life influences which went into making it. While this is an interesting idea, I found it made for a frustrating reading experience. Equally, Fowler uses a very informal style in her novel for telling the story of a woman’s migration from Brazil to England. From what I read of the novel it lacked the kind of artfulness I look for in fiction so didn’t finish it.

Out of the remaining three books I’m most keen to read Tea Obreht’s historical novel “Inland” and Madhuri Vijay’s “The Far Field” which won the 2019 JCB Prize for Literature (a literary award for Indian authors.) But, if I have time I’d also be keen to read Yelena Moskovich’s novel which sounds so atmospheric.

The shortlist for this year’s prize will be announced on April 7th and the winner on May 14th. Hopefully, I’ll be able to read a number of these books before then. Let me know which you are keen to read or, if you’ve read any, let me know your thoughts about them.

Love and Other Thought Experiments by Sophie Ward

I’ve sometimes dipped into reading science and philosophy out of a curiosity to better understand the world and the nature of being, but I often find these texts too formal and dry to engage with for very long. So it’s enlivening to read Sophie Ward’s conceptual novel which is a series of interlinked stories each exploring a different thought experiment. These are imaginative devices to contemplate a different hypothesis or unsolvable riddle which provokes questions about the meaning of consciousness, the shape of reality and the limits of perception. Each section dramatizes a classic experiment devised by scientists and intellectuals such as Blaise Pascal, Hilary Putnam and Rene Descartes. The novel literally brings these questions to life while telling a moving tale about a family which spans many decades and imaginatively dips into a variety of perspectives. At the heart of the book is a couple named Rachel and Eliza whose desire to have a child results in a multitude of unforeseen consequences. This is certainly one of the most original pieces of fiction I’ve read in some time. It innovatively manages to be poignant as well as thought provoking.

I was worried at first that this novel might be too cerebral to be emotionally engaging, but I was surprised how engrossed and moved I felt by the stories it contains. Each section adds a piece to the puzzle to give a more complete picture while also expanding the boundaries of that puzzle. This book also does something radical in its portrayal of time as not a fixed thing but something which opens up to possibilities of alternate realities. I also found it refreshing to read fiction which seriously considers the unique challenges and dilemmas faced by a same-sex couple who want to have a child. This novel doesn’t present these issues in a politicised way like in “XX” by Angela Chadwick, but looks at them from different angles. While Rachel and Eliza must contend with personal difficulties they also must balance raising their child alongside the gay couple they’ve conceived with. Though sexuality is a factor, their struggles are more based in the challenges of dealing with death and grief.

As I continued reading this novel one of the great pleasures of the experience was discovering the daring and original places it was prepared to go. I really didn’t expect it’d explore such an audacious range of points of view or cross so many genres. Sections of the novel morph from surrealism to sci-fi in a way that is so compelling and raises many interesting ideas while also bringing the story together as a whole. It’s definitely left me with a lot to think about in a haunting way like a dream. This is a truly imaginative and impressive debut novel!

The 2019 Costa Book of the Year Winner

I’ve greatly enjoyed following the Costa Book Awards this year. The shortlist announcement at the end of November included recent favourite reads such as the poetry collection “Surge” and the novel “Starling Days”. It’s one of my resolutions this year to read more outside of my comfort zone of novels and with the multiple categories this prize includes it’s a great opportunity to explore other genres. So when the category winners were announced at the beginning of January I decided to read the poetry, biography and children’s books as well as the first novel award winner. I’m so glad I took the time to read them because I think “The Confessions of Frannie Langton” is such an inventive and mesmerising story. I also found the poetry “Flèche” collection to be so absorbing and moving. The only book I didn’t finish was the YA novel “Asha & the Spirit Bird” because I found the plot somewhat clunky (probably because I’m not the right audience for this form of book) though I enjoyed the characters and setting. However, I was completely gripped by the biography “The Volunteer” which recounts the story of a Polish resistance fighter who volunteered to be imprisoned in Auschwitz where he forged an underground army, sabotaged facilities, gathered evidence about Nazi war crimes and spread news of the Holocaust to the Allies.

I was lucky enough to have been invited to the Costa Book Awards ceremony last night. It was a glitzy affair with lots of lovely bookish people. And it was wonderful to see each of the category winners being awarded £5,000 on stage. Trying to judge books from these different categories against each other must be such a challenging task, but selecting an overall winner gives a good chance to celebrate literature across all genres. It was so difficult to guess but I had thought Sara Collins might win the award since a biography “The Cut Out Girl” won last year and several people I talked to felt the same way. However, “The Volunteer” was declared as the Book of the Year and author Jack Fairweather was awarded £30,000. I think this is a great decision. I know many people are hesitant to read more about WWII because it feels like it’s a portion of history which has been well covered. However, this powerful biography proves there are so many more unique and important stories to be told. Since I knew nothing of Witold Pilecki before reading this book it was also a very tense read because I had no idea what his fate would be so I was gripped till the end. It’s also poignant that this book won the prize this week because on Monday it was the 75th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. I hope this award will encourage many other readers to pick up this tremendous biography.

The Volunteer by Jack Fairweather

Although it feels like events of the Holocaust and WWII have been comprehensively written about in numerous accounts, it’s astounding that new stories continue to emerge which present a different angle on this complex history. Virtually unknown accounts of heroism and tragic defeat continue to emerge and this new biographical account of Polish officer Witold Pilecki is one of the most shocking and heart breaking I’ve ever read. After Poland was occupied and Auschwitz (a former Polish army barracks) was turned into a German prisoner of war camp, Pilecki and other Polish nationalists devised campaigns to resist their invaders and take back their country. One of the things they needed most was information to convey to what would become the Allied countries to convince them to take action and strike against the Nazis. In order to gather proof about war crimes and form a resistance army from the inside, Pileck volunteered to be captured by the Nazis and taken into Auschwitz. Of course, this was long before anyone knew that it would turn into a death camp responsible for over 1.1 million deaths. 

Something Fairweather emphasizes frequently in his book is that Pileck was a fairly ordinary man who made such a daring sacrifice out of strong nationalist convictions rather any particular ideological or humanitarian feeling. Yet he boldly faced a magnitude of challenges and outrageous brutality. Witnessing this led him to put himself at dire personal risk time and time again in the hope of ending this horrendous suffering. Unbelievably, many of his reports which were miraculously smuggled out of the camps and made themselves into the hands of Western officials went unheeded. This was primarily because it was viewed as too strategically difficult to try to liberate the inhabitants of Auschwitz. Also some officials questioned the legitimacy of the reports. There was also a hesitancy about prioritizing such action because of anti-Semitic sentiments. Even when it became obvious to Pileck that no help was coming and that any insurrection from within the camps would most likely fail, he raly resistance amongst the downtrodden inmates of the camp and attempt to communicate the truth of what was happening to nations that could fight the Nazis. The author notes that “Witold’s story demonstrates the courage needed to distinguish new evils from old, to name injustice and to implicate ourselves in the plight of others”.

It's very effective how Fairweather balances accounts of Pilecki's personal journey alongside a comprehensive overview of the history of WWII and how Auschwitz evolved into a site of such barbaric horror. Part of what made this book so compelling was the tension of finding out what happened to Pilecki. That his valour has largely been unsung in the history books is part of the tragedy of his life story. I'm grateful that “The Volunteer” has given me a broader understanding of the complicated progression of the war as well as an incredible account of one man's astounding courage.

Flèche by Mary Jean Chan

“Flèche”, the title of Mary Jean Chan’s poetry collection, means an aggressive offensive fencing technique and the author refers to her experience participating in the sport throughout several pieces. This central metaphor describes her process of literally arming herself in combat, but also poignantly suggests how she must battle against her identity being suppressed especially in white and non-queer spaces. The preface of this book points out that “We are defined against something, by what we are not and will never be.” The way in which the author must assert herself in opposition to this persistent and pernicious act of being characterized as what she is not is dynamically explored throughout these poems. 

The collection seems to roughly follow a chronological progression from her childhood where she recounts tales and fables relayed about her ancestry to moving to the West and the awakening of same-sex desire to revisiting her family to introduce them to her partner. All the while, there’s an ongoing dialogue (both internal and verbal) with her mother where the past is ceaselessly pulled into the present. Some poems take on point of view of the mother, others recount scenes with her and one ‘Conversation with Fantasy Mother’ imagines a perfect coming out scenario where “You sieved my tears, added an egg, then baked a beautiful cake.” I found the progression of this complex relationship and the challenge of arriving at an amicable connection to be incredibly emotional. It’s beautiful how Chan pulls at different threads to convey the many ways she is indelibly tied to her mother.

The final point of the preface asserts that “This is a book of love poems.” The overwhelming feeling I was left with from reading this book is just that, a love for family and romantic partners which has been forged out of long-term strife and where all the need for defending oneself has finally been released.

The Confessions of Frannie Langton by Sara Collins

I was first drawn to reading “The Confessions of Frannie Langton” after watching the author Sara Collins discuss it in such a compelling way on the first episode of The Big Scottish Book Club which aired on BBC Scotland last year. And I felt drawn to it again when it was recently listed for the Costa Book Awards (and won the First Novel category.) I'm so glad I finally got to it because it's an utterly captivating historical novel with a feisty and intelligent protagonist who has many secrets and an enthralling story to tell. 

The novel begins in the early 1800s where Frannie is on trial for the murder of Mr and Mrs Benham. As she waits in her prison cell she writes her account of what happened and describes her journey from being born a slave on a Jamaican plantation to working as a maid for the couple she's eventually accused of murdering. She describes horrifying scientific experiments that were performed on humans, the effects of laudanum addiction, the taboo of same-sex love and takes us into the seedy underworld of London's brothels. These elements result in a story that feels somewhere between the novels “Washington Black” and “Fingersmith” which, as far as I’m concerned, is very high praise! What draws all this together and makes this novel utterly unique is Frannie's distinct and convincing point of view. She makes shrewd observations about attitudes towards class and race as well as the nature of being, the meaning of literature and the complications of love.

Early in her life Frannie was taught to read and write for reasons that eventually become clear, but it wasn't for her own personal development. However, it awoke within her a love for literature and she craves the company of books whenever she has access to them. Naturally this makes her a sympathetic character and being well educated gives her the ability to record her own story where many people from her background could not. Yet, we also get the perspectives of numerous other characters through dialogue, the testimonies given in court and occasional accounts from various individuals which are inserted into the text. It's clever the way this shows how Frannie could sometimes use people's assumptions about her to her own advantage, but it's also heartrending in the way it reveals how many underestimated her or used her as a pawn in their own schemes.

Frannie tells a captivating and meaningful tale with a viewpoint that still has a lot of relevance today. I also can't think of another character I'd rather take for a drink and exchange books with so we can have long discussions about what we've read. This is such an impressive and memorable debut novel. I hope Sara Collins writes more in the future.

Pine by Francine Toon

I don’t know why reading something which is slightly spooky set in a cold location during the winter months is so satisfying, but it is. “Pine” takes place over the chilly months of Autumn and Winter in a remote town in the Highlands of Scotland where the community often helps each other through personal difficulties and hard times, but there are also long-held secrets, bullying villains and mysterious characters.

The story centres around the lives of an adolescent girl named Lauren and her hard-drinking father Niall. Lauren’s mother Christine disappeared while she was a baby, but there are moments where her ghostly spectre seems to haunt their lives. Christine practiced New Age techniques and magic which is a speciality her daughter Lauren also pursues. This a novel set in contemporary times but it harkens back to a gothic sensibility where the supernatural blurs into reality. It makes for an atmospheric and riveting reading experience. But there’s also a moving tenderness to the way the characters are portrayed with their long-held grief and solemn isolation.

This novel excels at building tension where it feels like a ghost might slide out from behind the trees at any moment. But the narrative maintains a psychological tension where the characters might be dreaming or experiencing these oddities in reality. This sense is enhanced by Niall’s frequent bouts of drinking and Lauren’s adolescent sensibility which strays into fantasy. Their relationship is touchingly portrayed as Niall struggles to be a good single father though he’s prone to occasional neglect as well as earnest bouts of caring. At the same time, Lauren is accustomed to his erratic behaviour brought on by alcoholism and heartbreakingly conceals much of the torment she receives at school.

I enjoyed how “Pine” transported me to this snow-swept rural landscape using concise descriptions which are so effective in conveying an atmosphere that’s at once beautiful and menacing.

Follow Me To Ground by Sue Rainsford

Ada and her father live a self-contained existence and run a highly unusual healing practice. While they may appear human they are not as Ada was born from the Ground and at night her father shifts into a wild carnivorous animal who hunts on all fours. Since she is not biologically a female when Ada takes a local man as a lover she literally must grow genitals in order to consummate their relationship. “Follow Me To Ground” could be described as a book of magical realism or a debut novel which creatively incorporates elements of folklore, but I get uncomfortable categorising new works of fiction in this way. It feels too easy to group together literature which bends reality and writes its own laws of nature. Rather than describe it as part of any particular tradition in writing, I’d rather call it a highly original novel written in a voice which is fiercely its own.

There’s a haunting and unsettling quality to it which lingers in my mind like a dream I can’t quite remember. While the text is no doubt layered with symbolism and contains references to different mythologies or religions, I enjoyed letting the story simply wash over me with all its weirdness and gradually unfolding internal logic. I feel both attracted to and repulsed by Ada who feels desire sharply and also possesses a disturbing lack of sentimentality about the people she treats by opening up their bodies to burrow inside. To heal them she sings in a way which causes their ailments to depart. She loves so fiercely she’s determined to entirely possess the man she wants no matter the cost to him or anyone else. Like all witches, the local villagers respect and fear her. She’s like a divinity not to be trusted, yet she’s also the one people turn to when they are in desperate need. It’s touching how Rainsford conveys a sense of loneliness about her while also showing how she feels no self-pity.

The story is also cleverly constructed. Ada’s narration is interspersed with testimonies from different locals who have either been treated by her or heard vicious rumours about her. Only near the end of the book is it revealed why these statements are being made. The way the domestic harmony of this strange setting unravels has a moving tragedy to it. It’s the kind of book which makes me eager to discuss it with someone else - not only to try to piece together what happened, but to share in the wickedly surprising experience of it. This is a novel I’m going to enjoy puzzling over for some time.

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë

Anne Brontë was born 200 years ago today and to mark this occasion I’ve been reading “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” over the past couple of weeks. This is the first time I’ve read this novel, but I’ve been keen to read more books by the Brontës given the bicentenary celebrations for the sisters which have been occurring recently. In the past few years I’ve read “Wuthering Heights” for the first time and Anne’s first novel “Agnes Grey” – as well as taken a trip to Haworth and the Brontë parsonage last year. While I enjoyed “Agnes Grey” (especially the comic depiction of several shallow adolescents the protagonist governs) I didn’t find it a hugely memorable novel. Many readers encouraged me to read “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” as it’s popularly considered a more accomplished novel and I have to say I agree.

It’s a novel with a compelling mystery at its centre about Mrs Helen Graham, an enigmatic widow who has recently moved into a dilapidated country estate. Naturally many of the locals are intrigued by this newly arrived figure, gossip frequently about her and try to pry out the story of her origins. However, only the narrator Gilbert Markham discovers the truth when (after a rocky initial acquaintance) Mrs Graham finally takes him into her confidence by entrusting him with her diaries. These are reproduced in a lengthy second part of the novel wherein we learn about her turbulent marriage and the reason why she’s moved to this remote location with her son and why she so fiercely tries to preserve her anonymity.

The novel gives a striking depiction of alcoholism and a psychologically abusive marriage. It’s so interesting reading this classic text after reading the recently published memoir “In the Dream House” which also gives a frank portrayal of an abusive relationship from a very different angle. Common traits of manipulative behaviour can be traced through such relationships where the abusive spouse tries to control, dominate and make their partner depend on them. And a tragic aspect of such relationships is that the abused spouse romantically hopes that their partner will eventually reform even after they repeatedly fail to make promised changes. It’s heartrending and effective the way Anne Brontë traces how Helen enters into such a marriage and eventually realises that her husband Huntingdon is an irredeemably vicious scoundrel.

Although I found the central story really effective, I did feel this novel was overlong as some parts felt repetitive and unnecessarily drawn out. The structure is also somewhat unwieldy as the opening and closing chapters of the novel are written in the form of letters Gilbert is sending to his brother-in-law. It’s difficult to root for Gilbert as a romantic hero as he’s cantankerous and overbearing in the way he persistently sniffs around for Helen’s affection. After everything she went through I was hoping for a better partner for her. But it’s interesting having read novels by all the Brontës now how none of them offer a romantic male lead who isn’t deeply problematic in some way. Compared to Heathcliff and Mr Rochester, Gilbert is probably the most stable and even-tempered of the lot. Nevertheless, Helen probably deserved better.

Actress Nancy Coleman played Anne Bronte in the film ‘Devotion’

A character I greatly enjoyed is Eliza Millward, the daughter of the local vicar who Gilbert initially harbours romantic feelings for before the arrival of Mrs Graham. Having been tossed aside by Gilbert she makes it her business to taunt and tease him about his obvious pining for the mysterious lady. She frequently soaks up and circulates any gossip she can gather about Helen and then casually drops it into conversation around Gilbert to drive him into a fury. I found these scenes very funny and, as similarly demonstrated in “Agnes Grey”, I think this shows how Anne had a real talent for creating humorously superficial and conniving characters. Eliza pleasingly offsets the character of Helen who (although she is sympathetic) is also tediously pious and ardently sincere in her manner. Helen can also be frustratingly oblique in her dialogue resorting to soporific metaphors rather than being candid about her own feelings and desires.

Recently I watched the 1946 film ‘Devotion’ which is an enjoyably silly and fancifully romantic portrayal of the lives of the Brontës. However, it includes some curious opening text which explains how the Brontës included two geniuses (presumably they mean Charlotte and Emily since these are the figures the film mostly focuses on.) It’s another indication how Anne has frequently been considered a lesser writer compared to her sisters. This seems a shame since “The Tenant of Wildfell Hall” is still a good novel, especially in its frank portrayal of difficult subject matter. Since I don’t know a detailed history of the Brontës beyond the basics, it wasn’t until I read this recent article by Tracy Chevalier that I was aware of this novel’s difficult history and how a much edited version was the one which was frequently republished for many years. Now that I’ve read novels by all the sisters, I’m very keen to get knotted up in all the debates and mythology surrounding the Brontës and read some more biographical accounts to better understand them. Of course, many have been written so let me know if you have any suggestions about where to start.

The Old Man and His Sons by Heðin Brú (translated by John F. West)

Over the New Year period some friends and I went to the Faroe Islands for a short holiday. These are a remote group of islands to the north of Scotland (although it’s an autonomous territory within the Kingdom of Denmark.) We wanted to go somewhere unique and remote. Often when I travel to new places I like to find translated literature from that location to read while I'm there. So I was delighted to discover “The Old Man and His Sons” which is a Faroese novel first published in 1940. The author grew up in a small village in the Faroes at a time when there was a generational shift from traditional self-contained living where people primarily sustained themselves to a more outward-looking market economy. The story reflects this transition following a few months in the life of Ketil and his wife, an older couple who live in a simple old dwelling. Their children have all grown and started families of their own except for their youngest son Kalvur who is regarded as simple-minded. The older couple find themselves financially strained when Ketil impulsively purchases a large quantity of whale meat at an auction. As the date they have to pay the bill grows near, they desperately try to find ways to earn extra money and bicker with their children who still sponge off from them.

It was wonderful reading this while actually staying on the islands as it brought the atmospheric descriptions within the story to life. There are frequent references to the strong winds and unpredictable weather which is certainly still true as some nights we felt like the windows were going to break because the wind blows so strong there. Having visited a few villages I can also understand why the characters live such isolated lives as there are many clusters of houses tucked away within the fjords. Ketil’s wife (who is oddly never named) hasn’t left their village in many years and Ketil resists going to the capital of Torshavn because he resents that people there will expect him to use a fork. It was fascinating reading about the details of their lives which involve a lot of hard manual labour and, though there is a strong sense of community, many of the people seem to possess a toughened sense of independence and pride.

This is a beautiful short video my friend Eric McFarland made which captured our trip.

The crux of the story focuses on the generational conflicts and differing values between the older citizens who prefer traditional ways and the newer generation who actively seek out economic and technological advancements. This isn’t a new theme, but it’s well executed and given a special resonance because it feels like very little changed on these islands for many centuries until some modern leaps took place in the mid-20th century. Both Ketil and his wife may be stubborn characters, but they are very endearing and I found many of their scenes quite funny and touching. There’s also a tenderness conveyed in how both generations care and look after their family members which shows how (despite possessing different values) there is an enduring commitment to each other. This was the perfect novel to read while travelling around these isolated and beautiful group of islands.