Actress by Anne Enright

I have a special fondness for novels that are about actresses/actors. Two of my favourite books are Joyce Carol Oates’ “Blonde” about the actress Norma Jean Baker who becomes the persona Marilyn Monroe and Susan Sontag’s “In America” about the Polish actress Helena Modjeska who helped found a utopian community in the late 1800s. I even wrote my MA dissertation on these novels and how both writers explore the borders between identity and performance in their stories. I also have a love for Anne Enright’s writing as few other current authors are able to write about family, love and national identity the way she can as exemplified in her previous novel “The Green Road” which is a fascinating depiction of all these things.

This means that “Actress” is the perfect novel for me and it fully delivered because I absolutely adored it. It’s told from the perspective of Norah, a writer who has written five novels and now feels ready to tell the story of her mother Katherine O’Dell who died at the relatively early age of 58. At the height of her mother’s career she was a great actress of Broadway and Hollywood and, at the lower end of it, found herself doing TV commercials and became the focus of a tabloid scandal. Though her mother’s star faded long ago and Norah herself is much older, the effects of that celebrity and the uneasy relationship it created between them are still something Norah wrestles with. In this story Norah tries to piece together a history of Katherine’s life and the real impact of her fame.

Something I find so engaging about Enright’s writing is that almost every sentence feels like it’s layered with a delicious form of irony. Norah’s backward glance at her childhood and Katherine’s life is coloured by this humorous point of view where certain things seem obvious now when they may have not been at the time. For instance, she understands now that her mother struggled with her finances though she continued to live as if she were affluent, many of the romantic men who hovered around her mother were in fact gay and when her mother made excuses for not spending time with her daughter after a show it was really because she wanted to be alone. These are things she probably intuitively knew at the time, but seeing things in retrospect makes them much clearer – or apparently so because it’s easy to place an interpretation on events which are long past. Nevertheless, I found Norah’s cynical tone about the whole artifice of fame and the theatrical world very amusing.

Part of Katherine’s struggle as an artist is that she finds herself typecast as embodying a certain romanticised view of old Ireland. Norah frequently comments on how Katherine feels pressured to uphold this image in her dress and dyed red hair. It’s upheld even more when her mother makes an advertisement for Irish butter which becomes infamous and Enright’s description of the over-the-top ad is hilarious. But it’s interesting how Katherine’s struggle to break away from this image also mirrors the country’s shifting politics and characters over the decades. Norah poignantly recounts her experiences during The Troubles and how these events make everything change but, at the same time, nothing changes: “A funny thing happens when the world turns, as it turned for us on the night we burned the British Embassy down. You wake up the next morning and carry on.” Through this story Enright gives a fascinating view on an evolving sense of what it means to be Irish.

I also really appreciate the dynamic way Enright writes about love and sex. The public endlessly speculate about Katherine’s sexual life as does Norah herself as she’s not entirely certain who her mother slept with or who her own father is. But the reader is drawn more into Norah’s own sexual history and relationship with sex as she describes her uninhibited views about it. When pondering the nature of sex she poignantly describes the complicated interplay between the imagination and reality and points out that there is a “difference between what happens in your head and what happens in the room. The big difference.” Interestingly, the novel is largely narrated in the second person as Norah is directing her recollections at her husband with whom she has a very complicated relationship.

Finally, I very much enjoyed the occasional commentary Enright makes about sleep and sleeplessness throughout the novel. She makes very relatable points about the inner struggle everyone has when waking up in the night and whether to go to the toilet or try to get back to sleep. I also liked her observation about how uncomfortable a bed feels when you’re trying to get to sleep but when you wake up in the morning it feels like the most comfortable place in the world. Enright excels at such pithy down-to-earth observations while also creating a larger family story with compelling ideas about identity. It’s what makes reading this author such an enriching and enjoyable experience.

Things We Say in the Dark by Kirsty Logan

When I saw the books listed for this year’s Dylan Thomas Prize one that I was most eager to read was Kirsty Logan’s new collection of stories “Things We Say in the Dark”. Logan is a writer who has produced a number of fictional books which creatively engage with traditions in horror writing and fairy tales to innovatively say something which is both current and personal. These new stories continue in this vein focusing specifically on themes to do with the home, family and birth. Many invoke imaginatively creepy imagery involving ghosts, haunted houses, witches, seances and animalism. Certain stories are dynamic retellings of folklore or classic stories such as ‘Hansel and Gretel’ or ‘Snow White’. In doing so, Logan gives an intriguing new perspective on gender, sexuality, relationships, parentage and violence against women and children. It’s deeply thoughtful how she engages with all these themes, but, most importantly, the collection as a whole revels in the deep pleasure of storytelling itself and how our nightmares function as a deeper form of self-communication. It celebrates the drive for riveting new kinds of tales which confront our worst fears as well as querying why these fears are an essential part of us.

The book functions as a series of self-contained stories, but there is also an overarching narrative where many stories are proceeded by an italicised account by a writer who is creating these tales in an isolated Icelandic location. While each story works just as well in isolation, I enjoy how this gives an added layer to the book for someone who reads them all sequentially. At first the author of these short reflective pieces seems to be Logan herself, but then it becomes clear it’s another creation and the dilemma of this (untrustworthy) fictional author is as eerie as the plight of many of the stories’ characters.

This adds to this collections’ overall propensity for creating stories within stories. Frequently characters are telling each other stories or telling stories to themselves of hidden pasts, powerful memories or fantastic dreams. And often personal obsessions or deepest darkest fears are revealed through how these stories are told and retold. At one point the “author” wonders at the philosophical meaning of all this: “We tell ourselves stories, we stoke our fears, we keep them burning. For what? What do we expect to find there inside?” Whatever catharsis or release is found from all this storytelling it’s clearly a trait of human nature and one the author wholeheartedly believes in as does the reader who boldly ventures to read on knowing some horror might be waiting.

Logan is careful to point out in the final story in this collection ‘Watch the Wall, My Darling, While the Gentlemen Go By’ that these tales aren’t merely flights of fancy but also deal with real world issues. This story’s narrator who is abducted and repeatedly raped thinks “Any minute now the story will be over, the credits will roll, he’ll say it was all a joke, run along home now. But the story isn’t over, because it isn’t a story”. Rather than being lost in the labyrinth of the imagination this is the stark reality of violence and it doesn’t symbolise anything; it’s the cruelty of misogyny and an abuse of power. Although she has a great reputation for reinventing fairy tales, Logan has an exceptional ability for portraying such difficult truths as she did so masterfully in her short story ‘Sleeping Beauty’ which appeared in Logan’s previous collection “The Rental Heart”.

A cabin in Iceland

However, I also admire the sheer creativity, playfulness and lowkey sense of humour contained in many of these tales. Some of my favourites include ‘Stranger Blood is Sweeter’ about a female Fight Club, ‘Girls are Always Hungry When all the Men are Bite-Size’ about a sceptic who sinisterly seeks to prove that a psychic girl’s seances are a hoax, 'The Only Time I Think of You is All the Time' about the mysterious pull/compulsion of love and ‘The City is Full of Opportunities and Full of Dogs’ about a librarian whose self-consciousness about working in a building made of glass results in a disarmingly existential conclusion. Other stories are more conceptual in their form but no less emotionally impactful such as ‘The World’s More Full of Weeping Than You Can Understand’ which is a very short “nice” story which contains extensive footnotes detailing the terror which underlies simple descriptions or nouns. Also ‘Sleep Long, Sleep Tight, it is Best to Wake Up Late’ is written in the form of a questionnaire about sleep patterns and nightmares which raises disturbing uncertainties about the nature of reality and dreams.

All the tales in this excellent collection exhibit a wonderfully layered sense of storytelling. Often what seems disorientating or simply bizarre at first takes on more meaning and resonance as the story continues. While some stories may be too brief to create a truly lasting impact most give enough of a glimpse through the keyhole to reveal multiple dimensions and form a wider picture within the reader’s imagination. This takes a great deal of craft and talent. I thoroughly enjoyed losing myself in the darkness these stories unleash and discovering what Logan chooses to illuminate.

The Discomfort of Evening by Marieke Lucas Rijneveld (translated by Michele Hutchinson)

Every now and then the publishing world believes it's found a new literary wunderkind – someone whose prose and voice is so daringly original it breaks the mould of fiction. Marieke Lucas Rijneveld is being touted as such a writer. Born in 1991, Rijneveld has previously published a book of poetry which led a Dutch newspaper to declare them the literary talent of the year. “The Discomfort of Evening” is their debut novel and it has also been acclaimed in the Netherlands having been nominated for the Libris Literature Prize and won the ANV Debut Prize. And now it's been longlisted for the Booker International Prize. Rijneveld identifies as “in between” genders and their reputation as a fresh and cool new literary talent is further enhanced by the fact that they give public poetry performances while continuing to work at the dairy farm where they were raised. 

“The Discomfort of Evening” follows the story of ten year old Jas who (like the author) is also raised on a dairy farm and whose elder brother Matthies dies in a tragic accident. We follow her life over a couple of years while her family wrestle with the grief of his loss and the tragic consequences of Foot-and-mouth disease which leads to the enforced decimation of much of their livestock. More than this, the novel is about the bizarre discoveries and transformations which accompany adolescence as Jas and her surviving brother and sister explore their emerging sexuality and the contours of their imaginations. Jas has her own curious peculiarities including a red coat she constantly wears and refuses to take off, the frogs she keeps under her bed in the hope they will mate and a secret belief she maintains that she's both a paedophile and Hitler. She also believes her mother hides Jewish people in their basement. It's the kind of weird logic which forms when a burgeoning awareness of history and the facts of the world are translated through an adolescent sensibility.

While Rijneveld undoubtably presents a refreshing point of view, their writing actually strongly reminds me of Jane Bowles, a writer from the mid-20th century who was another original (and sadly mostly forgotten) literary voice. Bowles' novel “Two Serious Ladies” explored the peculiarities of adolescent experience and a descent into debauchery. Both authors present a decidedly non-saccharine view of childhood filled with intense unwieldy emotions, religious fervour and dangerous play. Jas' parents are devoutly Christian and her actions becomes mixed with a spiritual feeling as she and her brother Obbe perform outlandish and sometimes terrifying rituals to invoke their lost brother Matthies. As Jas states when putting her sister Hanna through a weird initiation she feels “this isn’t a game, it’s deadly serious.”

I appreciated Jas' offbeat point of view, but a difficulty in representing her adolescent impressions of the world so comprehensively is that occasionally wondrous bouts of childhood experience can be mixed with long periods of banality. Subsequently, I felt a bit bored when reading sections of this novel. As someone who grew up in a rural area I understand such aimless wandering, interacting with nature and toying with the power of the imagination, but seeing it extensively represented can feel less meaningful and aimless. Also, there's a lot of blunt representation of issues like constipation and sexual experimentation between the children which just felt unsavoury to read about. I'm not prudish but there's only so much I want to read about a girl struggling to defecate. And when Jas' friend submits to a horrendous act of sexual violation this traumatic experience is simply dropped in and the consequences aren't dealt with. This left me with mixed feelings about the novel and that it wasn't crafted as well as it could have been.

What I found most meaningful was some of the simple imagery which would recur throughout Jas' story. A rope shaped into a noose is hung over Jas' bed like a grim reminder that death could take her or her siblings at any time just as it took Matthies. There are also occasional reminders of the brother's absence which strike the family in unexpected moments like seeing Matthies' jacket still hanging alongside their own jackets: “Death has its own coat hook here.” I also appreciated the way the parents' actions reflect an unexpressed grief such as the mother who steadily loses weight and the father who continuously threatens to leave their home. It's poignant how in her adolescent confusion Jas flirts with the idea of death as a way of coming to grips with Matthies' absence – especially because her parents don't talk about emotions directly. Unfortunately the ending of this novel reaches for an unnecessarily dramatic climax which detracts from the book’s subtler qualities. Overall, I agree that Rijneveld is an exciting new voice in fiction but I think they need more time to refine the raw power of their prose.

Rathbones Folio Prize 2020 Shortlist

I’m always keen to see what books are listed for the Rathbones Folio Prize each year because they consistently pick high quality literature. The books are nominated by an Academy made up of writers and critics meaning the judges are always actively involved in creating or critiquing new fiction, nonfiction and poetry. So I have faith in their choices which are judged solely on the criterion of excellence. The judges this year considered over eighty books in total and have selected only eight for their shortlist.

Two are among my favourite books that I read last year: “Lost Children Archive” by Valeria Luiselli and “Constellations” by Sinéad Gleeson. While Luiselli’s novel has already achieved book award attention being longlisted for both the Women’s Prize and the Booker, it’s wonderful to see Gleeson’s deeply personal and artful book of memoirist essays receive prize recognition.

Other books that have received other award attention and that I’ve been keen to read are “On Chapel Sands” by Laura Cumming which explores the mystery of her mother’s disappearance as a child. This has been shortlisted for the Costa Book Awards Biography category and shortlisted for the 2019 Baillie Gifford Prize for Non-Fiction. I saw Fiona Benson read from her poetry collection “Vertigo & Ghost” at the Forward Prize readings at the Southbank and have been keen to read it since. It went on to win the 2019 Forward Prize for Best Collection.

In surveying the best books of the year lists from various critics last year two books which consistently mentioned were Zadie Smith’s first collection of short stories “Grand Union” and Ben Lerner’s third novel “The Topeka School”. I’ve previously read a few stories from Smith’s book and have meant to read more. Coincidentally, my partner just finished Lerner’s novel a few days ago and highly recommended it to me.

One of my favourite things about following book prizes is that they often introduce me to books I’ve never heard of before. The remaining two shortlisted books are ones I’ve not come across but which sound really fascinating. “Guest House for Young Widows” (which was also shortlisted for last year’s Baillie Gifford Prize for Non-Fiction) by journalist and academic Azadeh Moaveni investigates and reports on the accounts of women who left their comfortable lives to join the Islamic State. Finally, James Ladun’s “Victory” is made up of two novellas which explore male sexual violence, power and corruption.

I’m looking forward to reading some of these books and discussing them soon. Let me know if you’ve read any or which you’re keen to read. The winner will be announced on March 23rd.

Bring Up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel

Having read “Wolf Hall” for the first time recently, I wanted to keep up the momentum by jumping right into reading the second book in Mantel’s trilogy on Cromwell. Like I said with the first novel, it’s impressive how the author creates such a suspenseful narrative despite my being aware of what was going to happen because it’s based on history. Having dealt with the sprawling mechanics of the events leading to Henry’s marriage with Catherine of Aragon being invalidated and England’s break from the authority of the Pope in the first novel, “Bring Up the Bodies” does feel like a more concentrated story because it deals almost solely with the downfall of Anne Boleyn. It’s clear she’s fated from the beginning of the book as Henry is casting around for excuses to dispose of her. But, again, I felt gripped wanting to know how events would unfold through Cromwell’s political manoeuvring. It’s both compelling and horrific seeing how his schemes lead some people to become entrapped in a bloody fate or compromise those close to them to save their own skin. Mantel is brilliant at dramatizing how, as the proverbial saying goes, ‘power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely’. 

Yet Cromwell also emerges as such a fascinatingly complex figure in her portrayal of him as a man of committed Christian faith who also feels such a strong loyalty to England and the King. Henry’s edicts mean these two convictions should be at odds with each other but Cromwell must act as if they are not. He must also rewrite history as they go in order to keep pace with Henry’s tyrannical desires: “Now our requirements have changed and the facts have changed behind us.” As seen in the hyperbolic pronouncements of world leaders in recent years, facts are something which people in positions of great power believe they can simply invent despite contrary evidence.

In a way Cromwell seems magnanimous in encouraging people to follow the path of least resistance in order to literally survive even if it means they must surrender their own ambitions, beliefs and freedom. Perhaps the key to his success is his willingness to cede all these things to the will and might of the monarchy and hope the benefits will follow. In this novel he does profit heavily from such loyalty, but it’s a dangerous game. It makes me even more curious to find out how he’ll inevitably fall out of favour in the third book. But Cromwell is also monstrous in selecting the most convenient people around to charge alongside Anne to bring about her downfall: “He needs guilty men so he has found men who are guilty though perhaps not guilty as charged.” In his position he's able to strategically orchestrate the removal and disposal of people in a way which best suits the King and his own interests. 

Alongside a reinforcement of the Tudor line it feels as if in these acts there is a simultaneous self-conscious anxiety about the meaning of Englishness and national identity. The disruption of England breaking away from the Catholic church in Rome has caused unrest which will continue to be felt in multiple ways and this creates an atmosphere of unease: “The feeling is that something is wrong in England and must be set right. It’s not the laws that are wrong or the customs. It’s something deeper.” Already it feels like there is a myth-making occurring as if there is some essential Englishness which can be got at or returned to which will join the nation together as a whole. But Henry, in his selfish wielding of power for his own lineage and vanity, has violently divided the country rather than given it a sense of cohesion. These are historic tensions which I think are still felt and manifest in different forms today.

This feels like a more reflective novel than the first as both Cromwell and other characters recall formative moments of their lives. And perhaps even more than the first book there is a feeling of the dead's presence amongst the living. Mantel chillingly creates an atmosphere of gloomy tension populated by ghosts: “When the house is quiet, when all his houses are quiet then dead people walk about on the stairs.” Yet, at the same time, many characters who've been targeted and accused of conspiring with or having affairs with Queen Anne are practically dead men walking since they will soon be tried and executed. The title itself refers to prisoners being brought out from their cells as if they were already corpses.

Perhaps it's because of the more concentrated story-line or the fact this novel is only two-thirds the length of the first novel, but I found reading “Bring Up the Bodies” a more brisk and easier experience. Again, there was some momentary confusion about the meaning of certain events or who particular characters are on my part but this narrative has a momentum to it largely due to the inevitability of Anne's downfall. I enjoyed it immensely and found many scenes gripping as well as chilling. I now feel primed and ready for Mantel's conclusion to this monumental epic.

The Women’s Prize for Fiction Longlist 2020

As usual, I’ve been greatly anticipating what will be listed for this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction and this year’s list was announced at midnight. Anna and I made a video speculating what might be on the list and between us we managed to guess eight out of the sixteen titles correctly! I’ve only read three of them but I am thrilled to see “Girl, Woman, Other”, “Weather” and “The Dutch House” listed as I think they are all brilliant in different ways. The rest of the novels are a great balance between books I’ve been eager to read and a couple (“Dominicana” and “Nightingale Point”) that I wasn’t previously aware of.

I’ve been meaning to read “A Thousand Ships” since Anna enthusiastically endorsed it before it was even published last year. “Queenie” is another one that’s been high on my TBR since it published and one I wanted to get to when it was listed for the Costa Book Awards a couple months ago. I was given a copy of “Girl” for Christmas and now I can grab it off my shelves. Anne Enright is one of my favourite authors so a new novel by her is always a cause for celebration and I’ve heard great things about “Actress”.  Jacqueline Woodson is an author I’ve always meant to read and “Red at the Bone”, her most recent novel for adults, has received great critical acclaim. As Anna mentioned in our video, “Dominicana” is a novel that’s often been mentioned amidst the whole “American Dirt” controversy within the lists of alternative suggestions for books by Latinx authors.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve been reading the first two novels in the Cromwell trilogy so I’m now fully on the Hilary Mantel train and ready for “The Mirror and the Light” which is coming out this week and without a doubt one of the publishing events of the year. The only trouble is that it’s over 900 pages long so it’s going to be a challenge to balance my reading of this alongside the other longlisted titles as well as books listed for this year’s International Booker Prize. Lots of reading ahead! The novel I’m most looking forward to is Maggie O’Farrell’s “Hamnet” which has amazing advance praise and is an author I’ve meant to read again since I loved her novel “This Must Be the Place”.

There’s an impressive mixture of really famous authors listed from recent Booker prize winner Bernardine Evaristo to previous Women’s Prize winner Ann Patchett as well as popular favourites such as Candice Carty-Williams and Claire Lombardo whose “The Most Fun We Ever Had” I’ve heard is a very funny novel as well as one of great quality. One of my favourite things about the prize is how it always presents a balanced group of novels that encourage readers to try books they probably wouldn’t have read otherwise. I’m planning to read most of the list and hope to discover some great fiction I might not have got to otherwise.

A shortlist of six novels will be announced on April 22nd and the winner on June 3rd. What do you think of this year’s list? Any favourites you’ve already read or books you’re keen to now read?

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

For many years I’ve felt ashamed about not having read “Wolf Hall”. I know it’s silly to feel shame about not reading or enjoying certain books even if they are some of the most critically acclaimed and lauded books of our time. There will always be great books I won’t have time to get to and I was initially put off from this novel because I started reading it when it was first published in 2009, but felt confused by the complicated politics of the Tudor period. It can feel tedious reading certain historical novels where I have to frequently put the book down to look up the meaning of a certain person or event on Wikipedia to feel like I really understand what’s going on in the story. So after about 150 pages I put it aside and didn’t go back to it. But, now with the third book of Mantel’s trilogy coming out soon, I felt it’s time to really immerse myself in it.

I’ve also greatly appreciated other books I’ve read by Mantel so she’s a writer I’m glad to make an effort for. This time I took steps to better prepare myself for it by reading the very detailed biography “Thomas Cromwell”. While I found MacCulloch’s book quite a bore it did give me an understanding of the most important people, events and politics portrayed in Mantel’s novel. So I read “Wolf Hall” straight through without stopping, even though the broader meaning of some scenes still went over my head. To my delight, it was a wonderfully enriching and enjoyable experience and I’m now eager to read more!

One thing that was really memorable for me the first time I tried reading “Wolf Hall” was the magnificent, emotional opening scene Mantel writes where Cromwell is a boy who has just been savagely beaten by his father. She captures the heart-wrenching physical and emotional pain of this incident. The image of Thomas as a vulnerable rejected young lad casts a shadow over the rest of his fascinating life and informs later scenes of the novel as Cromwell carefully navigates the choppy waters of court life, serving Henry VIII and being a key negotiator of the English Reformation.

It’s powerful how Mantel portrays his resilience, innate intelligence and ability to use his ingenious political skills to execute the King’s will where many of his predecessors failed. She describes how he understood better than most how to gather as much dirt on people as possible and how to use and ration out that knowledge in a way which would best benefit him and the people he represented: “A man's power is in the half light, in the half seen movements of his hand and the unguessed at expression of his face. It is the absence of facts that frightens people, the gap you open into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.” Because Cromwell came from relatively humble beginnings, his savvy ability to ascend to such prominence and become one of the most powerful men in England is impressive but he clearly never forgets where he came from and people of the royal court never let him forget his origins either.

It’s moving how Mantel occasionally writes Thomas recalling his boyhood and the threat of his father so much so that the long-dead patriarch takes on a ghostly presence in his life. In fact, there many hauntings in the novel from Henry dreaming of his dead brother and Thomas feeling the continued presence of his deceased wife Elizabeth. It feels like death is an ever-present spectre in this time period as Mantel describes continuous threats of deadly fever/plague and public executions. Given the fearsome prominence of these threats it’s no wonder that the author writes her characters as if they constantly tread the line between life and the after-life.

Mantel interweaves a wicked humour throughout the narrative as well. She portrays scenes where characters will darkly parody the downfall of others such as the arrest of Cardinal Wolsey or mockingly re-enact dramatic conversations. Late in the novel she even pokes fun at how English weather is notoriously grey and rainy when Cromwell reflects how he would have been a better man if the weather were better. This adds a wonderful levity to a story which is weighted with so much bloodshed and seriously reflects on a pivotal turning point in England’s history.

Towards the end of the novel I found it poignant how Mantel depicts the larger significance of the monumental changes of this time. Many fictional and historic accounts of the Tudors have revelled in the salacious scandal of Henry’s many wives and the political implication of England breaking from the church in Rome. But Mantel gets at subtler implications about where the general population would henceforth put their faith. The English Reformation forced people to choose if they would follow God or the King. This conflict obviously played out in many bloody battles, but also reverberated through the hearts of the entire nation. So I think it’s brilliant the complex way Mantel captures the larger psychological and social evolution to show how “England is always remaking herself.”

But, of course, the bulk of the story is made up of small moments and meetings between a few individuals who would steer the direction of the country: “The fate of peoples is made like this, two men in small rooms.” Through the dialogue of her characters Mantel shows the various powerplays at work, the promise of comradery or the making of enemies – when people will bend such as Henry Percy surrendering his engagement to Anne or when they will not bend such as Thomas More who refuses to plea for mercy. It’s especially exciting seeing what’s at stake in the meetings and exchanges between Cromwell and Anne Boleyn as well as Catherine of Aragon. And Jane Seymour appears in many scenes as well as if hovering in wait. Though this first novel only follows the tale up until the execution of Thomas More even I understand enough about the history to know that she will eventually become the third wife.

Admittedly, there were still sections of the novel which went over my head. Because of my ignorance about some of the intricacies of this historical period I wasn’t always certain about what events were taking place or who was being portrayed. There are many characters to keep track of and this can be especially difficult when so many are named Thomas, Mary or Henry. There’s even a semi-joke made at one point when Thomas becomes confused about whether Anne is talking about her sister Mary or Catherine’s daughter Mary I. But this didn’t really detract from my enjoyment of the novel as I could follow the general progression of the story through the main players.

I’m glad I put in the effort to return to “Wolf Hall” because reading it was an exciting and rewarding experience overall. Even though I obviously know what larger events will happen in the second and third books because they are rooted in history, I’m very keen to see how Mantel further develops the characters she’s made out of these figures from the past. It’s strange to say, but I feel a deep tension now wanting to know what’s going to happen and how Cromwell will eventually meet his tragically inevitable conclusion.

Booker International Prize Longlist 2020

The Booker International Prize has become one of my favourite literary awards to follow as it’s fascinating reading a wider variety of literature from around the world, it gives a much-needed platform for many independent publishers and, of course, the quality of the books chosen are often top notch. Last year’s winner “Celestial Bodies” was an excellent family saga about three very different sisters in modern-day Oman. I’ve had especially high hopes for this year’s award because it has such an excellent group of judges including Jennifer Croft, who translated previous winner “Flights” by Olga Tokarczuk; brilliant writer Valeria Luiselli whose most recent novel is the outstanding “Lost Children Archive” and the group is chaired by Ted Hodgkinson who is Head of Literature at the Southbank Centre in London which hosts discussions with many writers from around the world.

So I trust their taste and it’s a thrill to see these 13 novels which they’ve selected for this year’s longlist. I’m especially happy “The Memory Police” and “Hurricane Season” are listed as I think they’re both fascinatingly inventive novels with brilliant story-telling. I’m also very glad “The Eighth Life” has been included. This is a sweeping family epic set over a century in Georgia and is by far the longest novel on the list at 944 pages. Now, I guiltily have to admit, that because of the length this was a novel I started last Autumn but paused reading after around 200 pages. I was really enjoying it but because I try to read other books while reading such a long novel I let myself get distracted and didn’t go back. I’m looking forward to returning to it with vigour now to read it in its entirety.

Out of the remaining titles some that I’m most looking forward to are “Little Eyes” by Samanta Schweblin (which I included in a video list of my most anticipated books of the year.) Schweblin was previously listed for the Booker Prize with her creepily surreal short novel “Fever Dream”. I’ll probably also prioritize reading “The Enlightenment of the Greengage Tree”, “The Adventure of China Iron”, “Tyll”, “Faces on the Tip of my Tongue” and “The Discomfort of Evening”. But I’d be curious to read all the novels – except perhaps “Serotonin” as I’m not sure Houllebecq will be an author I enjoy. If you think I should give him a try let me know.

Two of the novels haven’t yet been published in the UK: “Little Eyes” is due to be published on April 16 and “The Discomfort of Evening” is due to be published on March 19. When this occurred last year the publishers rushed them to print so that may happen again (especially because Schweblin’s novel currently won’t be available until after the shortlist is announced).

I’m sure many people will note that this year’s list (yet again) has a very European focus with 7 titles nominated. I’m not sure why this would be, but I’m guessing that more translated books from the continent get published in the UK leading to lists which lean more in Europe’s favour. However, it should be noted that nearly half the list comes from countries around the rest of the world. This is also the year that Great Britain is officially leaving the European Union so perhaps the judges are making a point that we’re still culturally connected to the continent.

A couple of novels I was hoping to see on the list were “Love” by Hanne Orstavik and “The Collection” by Nina Leger. But, based on pictures that have been posted on social media of the piles of books the judges have been feverishly reading through, it appears there was an enormous amount of competition for this year’s award. There were 124 novels submitted for it.

I’m looking forward to reading and seeing what books make it to the shortlist on April 2nd. You can also watch me discuss all the novels listed in a video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4YmBowiwEDM

Let me know which novels your most interested in reading from the list.

The Illness Lesson by Clare Beams

In the 1990s there were a series of bizarre cases involving strip search phone call scams in rural areas of the US. A man claiming to be a police officer called many restaurants and grocery stores accusing female employees of theft and demanded that the manager strip search these young women. This happened in over 70 venues and, surprisingly, many of the managers carried out these invasive, humiliating searches only to later discover they were a hoax. An example from this case was dramatised in the 2012 film 'Compliance' whose story would have felt far fetched if it hadn't been based on a number of real documented cases. Institutional power can lead many ordinary people to commit outrageous acts of physical and sexual violence simply because a figure of perceived authority orders them to. I was reminded of this while reading Clare Beams' excellent debut novel “The Illness Lesson” because even though it's set in private girls' school in New England in the 1870s its themes are still very relevant today. It movingly and artfully describes how hierarchical structures can normalise such abuse, especially when men are in a position of power and have control over young women.

The novel focuses on Caroline, the only daughter of an influential intellectual named Samuel who starts a progressive school for girls. Many years prior Samuel had been one of the founders of a failed commune and he seeks to partly redeem himself with this new venture. Caroline joins in his plan as a teacher alongside another ambitious young intellectual David Moore, one of Samuel's devotees. They create a makeshift schoolhouse in the barn of the former commune and attract several adolescent girls to join as their first students. In this isolated situation the girls develop strange hysterical ailments after Eliza, the most charismatic girl among the group falls ill. As the teachers desperately seek a solution to prevent their school from failing, things quickly unravel and drastic steps are taken.

There's an engaging tension and poignant conflict to Caroline's character as she's had quite an isolated life being raised by her father after her mother died during Caroline's girlhood. She's Samuel's daughter but also a kind of protege and his minder. While she is devoted to him, she also feels unruly passions stirring within her and a desire for life outside of the intensely circumscribed boundaries of this intellectual household. She feels “They had trapped her in their plans, these men.” This claustrophobia and suppressed desire is expressed with beautiful imagery in the form of strange vibrant red birds which take up residence in their area. These birds are simultaneously alluring and intimidating as they drift through the backdrop of the story, stealing from the girls for their nests and swarming in the distance. It's such an evocative metaphor for all the conflicting inner desires that both Caroline and the girls are experiencing.

In the mid-1800s there were a number of communal experiments associated with the Transcendental movement. Most of these communities soon collapsed as high-minded thinkers quickly found the reality of agricultural living too challenging. Novels such as Hawthorne's “The Blithedale Romance” and Louisa May Alcott's “Transcendental Wild Oats” satirise these failed communes. Clare Beams also creates a novel within her novel called The Darkening Glass written by Miles Pearson, a former member and dissident of Samuel's commune. Pearson is deceased but his presence is felt throughout the story as Eliza is his daughter and each chapter of “The Illness Lesson” begins with epigraphs taken from his fictional novel. The Darkening Glass is also set on the school grounds where the commune used to be so this location is haunted both by this failed community and Pearson's fictional depiction of it. It's clever how Beams creates this layered sense of history in this location which adds tremendously to the atmosphere of the story.

There’s something classically dramatic and engaging about this novel and the situation it portrays. It’s a bit like Arthur Miller’s ‘The Crucible’ and a bit like Alcott’s “Little Women”, but has a strong feminist perspective about the way women and girls are often categorized and controlled in society. Yet it also has its own striking poetic quality which subtly describes these young women’s ambiguous feelings and how each navigates development in her own unique way. The story is also filled with a lot of tension between the girls, Caroline and David’s wife Sophia who all wrestle with their own jealousies and struggle for dominance amongst the group. This makes it a riveting tale as well as a shocking one when the ideals of this progressive school entirely collapse. Because all the action of the novel is contained in one location reading it felt a bit like watching a play. At times it seemed to me like the author was controlling the situation too tightly to keep the story at Caroline and Samuel’s country house and therefore bring the story to a crisis point. But this is a minor quibble within a book that’s so intelligent and forceful in the larger statements it makes. I greatly admire the power and passion of this novel.

How Pale the Winter Has Made Us by Adam Scovell

Sometimes when staying in a foreign city the physical estrangement you feel from your homeland can match your mental state. “How Pale the Winter Has Made Us” opens with its English narrator Isabelle learning that her father has committed suicide in Crystal Palace, London. She’s been staying in Strasbourg with her partner who has recently flown to South America for an extended trip to pursue his medical work. A typical response to such news would be for Isabelle to immediately fly home to England to attend the funeral and be with her remaining family. But instead she chooses to stay in her partner’s empty flat and roam the streets of Strasbourg researching the lives of people who’ve been memorialised in the city’s statues, museums, literature and photos found in the stalls of street vendors. She finds that “Grief does strange and terrible things to the mind; rationality disintegrates into the air.”

We only receive snippets of her own personal history with her family and partner, but these relationships are certainly strained. Amidst long passages of research there occasionally appear italicised hate-filled accusations from her mother (who she refers to as a “harridan”) which might be real messages, memories or entirely imagined. Occasional recollections of her father and his single-minded pursuit of painting are steeped in resentment. But throughout most of the narrative Isabelle blocks the intrusion of personal details in favour of her research. This process of consciously alienating herself from the reality back home and immersing herself in fragments from history is a way of avoiding the immediacy of emotion and searching for a way to centre herself again. As we follow her intellectual journey over the course of winter we witness an individual’s disintegration of self alongside the spectral resurrection of a city’s history.

Strasbourg has an interesting position being a French city situated so close to the German border and it acts as the nexus point for a number of European Institutions. It was also one of the first centres of the printing industry which was established in part during the 1400s by Johannes Gutenberg, one of the figures Isabelle extensively researches. She reads about and interviews a series of people concerning the lives of artist Jean Arp, Goethe and several other individuals connected to the city. This information is conveyed through dialogue but also photos which are reproduced in the book. These elements of the city contribute to the way Isabelle methodically maps out not only the physical space around her, but its politics and culture throughout the centuries. In doing so she in a sense become the city: “The streets were now mapped over my skin more than I had ever felt before, visibly rising on my flesh.”

Isabelle also quite literally engages with a mythological sense of time as she feels around her the presence of the Erl-King, a figure of folklore and a harbinger of death. At first this is a being glimpsed only in the corner of her vision but he also comes to visit and ravish her. These meetings exist on the border between horror and the erotic in a way which conveys a sense of masochistic pleasure to accompany her suppressed anger and grief. Since this figure of folklore leaves physical marks on Isabelle’s body it could be interpreted that she’s engaging in a form of self-harm alongside the way she practically starves herself.

I think this a book you need to consider with a lot of patience. It’s definitely not the sort of novel for a reader looking for a story rich in plot as the immediate drama is subsumed by a steady survey of history. But it’s interesting to think how Isabelle’s research acts as a way of considering the way some men from history have been valorised when her own father’s endeavours will most likely be forgotten and she even considers at one point the way he might be damned. This is certainly a melancholy tale, but one with humorous moments such as an exchange with an old grandmother. Adam Scovell’s writing is akin to authors such as W.G. Sebald and Robert Macfarlane whose work mixes the mediums of nonfiction and the novel to form a layered portrait of the world. I enjoyed the deeply meditative experience of this book which poignantly considers how a person at a point of crisis dynamically engages with the past and immerses herself in the flow of time.

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.