That Reminds Me by Derek Owusu

Many debut novels take the form of coming-of-age tales, but Derek Owusu uses a beautifully unique style to tell a story that is wholly his own. “That Reminds Me” is a novel about K, a boy whose youth is spent between his mother and adoptive parents. He's physically and mentally abused. Money is tight but no one likes to admit this: “nobody left our home without a story of relative poverty to relay – the truth is, we were all black working class, but pretending we couldn't relate.” He is harassed about his skin colour and heritage: “I'm told my breath smells like an African.” Though K grows to discover friends, love and a passion for literature his early traumatic experiences eventually contribute to a deterioration of his mental health and a desire for self-destruction. His early life is related through a series of short poetically-charged chapters which play off from the folkloric trickster Anansi. The result reminded me somewhat of Sylvia Plath's “The Bell Jar” in how a young life that is disrupted by mental illness can be shattered into fragments and only be told in pieces.

The story is imbued with powerful imagery and an intensity of feeling to describe the development of K's consciousness and a growing awareness of his identity. There are wonderful moments of tenderness like teaching his brother to walk, assisting an old woman with her luggage or enjoying a lover's embrace – as well as comic descriptions such as worrying that his cat doesn't love him. I was especially moved by a passage which shows K connecting to “The Color Purple” and how the characters and experiences of the story are absorbed into his own life: “Suddenly, it wasn't just my suffering confined to my pad; I wrote Celie out of her story and added her to mine, with the last drops of ink gave us both a father neither of us had.” The novel also creatively evokes historical events like the London riots of 2011 which were a justified outcry but also resulted in petty thievery and tragic deaths. But, just at the point it feels like K should be launching into his adult life, mental health problems hamper his ability to progress: “There were days when I'd fall asleep on my arm and wake up to see my wrist covered with the marks of a desperate escape, and I'd feel nauseous, struggling to understand my want of an exit.” It's poignant and heartbreaking how the novel describes his experiences of self harm and alcohol abuse, but the story also powerfully relates how connecting with his heritage and literature provide important touchstones to reinforce his sense of self. This is a very moving, vibrant and artfully-crafted debut.

The Narrow Land by Christine Dwyer Hickey

Before reading “The Narrow Land” I had little knowledge of painters Edward and Josephine Hopper. Of course, I was familiar with Edward's most famous painting Nighthawks but all I knew about the artists themselves was a brief biographical sketch and critique of his work/their relationship in regards to the subject of loneliness in Olivia Laing's book “The Lonely City”. So it was fascinating to find out more about the strong bond and animosity between this tempestuous couple through the lens of Christine Dwyer Hickey's fiction. The novel depicts the summer of 1950 on a stretch of coastal property in Cape Cod known as the narrow land. Though Edward and Josephine are two major characters in the novel and we see many scenes through their perspectives, the novel begins with a ten-year-old boy named Michael being sent by the woman who adopted him to spend the summer on the Cape with the Kaplans, a wealthy philanthropic family. Michael is meant to be a companion for the adolescent Kaplan boy named Richie but the two boys do not get along well. As a young German who survived the war, Michael is deeply traumatized but this isn't openly discussed with the people around him; there are only devastating glimpses of what he must have suffered in half-seen foggy memories and his guarded, self-contained attitude. The Hoppers live next door to the Kaplans and over the course of the summer Michael and Richie strike up a unique friendship with them as Edward struggles to begin a new painting. Through an accumulation of subtle, quiet moments this novel creates an extraordinary portrait of people struggling to deal with the after-effects of WWII and different forms of deep-felt loneliness.

The way Hickey writes about her characters and describes certain scenes is similar to the modified perspective of reality that art provides. For instance, at a train station a couple who are kissing are viewed from a distance and the author notes how this is “A sailor and his girl taking a last, long chew of each other's faces.” Most people who'd glimpse this couple would consider this a tender, romantic moment but the way it's described here makes it feel much more sinister and cannibalistic. It provides both a unique, humorous new view of the world and also the way someone of Michael's temperament might see fleeting scenes like this as more creepy and threatening than the average person. A similar image of consumption is given later when Edward Hopper sees someone in the distance: “he stops to watch a man with a fancy-looking camera make a meal out of the scenery.” I like how this gives an insight into the way people attempt to take possession and digest the world through their subjective perspective. It also gives an indication how Edward might be doing something similar in the way his meandering walks and observations of different people are filtered through his imagination to create new paintings.

Mrs Hopper's real name was Josephine but throughout the novel she's mostly referred to as “Mrs Aitch” as that's the way Michael phonetically understands her name. I adored how she is a difficult, fiery character that speaks her mind so forcefully and how this usually leads to incredibly awkward moments of social interaction. She's one of those deliciously ornery characters like Olive Kitteridge who is a joy to read about but who I'd be terrified to meet in real life. It's so moving how Josephine forms a quick bond with Michael because even though there's more than fifty years in age between them they are able to relate to and understand each other much better than the majority of people who surround them. I find such unusual chosen-family relationships very touching to read about and it's heart breaking to see how their connection to each other plays out in the story.

It's also fascinating the dynamic between Josephine and Edward who are so different in their temperaments. The author movingly describes how they provide a necessary support for each other in certain fundamental ways but how their relationship is also extremely painful and destructive. They frequently bicker and sometimes have physical altercations. Hickey brilliantly writes about the way they are so attuned to each other's moods and can predict their partner's probable reactions to certain situations. This so accurately depicts the subtly found in how long-term couples interact with each other. It's also a compelling look at a creative couple who are beset by certain jealousies. Josephine fiercely longs to be recognized as an artist in her own right, but her efforts are ignored next to her lauded husband. This is an indication of how female artists had more difficulty in achieving success in the mid-twentieth century compared to male artists but also the way Josephine specifically sacrificed honing her own craft in order to support Edward with his artwork.

Edward and Josephine Hopper in Cape Cod

One of the most impressive things about this novel is the way Hickey builds so much compelling drama into many seemingly trivial situations and builds sophisticated small mysteries into her narrative. A man's indecision about whether or not to have ice cream at a party hints at unexpressed grief about his son who died in combat. A boy's private play with paper dolls signifies the deep-felt loss he's experiencing because of the war. A small act of theft becomes a pivotal dramatic point in the novel. These moments build to a much larger understanding of the reverberating effects of WWII. There are also brief descriptions of things like a book hidden in a basement and a boy observed crying which the story circles back to later in the novel. This artfully shows the hidden motivations and isolated longing different characters feel. It's also a satisfying payoff for the reader who uncovers the significance of certain actions and moments as the novel progresses. This made it an utterly absorbing book to read. Prior to The Narrow Land” I'd only read a short story by Hickey in the Irish anthology “The Long Gaze Back” but I'll be very keen to read more of her novels.

The Mermaid of Black Conch by Monique Roffey

This may be a novel about a mermaid but it's definitely not a Disney tale. At the centre of this story is the destructive effects of female jealousy, the dizzying impact of heartfelt passion and the deleterious legacy of colonialism on a fictional Caribbean island. Monique Roffey is a writer whose work I enthusiastically follow because her books are so varied and creative. The three I've read previously “The White Woman on the Green Bicycle”, “House of Ashes” and “The Tryst” each use inventive stories to approach different social, political and emotional subject matter. I was also inspired to read this new novel since I've joined in #Caribathon, an online readathon of Caribbean literature. 

“The Mermaid of Black Conch” is subtitled “a love story” as it chronicles three different kinds of romance in the village of St Constance. A Rasta fisherman falls in love with a cursed mermaid; after a ten year separation a white proprietress is reunited with the black man she fell in love with in her youth; and the local female gossipmonger seduces a corrupt policeman again to draw him into her troublemaking scheme. Their tales are dramatized to give a dynamic portrait of love when it's impacted by time, greed, race and the historical consequences of slavery/colonialism. But at the centre of this novel is the fantastical story of Aycayia, an indigenous woman that was cursed by the village women long ago because she was perceived to be a beautiful threat. For centuries she's lived a lonely existence in the ocean as a mermaid. When Aycayia is caught by American tourists on a fishing expedition the village is thrown into an uproar as they alternately befriend, abuse or seek to capitalize on this discovery. Meanwhile, a hurricane is brewing that threatens upturn the whole island.

Roffey's writing is very evocative as it brings to life the beautiful natural environment of the Caribbean, but also the brutality and violence of its changeable weather. This is also a landscape whose society has been shaped by and lives with the after-effects of slavery “The Black Power revolution had happened over in Port Isabella, and the Prime Minister had long ago said 'Massa day done' and yet little had changed in Black Conch since then. Same old... White families still owned land like they used to”. Miss Rain is an ornery white woman whose ancestors have lived on the island for generations. She's inherited a large house and most of the property in the village yet has a very uncomfortable relationship to her privilege. She keeps to herself reading and teaching her deaf son. When Aycayia enters her life she acts like a touchstone to an age long before the horrors of colonialism. In this way her abrupt presence acts like a catalyst for some of the characters to transcend the past. But it's poignant how Roffey writes about the slow transition involved in changing longstanding inequalities: “change came as change always comes, from a chain of events with a long history, too long to see from back to front, till it come.”

The narrative is formed of a few different elements where the main story is interspersed with journal entries and the thoughts of Aycayia herself. David Baptiste, a sincere-hearted fisherman falls in love and protects the mermaid who gradually changes back into a young woman. It's a necessarily messy transition. Roffey vividly describes the way the mermaid's sea self gradually falls away and her struggle to walk and speak. But it's also moving the way she forms an intense romantic connection with David and a friendship with Reggie, Miss Rain's deaf son. Although many of the characters can be identified on a scale of “goodness” to “badness” they are all fully rounded with their own complexities and peculiarities. Even the portrayal of the American fisherman's son Hank is quite dynamic as he's someone who suffers under the burden of his father's toxic masculinity. One of the things I appreciate most about Roffey's writing is its sympathetic frankness in depicting these characters' sexuality and the honest way they wrestle with their own internalised prejudices. This is the kind of sex-positive, non-judgemental storytelling which opens up dialogue and helps the reader to think about these subjects from a variety of angles.

This novel is also a romance in the way it playfully engages with folklore and legends. It gave me similar vibes to what I felt reading Madeline Miller's novel “Circe”. The author's note at the back of Roffey's book describes how “Myths of mermaids, sirens, exist in every part of the world, often young women cursed by other women.” There's a melancholy comfort in entering the consciousness of someone cursed to dwell at the bottom of the sea for hundreds of years where loneliness becomes a companion so dear it's like an addiction. Once on land Aycayia muses “I was lonely / I missed the sea. I missed my loneliness.” So I felt a powerful affection for this character who has been so unfairly maligned and damned to such a solitary existence. But it's also inspiring the way the author portrays her quiet power, hidden passion and delicious ability to unsettle the world.

My interview with Joyce Carol Oates

It’s always been a dream of mine to interview my favourite author Joyce Carol Oates. I’m not sure why I’ve never thought to propose doing this over the phone or online before but over the past few months of the pandemic I’ve seen Oates participate in a number of interviews over video calls. I conducted my first online interview several weeks ago with author Nino Haratischvilli and her translators. So I thought this is a great opportunity to finally speak to Oates in person and discuss her work at length from the comfort of our homes. I emailed Oates asking if she’d be interested in being interviewed by me and she very quickly responded “Of course!” Our initial scheduled time to speak had to be postponed because a bad storm in New Jersey caused the power lines to go down and she was without constant electricity for a while. But luckily we got to talk during the publication week of her new novel.

Oates was so generous in speaking to me for so long. Our talk went on for over an hour and a half. Naturally, I had a huge amount of questions for her but tried to limit myself and listen as much as possible. She has so many interesting things to say on a wide variety of topics. We discussed her lifelong love of reading, book recommendations, philosophy, the form of the novel, genre, experimental writing, the new film adaptation of her novel “Blonde”, literary friendships with figures like Edmund White and Susan Sontag and her new excellent novel “Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars.” She also showed me her childhood copy of “Alice in Wonderland” and introduced me to her two cats.

I decided to break the interview into three parts as we alternately focused on her reading life, her writing life and her new novel. Unfortunately, the internet connection caused her screen to freeze briefly at some points but I tried to edit the footage together to make her answers as smooth as possible. Nevertheless, our talk was a tremendous joy and I’ll treasure this discussion forever. I hope you enjoy!

Part 1: JCO, the Reader

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jr-9AcFdSJ0

Part 2: JCO, the Writer

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=seOEYkMYjtI

Part 3: Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gkXsoe6ieKY

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

I've always been fascinated by stories of self-reinvention: the way someone can simply walk out of their life and create an entirely new one somewhere else. Maybe I'm so drawn to these tales because they so dramatically and dynamically consider the meaning of identity. Which aspects of the self are fixed and which are fluid? Is personality a performance or an expression of who we inherently are as human beings? Can we change who we are through sheer willpower and if we lie about who we are enough does it eventually become the truth? These are questions at the heart of Brit Bennett's new novel “The Vanishing Half” whose utterly compelling story considers many different types of dualities and personal transformations. It's also a heartrending tale of a family split apart by inherited notions of classism and racism. 

Twins Stella and Desiree Vignes ran away from their small Louisiana town of Mallard in the 1950s when they were teenagers and went on to live very different lives. Mallard isn't a large enough place to be included on any map. Its citizens are primarily made up of light-skinned African Americans who still suffer the brutal effects of racism while simultaneously looking down at darker-skinned black people. This is the sort of community so powerfully described in Margo Jefferson's memoir “Negroland”. Over ten years after abruptly leaving the town, Desiree returns with a daughter who has very dark skin and the locals are appalled by what they consider to be her diminution of status because they believe “Once you mixed with common blood, you were common forever.”

Although Desiree makes a new life for herself by returning to her hometown, Stella remains conspicuously absent and cannot be found even by Desiree's compassionate new partner Early whose profession is locating lost people. Once she left her place of birth and everyone she ever knew Stella choses to pretend she is white because she finds “All there was to being white was acting like you were.” But this means she must completely hide her past and never contact her family again. As time goes on, she becomes increasingly anxious that her secret will be revealed and her caginess emotionally distances her from the people she should be closest to. Over the course of a few decades the twins' different stories unfold as their daughters eventually insist on knowing more about the truth of their origins than either Stella or Desiree are willing to disclose.

Although the twins are the catalyst for this engrossing story many of the additional characters also grapple with different transformations of identity. Desiree's daughter Jude becomes extremely self-conscious about her skin colour early in life and goes through laborious processes to try to lighten it early on. Her feelings of isolation are powerfully described: “You could never quite get used to loneliness; every time she thought she had, she sank further into it.” Stella's daughter Kennedy becomes an actress with mediocre success and craves attention from the audience even though she realises it is “Strange that the greatest compliment an actress could receive was that she had disappeared into somebody else.” This contrasts sharply with the life of her mother who is trapped in the pretence of acting white and tragically feels that “she was living a performance where there could be no audience.”

Jude befriends a man named Barry who secretly performs as a drag queen a couple of nights a week. He feels his drag act is a hidden but necessary part of his life and that it is possible to sustain this duality because “You could live a life this way, split. As long as you knew who was in charge.” Jude also becomes romantically involved with a trans man named Reese and it's so powerful how Bennett describes his struggle at that time in the 1980s to obtain corrective drugs and surgery. The enormous challenge and expense associated with such treatments is made evident and it's moving how his journey is detailed alongside his tender relationship with Jude. When Jude wonders aloud at one point if Reese would have loved her before he changed his name, Reese definitively replies “I was always me.” This is such an impactful and validating statement.

All of these fully-rounded and complex characters come together to form a dynamic portrait of our uneasy and constantly evolving sense of identity. The story also makes a strong statement about American life and the way a tradition of discrimination regarding class, gender and race in the US leads to such painful personal strife and divisions in families. It causes individuals to distort and conceal who they really are in some instances or struggle against unnecessary adversity to express and realise their true sense of being in others. Bennett has written a richly-rewarding and compassionate story that intelligently dramatises these issues while creating many unique and memorable characters I grew to love.

Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars. by Joyce Carol Oates

Since Joyce Carol Oates frequently writes about social and political issues at the heart of American society her fiction can often feel eerily prescient. But it's an extraordinary coincidence that in the week preceding the publication of her latest novel NIGHT. SLEEP. DEATH. THE STARS. widely publicised real life events would so closely mirror the book's prologue. The opening describes an incident where a middle-aged white man driving on an upstate New York expressway notices a police confrontation on the side of the road. He observes white police officers using excessive force while detaining a young dark-skinned man and stops to question their actions. In response the officers restrain, beat and taser the driver. The injuries he sustains eventually lead to his death. The video of George Floyd, a 46 year old black man who died as a result of being brutally restrained by a white police officer in Minneapolis on May 25, 2020, has sparked widespread protests and newly motivated the Black Lives Matter movement. Public discussions regrading institutionalised racism, prejudice and privilege continue. These are also the pressing issues at the centre of Oates's epic new novel about a family whose lives unravel as a consequence of such a tragic event. 

Of course, Oates's National Book Award-winning novel “them” depicts the events of 1967 in Detroit when the black community rose up to protest against the racist actions of the city's Police Department. History is repeating itself in a frightening way today as protests continue across the country, but a crucial difference is that the video footage of bystanders shows to the world how George Floyd's death was incontestably the result of police brutality. In Oates's new novel no such footage exists making the quest for justice painfully slow: “A lawsuit was like a quagmire, or rather was a quagmire: you might step into it of your own volition, but having stepped in, you lose your volition, you are drawn in, and down, and are trapped.” It's a timely reminder of how many cases of unjustified police violence such as this might never be proven and go unpunished. Oates also movingly details the long-term trauma survivors of such an attack experience wth the character of Azim Murthy, the driver the police initially stop. 

The man who confronts the police at the beginning of the novel is John Earle McClaren, an upper class businessman and former mayor who is highly respected by the community. Following his hospitalisation, the narrative revolves around the perspectives of his immediate family members including his wife Jessalyn and their five adult children. John or “Whitey”, a nickname which persisted since his hair went prematurely white early in his life, was the strong-willed patriarchal figure who led his family. His abrupt demise leaves them at odds with each other and adrift in their own lives: “Without Whitey, a kind of fixture had slipped. A lynchpin. Things were veering out of control.” Though they are adults the children find themselves bickering over long-held grievances and rivalries because “No adult is anything but a kid, when a parent dies.” 

At the same time, Jessalyn struggles to adjust to her new identity as a widow. Sections describing her deep grief are rendered with heartbreaking tenderness as she feels the persistence of her own life without her husband is a kind of absurdity: “of course you continue with the widow's ridiculous life, a Mobius strip that has no end.” Such expressions of the struggle to navigate the devastating wasteland of one's life after the loss of a longterm partner feel especially tender as there's comparable imagery and sentiments expressed in Oates's memoir “A Widow’s Story”. It takes time and patience for Jessalyn to understand that the story of her life can persist in the wake of this seismic loss and finally admit: “The widow wants to live, it is not enough to mourn.” It's exquisite and moving how Oates portrays the way Jessalyn continues to not only find new love but comes to understand that inevitable loss is a necessary part of love.

Jessalyn's children find it very challenging to adjust to the new demeanour of their mother and her new partner. Sophia, the youngest daughter of the family, states “If my mother changes into another person, the rest of us won't know who we are.” Their frequent monitoring of her life isn't only out of concern for her welfare but comes from an anxiety that their own identities will be destabilized as a result of her changing. The strange thing about families is that although they often give individuals a precious network of support through life, they can also inhibit freedom for personal growth as family members become accustomed to filling certain positions in relation to one another. Jessalyn herself observes of her children “They were all actors in a script who inhabited distinctive roles, that could not change.” The novel movingly charts the way these family members must learn to allow imaginative space for their siblings and parent to transform in accordance with newfound desires and needs. 

Watch me discuss this novel with Joyce Carol Oates

Oates sympathetically portrays the challenges that the McClarerns encounter and the sacrifices they must make to grow into their new selves. For instance, one daughter has to dilute her professional aspirations in order to adhere to her moral beliefs about animal cruelty. Another son gradually allows himself to express the same-sex desire he feels towards another man despite believing his father would have been disappointed in him. Lorene, the stern middle-daughter, must learn to think of her coworkers as colleagues rather than dividing them into columns of allies or enemies. But one of the greatest struggles the three eldest children in the McClarern family wrestle with is their prejudice towards lower class and non-white individuals. Through their casual elitism and racism, Oates exposes how flimsy prejudice is as a state of mind and that prejudice most often comes from a place of wilful ignorance and misdirected anger. In this way the novel powerfully shows that it's not only the institutionalised racism found in certain sections of the American police force that needs to change, but also the hearts and minds of the country's citizens who categorize those who are different from them as others without even realising why they're doing it. 

This review also appeared on Bearing Witness: Joyce Carol Oates Studies

A History of the Bible: The Book and Its Faiths by John Barton

I don’t often read much nonfiction so I always look forward to following the Wolfson History Prize each year for guidance of what biographical or historical books I should catch up on. Last year I read Matthew Sturgis’ excellent biography of Oscar Wilde but this year I thought I’d challenge myself a bit more by reading priest and Oxford scholar John Barton’s much-acclaimed “A History of the Bible”. Firstly, I must declare that although I was raised with regular Sunday trips to a Lutheran church I am an atheist so my interest in the Bible comes from a purely secular point of view. To be honest, I’ve never had much interest in reading the Bible or thought deeply about its origins. However, its historical, social and cultural significance is of such magnitude that it feels like I should learn more about it. Barton’s intricately researched and well balanced account embraces the enormous challenge of tracing the history and many permutations of the text which makes up the Bible as used in the Judaic and Christian faiths. It was absolutely fascinating learning about its complex and lengthy history.

One of my biggest misconceptions about the Bible is that it has been at the absolute centre of both these major religions since their beginnings like a “sacred monolith between two black-leather covers”. Barton reasonably describes how Judaic and Christian faith reside more in their practices and traditions. While the Bible obviously provides many important religious insights for these faiths, they are not grounded in the Bible. It can’t be taken as a map that provides absolute laws about what is to be believed and Barton pointedly states that “Fundamentalists venerate a Bible that does not really exist, a perfect text that perfectly reflects what they believe.” This is because the actual text of the book in all its iterations and translations contains contradictory information and instruction. The Bible’s contents are instead “a repository of writings, both shaping and shaped by the two religions at various stages in their development”. This is an illuminating point of view which not only broadened my understanding of what the Bible actually is but how faith is most commonly practiced in these religions.

I was disappointed to see this event with Barton was cancelled because of the pandemic because it would have been fascinating to hear him discuss it

It’s admirable how thoroughly Barton traces the origins of the text of the Bible, detailing the many debating theories about how it was written and by whom. He also summarizes the popular consensus of scholarly research about when certain sections were completed in the form we have today. Of course, it’s very difficult to verify many details with absolute certainty; so much about the Bible’s true creation cannot be proved as it was transcribed and revised by so many different people over many years. Since I mostly read novels, I’m accustomed to reading any book as a story written by one author who created a certain narrative structure. But, of course, the Bible cannot and was not meant to be read in this way. So I found it illuminating how Barton describes the way in which different sections of the Bible weren’t intended to be chronological. Nor are many parts meant to be interpreted as providing a clear set of instructions. Instead, they were more likely meant to serve many different purposes in the practice of worship.

I’m not going to pretend to completely understand or to have fully absorbed the extensive amount of information and detailed explanations Barton provides in his book. As someone so unfamiliar with the structure and contents of the Bible, I did find reading Barton’s thorough history somewhat overwhelming at times. This is not at all a fault on the author’s part as he does a brilliant job at laying out so many complex and competing ideas about this religious text’s origins and purpose. But this historical account is over 600 pages long and there’s a lot to absorb! The Bible has obviously been scrutinized and fought over for hundreds of years. So delving into Barton’s impressive and very readable book has merely keyed me into how much more I have to learn - not only about where the Bible came from but why there is so much disagreement about its meaning. Certainly, I will never become a scholar of its text but I’m so grateful to have read Barton’s historical account as its given me an invaluable overview of the Bible’s place in these religions and our broader culture.

Tools for Extinction compiled by Denise Rose Hansen

Amidst the general confusion, fear and suffering caused by the global pandemic, I've also found it worrying to see the disruption to many writers, publishers and booksellers. The financial and emotional strain was instantly palpable on their social media, newsletters and websites. The work of many writers and journalists instantly evaporated. Publishers pushed forward publication dates for many books. Bookshops still grapple with the question of when and how they can properly reopen. As an ardent reader outside of the publishing industry it's distressing to watch the people who create the new books I dearly love feeling such hardship. When economic prospects are bleak it's the arts which are typically viewed by governments as expendable. But it's these people who are best equipped to articulate, chronicle and offer an artistic form of solace amidst the extraordinary circumstances we're in the thick of struggling through. This is exemplified by the quick response of several authors from around the world who've contributed to this new anthology “Tools for Extinction”. Included are new pieces of fiction, poetry, essay and memoir which artistically respond to our current times. 

I'm greatly impressed with the speed at which this book was put together but also that it takes a global view from authors from nearly every continent and many different cultures. In a time of such extreme physical separation and when it's impossible to know when I'll be able to travel internationally again it's comforting to hear the immediacy of these voices from around the world. It's also touching to see overlapping observations between countries whether it's the experience of viewing individuals smoking on distant balconies or similar feelings of loneliness felt in very different locations. Enrique Vila-Matas notes how swiftly the pandemic changed from something distant in our screens to arriving on our doorsteps. Berlin-based Anna Zett describes the closure of a local bar and the competing points of view of a circle of friends. Patricia Portela's story is overcast with a newly ominous feel as it concerns an individual desperate to travel abroad. Days can't be measured in the same way now that the sounds of the school opposite her home have gone silent in Olivia Sudjic's piece. Michael Salu's poem describes how banal and small our personal reality has become: “There is repetition and there is routine \ my own reality \ emerges from prison.” Jakuta Alikavazovic's anxiety/insomnia drives her to count coins in a jar. Vi Khi Nao observes how the unnatural denial of physical intimacy and demarcated personal distance means “The world is a place where cruelty has all the swords.”

While some authors vividly describe the immediate impact and vivid fear caused by this virus others feel far removed from its physical effects but experience psychological disturbance. Norwegian author Jon Fosse details a nightmarish scene where the narrator is persistently chased and seeks spiritual communion. Anna Zett's 'Affinity Group' also describes how the pandemic can be a catalyst for personal revelation: “Outside of computer games, the final enemy is just the victim I used to be, projected into the future and onto another body. With the final enemy, it's just like with the apocalypse. If I refuse to let go of the past, I can easily predict what will happen if liberation fails or if love isn't found.” Other authors also consider how the current events can offer an opportunity for new perspectives. Joanna Walsh's illuminating piece 'The Dispossessed' questions how stories are formed in retrospect: “Narratives belong to those left alive. But they're told about what has ended. That's the paradox. You can never peep in on your own obituary to read about your life and what it meant.” Jean-Baptiste Del Amo considers how these circumstances can expose what should have been obvious before: “A virus can be a revelation: it can reveal the limits of economic growth, of cynical profit seeking, of mechanisms of power in a capitalist system.” Similarly Greenland-born author Naja Marie Aidt notes how recent events have made “the inequality as visible as the tiny virus is invisible”.

Some pieces make no mention of the pandemic at all reminding us that there are a multitude of concerns that are totally separate from the top news story of the past several months and how there are other local and national issues which continue to fill our lives. Mara Coson creatively blends song lyrics with descriptions of large-scale natural disasters. Danish writer Olga Ravn movingly considers the closeness or distance felt between a mother breast-feeding her child. Inger Wold Lund's piece (which can also be listened to in audio form through the publisher's website) provides instructions to the reader/listener to be grounded in the reality of their immediate surroundings. Meanwhile, Frode Grytten's poem makes a distress call to the future.

I found it comforting to meditate on these many different points of view. Together these pieces offer a refreshing range of new perspectives which reach across a globe that has become as distorted and flattened as the image on this book's cover.

Minor Detail by Adania Shibli (translated by Elisabeth Jaquette)

Sometimes when I'm reading about a period of history a detail will jump out at me concerning an individual or incident which inexplicably resonates with me. It might be something small which there isn't much more information about so I can only imagine the circumstances surrounding it, but it has a way of bringing the past alive and offers an insight beyond the broader historical picture. That's what happens to the narrator in the second half of “Minor Detail” by Adania Shibli. Amidst her working day she comes across an article which describes how a young Palestinian woman was captured by Israeli soldiers in the Negev desert during the War of 1948. The woman was repeatedly raped before being killed and buried in the sand. It's only one incident in a war which led to the displacement and exile of some 700,000 Palestinians. Though it only gets a brief mention in this larger article she considers how “There may in fact be nothing more important than this little detail, if one wants to arrive at the complete truth, which, by leaving out the girl's story, the article does not reveal.” The narrator was also born exactly twenty-five years after this murdered woman's death and this makes her feel an affinity towards her. She embarks on a perilous journey across hostile territory to discover more about this obscure victim. In 112 pages of spare, piercing prose Shibli evokes great emotion. She exposes the tragedy of individuals who were not only victims of war but whose loss has been trivialized or forgotten when their personal stories are buried in a larger view of history. 

It's clever and moving how Shibli chose to structure this novel. The first half of the book recounts the circumstances surrounding this 1948 incident from the point of view of an Israeli commander. His days are related in short declarative sentenced stripped of embellishment or emotion which mirrors the regimental tasks that he and his soldiers carry out patrolling the desert. Therefore the way the captured woman is handled and treated is all the more heart-wrenching because it's described as if it were any other procedure like a daily bath or cleaning a gun. The narrative leaves out any graphic information of the woman's suffering which amplifies the brutality of what's happening between the lines. Instead, evocative details like a continuously barking dog or the smell of petrol create a sensory awareness and made me feel chillingly present in the scene. These descriptions take on even more resonance in the second half of the book when the narrator comes across the same sounds and smells. This forms a poignant bond between the two women and blurs different times into one. There's also a poetic beauty to the way the environment is described or the movement of light throughout the day. So even though the writing in this novel is very straightforward it's so effective in conveying the power of its subject matter.

This is such an artfully written and poignant novel which gives a very different perspective on a region and complicated conflict than what's portrayed in the news.

A Hundred Million Years and a Day by Jean-Baptiste Andrea (translated by Sam Taylor)

Is it noble to sacrifice the security of a stable life to chase a dream or is it madness? At first it seems utterly foolish for Stan, a middle-aged palaeontologist and professor in Paris, to go searching for the bones of a dragon in a remote cave hidden within an Alpine glacier. During the Summer of 1954 he embarks on this dangerous quest after a chance meeting with a girl who describes the bones of a strange creature to him so he assembles a small eccentric group of men to journey into the mountains and excavate this unpredictable territory. He's convinced they are the remains of a dinosaur and becomes obsessed with recovering this rare prize. As we follow the group's perilous quest into the wilderness we're also given flashbacks of Stan's lonely upbringing as a sensitive, scholarly boy and life under his domineering father the Commander. It becomes evident that his drive to complete this foolhardy quest is largely motivated by his insecurity and a desire to prove his value to an absent father that disparaged him. Andrea balances an increasingly tense adventure story with melancholy reflections about the meaning of self-worth. It also pairs the lifespan of a single man against a sweeping vision of global history to offer a new perspective about time. 

I was interested in picking up this novel because of its connection with notable French-English translator Sam Taylor (who has also translated novels by Leila Slimani) and it comes with a blurb on the cover by excellent novelist Sara Taylor. I also liked the concept which is somewhat similar to the premise of Carys Davies' “West” about a man who abandons his responsibilities to chase rumours of a colossal beast in the American West. However, while Davies narrative provides a counter storyline about the repercussions from such a foolhardy journey back at his home, Andrea's novel is focused solely on an internalised look at a man's feverish willpower and the sobering result of his journey. It feels like a distinct masculine characteristic to set out on such an adventure driven more by self-determination than logic. Though Stan's psychology and descent into near madness is portrayed with a degree of complexity I didn't find him to be entirely convincing or sympathetic. I felt like Davies' novel uses more subtlety in its portrayal of such a figure. Also, though certain characters from the group are given interesting eccentricities such as Umberto's substantial size and Peter's ventriloquist doll, I didn't feel like these figures were fully developed enough to connect with or care about them.

Their journey into such an extreme natural environment present the group with difficult challenges and moments of peril, but these scenes pass too swiftly to register fully. I feel like such moments require a real precision of language to capture the heart-stopping terror which would accompany an experience like dangling off a cliff. Also, the group pass by amazing expansive vistas and an ancient glacier which could have used some more descriptive language to convey the sense of the majesty the characters feel from such encounters. At one point a character even remarks on what an incredible view they have but it's not actually shown in a description to the reader. A writer such as Benjamin Myers is much more accomplished at capturing the awe-inspiring beauty of such nature scenes and Robert MacFarlane gives more acute philosophical insights into the concept of 'deep time' in his recorded journeys. So, while I found this to be an engaging novel in its portrayal of loneliness and a sense of wonder, I felt there were aspects of it which could have been presented a lot stronger.

Pew by Catherine Lacey

I've always been a quiet person. Even when I feel like I'm just as present and chatty as everyone else around me, people have always remarked on how quiet I am. But one of the interesting things this has allowed me to notice is how much people reveal about themselves - not so much in the content of their speech but the way they say things shows a lot about their preoccupations, insecurities, desires and fears. The very quiet narrator at the centre of Catherine Lacey's novel “Pew” is suddenly discovered sleeping in the church of a small American town and because the narrator is found on a pew the locals call this anonymous individual Pew. Even though we the readers are privy to Pew's thoughts we don't know any details about their past or identity. Pew is an adolescent of indeterminate age, indeterminate race and indeterminate gender because their appearance is so ambiguous. No matter how much the town's inhabitants enquire Pew barely ever responds and certainly provides no answers. As the community tries to determine what to do with this mysterious young vagabond, many individuals have private one-sided conversations with Pew where they confess their emotions and unintentionally reveal many of their prejudices. We follow Pew's many encounters over the course of a week leading up to a strange ritualised local ceremony. 

This novel's simple premise grants a lot of space to ask teasing sociological and psychological questions about the nature of community and identity. What traits or qualities ensure our acceptance amongst a group of people? How far does our empathy extend to people who are unknown to us? To what degree do our unique characteristics define or inhibit who we are as individuals? Why do categorisations matter so much in our society? These all arise as the town's inhabitants either rigorously try to define exactly what Pew is or simply accept Pew for whoever they are. Within Pew's meditations there are even more overt philosophical queries raised about the nature of being: “Can only other people tell you what your body is, or is there a way that you can know something truer about it from the inside, something that cannot be seen or explained in words?” In this way, there's a fascinating tension built up over the course of the novel about the nature of subjective experience.

While I worried at first that this all might be too pondering I felt the story had a lightness to it in balancing Pew's observations with the local's italicized speeches. It's something like Alice's episodic adventures through Wonderland encountering many puzzlingly curious personalities along the way. So it gradually develops into a strangely captivatingly meditative journey. Of course, this story's construction also presents some troubling issues. Even though people are prone to saying more than they mean to when confronted with a very quiet individual, people aren't often quite as confessional as many in this novel who relate their deeply-personal histories and most intimate secrets to Pew. There's also a danger in these speeches made to Pew, some from bleeding-heart liberal types, that in laying out all their vulnerabilities and faults the author is mocking them more than taking their complex individual positions seriously. But I didn't ultimately feel that this was the case and I found myself compelled by the various connections between people in the town as we meet more and more along the way. The novel also builds larger mysteries about a wife stabbed in the eye, the racially-motivated murder of a child and other outstanding grievances/crimes which culminate in a bizarre festival. 

There are teasing, cryptic elements to this story which create an underlying tension like The Wicker Man or Midsommar. But the novel's overarching construction and premise feels more like a cross between Rachel Cusk's “Outline”, Ali Smith's “The Accidental” and Elizabeth Strout's “Anything is Possible”. It's heartening to see this creative take on overly-politicised discussions about identity politics and immigration. Harold, a popular spokesman for the community, rants at one point: “I want justice to prevail, for the good side to win. And in order for that to happen we have got to know who people are. Who they really are.” This novel splits such simplistic ideas and notions open to reveal their dangerous limitations. It's clever how Lacey subtly challenges the reader to not make their own assumptions about Pew's identity as well. I found it to be a very meaningful and ultimately liberating journey to be inside the head of narrator who remains entirely undefined but not unknown. 

Rainbow Milk by Paul Mendez

Rarely have I read a debut novel that conveys the piercingly accurate immediacy of its central characters' experiences with such grace and insight. “Rainbow Milk” begins with the story of Norman Alonso, a horticulturist and former-boxer from Jamaica who moves his family to England as part of the Windrush generation. He suffers from a debilitating illness which is causing him to lose his sight and he finds working and integrating into a small British community much more challenging than he expected. His situation and character is described with poignant delicacy so I was initially thrown when the story abruptly moves on to follow Jesse McCarthy, a teenage boy from the West Midlands who moves to London at the beginning of the millennium. But I soon felt an intense affinity and affection for this character whose story comprises the bulk of the novel. The way the author captures Jesse's fierce confidence as well as his vulnerability is so sympathetic and true to life. Only much later does the tale loop back to a connection with Norman and his family in a way which is achingly beautiful.

I recognize that in many ways Jesse's experience is very different from my own. He's a black young man who grew up in a predominantly white society and he was raised as a Jehovah's Witness. But I strongly connected to him as a gay boy that moves from a small community to the city. He throws himself into the pulse of urban life engaging in the same sex experiences he could only previously fantasize about. I remember the feelings of uninhibited delight and liberating honesty of those first sexual experiences - “This was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” But I also intensely recall the subsequent fears and newfound isolation after understanding the consequences of those actions. Mendez conveys all this with great strength that makes no apologies for his character's explosive desire. As an attractive and well-hung young man Jesse meets many older men who want to use him: “he was a skinny, twenty-year-old black boy with a big dick, which was all anyone ever seemed to want him for.” Because of this, Jesse, in turn, also learns to use the men he meets rather than following his impulse to romantically settle down. The transactional nature of these encounters encourages Jesse to start working as a rent boy.

I think it's so powerful how Mendez captures the way that commerce bleeds into the emotional and sexual needs of a young man in Jesse's position and I've not read anything quite like it since the novel “What Belongs to You”. Some of his encounters are destructive, disappointing or simply dull. But others are surprisingly nurturing as there are a few individuals that see Jesse as a dynamic young man to engage with as more than an object of desire or a repository for their revenge. This forms a very accurate portrayal of the diverse and perilous social landscape which a gay man enters into where the physical body is so vulnerable. Equally, the full emotional consequences aren't often felt until much later as Jesse gradually learns what he truly wants in his relationships with men.

As someone raised by his black mother and white step-father in a predominantly white community, Jesse was prone to moments of intense self-hatred during his childhood because of the colour of his skin. Later the experience of truly inhabiting his skin begins as a form of imitation: “He actually felt like an actual black man, listening to rap, especially to the lyrics, really letting the beats get into him.” The novel skilfully moves backwards and forwards in time showing how Jesse learns to inhabit the multifaceted parts of his identity on his own terms and I particularly enjoyed how the story describes Jesse's evolving communion with music. There's an interplay between the song lyrics and the emotions of his personal experiences that form a startlingly personal view of the world through his eyes. And I have to note (as someone who was roughly Jesse's age when I moved to London at the start of the millennium) I especially loved the references to artists like Kelis and the Sugababes.

The novel so vividly describes Jesse's journey towards finding a sense of community amongst like-minded individuals and honest romantic relationships. There are some sections which describe the will and desires people place upon him in frenzied expressive bursts of italicised dialogue. These range in tone from darkly sexualized projections to the humorous and paltry demands restaurant customers make upon the staff. But there are also low key but pointed references throughout to the racist paranoias and subtly-expressed fears of people Jesse encounters in his everyday life from white men who avoid sitting next to him on public transportation to white women who cling a bit more tightly to their purses when he's around. It's moving how, in addition to forming bonds with other BAME individuals, Jesse grows to understand and articulate his experience through reading writers like James Baldwin, Bernardine Evaristo, Andrea Levy and Sam Selvon. Paul Mendez proves he's definitely a part of this tradition and also establishes a voice that is uniquely his own in this boldy heartfelt novel.

The Eighth Life by Nino Haratischvili (translated by Charlotte Collins and Ruth Martin)

There’s something so satisfying about getting immersed in a big family saga. At over 930 pages, “The Eighth Life” may look intimidating from the outside and I had a few false starts reading this novel but as soon as I got caught up in the many stories it contains I stopped noticing what page number I was on. The novel recounts the tales of multiple generations of a family in the country of Georgia over the 20th century following them through the Russian Revolution, Soviet rule and civil war. Ever since reading the novel “Soviet Milk” and finding out more about the Latvian strand of my family history I’ve been interested in the effects the Soviet Union had upon Eastern European countries. Haratischvili’s novel gives a wide-scale perspective on this time period and region paying special attention to the negative effect these political changes had on the lives of a variety of women. Comparisons have been made to “War and Peace” and “The Tin Drum” but, from my own frame of reference, I'd liken it more to “Gone with the Wind” crossed with “One Hundred Years of Solitude”. 

The novel does an impressive job at balancing an overview of large-scale political and social changes over the past century alongside recounting the personal fortunes and failures of a particular family. Starting as a family of confectioners whose speciality is an irresistible secret recipe for hot chocolate, the descendants become involved in all levels of society from a commander in Trotsky's Red Army to the mistress of a fearsome leader to a defector fighting for Georgian independence to a singer that becomes a symbol of political resistance. At the heart of the book is Stasia who possesses superstitious beliefs about the cursed nature of the family's chocolate recipe and believes she can see the ghosts of dead relatives. The novel is truly epic in showing how family stories are built upon the tales of past generations and shows that radical transitions in society result in innumerable tales of personal strife.

A great pleasure that comes from reading a long novel like this is seeing how characters will change and reemerge over many years. A character that appears only briefly as a girl trapped in a perilous situation appears many pages later as an old woman who has achieved great success. We also follow the evolution of certain characters who may begin with certain personalities and values but who, in response to political events and personal strife, find themselves irreparably altered in their convictions and outlook. I felt like I truly lived alongside many of these characters who undergo so many changes over the years. But it also takes on a great poignancy following the subsequent generations who may repeat certain patterns of their ancestors' behaviour or might wildly rebel against what was expected of them.

There's a difficulty in the way political discourse and the history books have set up this dichotomy of East (Soviet Communism) vs West (Democracy) and how this shaped the way the populations of these geographical regions relate to and conceptualize one another. Of course it was a real ideological battle that brought us to the brink of nuclear war. But I also feel like this has set up an oppositional mentality which produces a lot of stereotypes and barriers. For instance, when Kitty leaves Georgia and eventually settles in England to become a successful singer the media and general public want her to be a victim of the Soviet Union: “She allowed customers to engage her in conversation, and played the part of the Soviet sensation to the hilt. She played up to people’s fears and projections, and accentuated them with more horrific details.” While she did suffer terribly under Soviet rule and while the Soviet Union's practices were horrific, I feel like the West often demonizes the entire region and its people. So it's enriching how this novel humanizes a family caught up in this time period, showing how they have to make difficult choices and choose certain allegiances in order to survive.

A way this novel spoke to me is in its portrayal of Kitty, a woman who leaves her homeland to settle in England. She makes a successful career there but feels a strong longing for her place of birth and family yet she can't return for political reasons. In reflecting about her mentality the narrator states: “Perhaps the most tragic thing about exile, both mental and geographical, was that you began to see through everything, you could no longer beautify anything; you had to accept yourself for who you were. Neither who you had been in the past, nor the idea of who you might be in the future, mattered.” This made me think about displacement as a radical confrontation with oneself. Although I'm much more privileged and fortunate than Kitty I can relate to her as someone who has spent a long period of my adult life away from my homeland. And I think at the moment, in this state of global lockdown where we are in a sense exiles within our own homes, many of us are forced to confront ourselves and what matters to us in a way we didn't have to when we were caught in the busyness of daily life.

I had the great pleasure of sitting down for a cup of hot chocolate with author Nino Haratischvili and translators Charlotte Collins and Ruth Martin for a live discussion about their tremendous novel.

A common criticism I've seen made about this novel is that there's not much differentiation between characters later on in the novel, especially between the men who are often portrayed as villainous. Personally, I didn't feel this way except perhaps about the characters of Miqa and Miro who did feel very similar to me. And, though there are several male characters who act in a horrendous way, there are many prominent men from this period of history whose actions resulted in the torture and death of many people so the novel is merely reflecting that fact. I could also cite many men in the novel such as David or Severin who are more positive characters. Also, one of the many interesting things which emerged from speaking from the author is that she didn't see the character of Kostya as simply a villain despite the many terrible things he does. All the characters have strengths as well as flaws which makes them more fully rounded. But I think it's also right that the novel focuses more on female characters as these women’s stories haven't been as frequently documented in history books. 

It feels like a cliché to say that a novel contains a lot of heartache but ultimately has a hopeful message. But that's exactly what “The Eighth Life” does in its construct because the entire novel is narrated from the point of view of a descendant named Niza who recounts these many varied and dramatic stories of their family for her adolescent niece Daria. In honouring these lives from the past she both informs and makes space for the next generation. It's a way of reckoning with the tragedies of the past century and paving a way for the future through the ingenuity and resilience of the family who survives and can carry on that legacy. The novel poignantly demonstrates how what's to come hasn't been written yet.

Hamnet by Maggie O’Farrell

Why Shakespeare? In Maggie O’Farrell’s “Hamnet” the author uses her considerable talent for mapping the emotional terrain and intimate relationships of her contemporary characters over a long period of time to write a historical novel about the plague-ridden reality of late 16th century England and the death of Shakespeare’s adolescent son Hamnet. Four years after the boy’s death the Bard wrote ‘Hamlet’, a name that was used interchangeably with Hamnet at the time. Given we know only a slender amount about Shakespeare’s life and he wrote nothing of his personal grief, it’s irresistible to speculate on what motivated him to immortalize his son’s name in a play which went on to be one of the most quoted literary works in the English language. However, rather than portray Shakespeare’s thoughts and feelings, O’Farrell instead focuses on the lives of his family: Shakespeare and Agnes’ hastily arranged marriage, the illness of Hamnet’s twin sister Judith, Hamnet’s sudden death and the devastating grief which followed. This is powerfully rendered, beautifully written with evocative historical details and I enjoyed it immensely but…

I felt like something was lacking. A problem might be in my expectations for this novel which has been much-hyped and lauded. It’s been shortlisted for the Women’s Prize, tipped for the Booker and a prominent review ended by simply stating “this is a work that ought to win prizes.” Publicity for the book describes it as “the heart-stopping story behind Shakespeare’s most famous play.” But the novel tells us very little about Shakespeare’s motivation or influence for writing the play beyond what I’ve already described. So I feel that if O’Farrell uses this as a premise her fiction needs to converse with and expand our understanding of Shakespeare’s writing and his literary stature by imaginatively inhabiting his reality. However, Shakespeare is very much a periphery character who is emotionally and physically absent from his family in Stratford while he pursues his dramatic work in London. Of course, this was no doubt the reality. But if we’re not going to get Shakespeare’s perspective or a feeling for the man himself why include him as a character or focus on this central storyline?

Instead, O’Farrell inventively and movingly imagines the life of Agnes as someone with healing powers and quasi-psychic abilities who frequently gathers flowers and herbs to concoct healing mixtures for many of the locals. It’s remarked that “Agnes is of another world. She does not quite belong here.” She’s an entirely-convincing, fully rounded character who is strong and full of heart. I found it very touching how she’s hampered with feelings of guilt about her son’s fate even though she couldn’t have predicted the outcome of his illness or prevented his death. Also, her ambivalent feelings about her husband are a poignant and realistic depiction of a relationship. She’ll never want to see him again one moment and then another moment will feel achingly close to him. She also recognizes that his family and life in Stratford could never be enough for him: “She can tell, even through her dazed exhaustion, even before she can take his hand, that he has found it, he is fitting it, he is inhabiting it - that life he was meant to live, that work he was intended to do.” All of this detail and characterization is excellent but it could be about any family with an absent husband/father.

Shakespeare looms large in our esteem as probably the greatest writer in Western literature and there’s a prolific amount of biographical literature based on relatively few facts making the Bard seem more mythical than historical. Therefore, O’Farrell’s novel feels somewhat like fanfiction that imaginatively and powerfully builds a domestic universe out of the slenderly-known central players in his life. It makes an important statement by naming these figures and conspicuously not naming Shakespeare at all in the novel – he’s only ever referred to by his status as either “the husband”, “the tutor” or “the father”. Perhaps it is partly O’Farrell’s purpose in writing this book to state that the man was merely mortal and his reality was probably as ordinary as his stark and plain writing room that we get a glimpse of late in the novel. That’s perfectly fine. But…

While reading this novel I kept thinking of “Lincoln in the Bardo” and how much Saunders dynamically builds on both our historical and imagined understanding of Abraham Lincoln as a legendary political figure from American history. As with any prominent figure, it shows how he had to balance his personal reality with his public reputation. But “Hamnet” shows us almost nothing about Shakespeare’s conflict except why he’s almost entirely absented himself from family life: “He sees how he may become mired in Stratford forever, a creature with its leg in the jaws of an iron trap, with his father next door, and his son, cold and decaying, beneath the churchyard sod.” But even before Hamnet’s death he rarely visited his family. A writer who feels like they can’t simultaneously maintain a family and professional life is an interesting subject, but his feelings on this aren’t explored either. The most moving portrait of Shakespeare in this novel comes when he tries to engage Agnes in talking about the flora she gathers rather than discussing their son’s death and Agnes resolutely ignores him. Otherwise, I was left as surprised and confused as Agnes about why Shakespeare named his play after his son – other than a fairly obvious psychological interpretation for his motivations. This left me feeling somewhat deflated at the end of the novel.

Given our current circumstances, I also have to note the bizarre coincidence that this novel focuses so much on the effects of a pandemic. It describes in detail the symptoms the plague has on the body and the way measures were taken to try to contain the illness. There are references to theatres needing to periodically close because of it. There’s also an imaginative and impressive section which describes the journey of the illness and how is spreads through fleas from a young sailor to a glass craftsman and how it finally comes to infect a member of Shakespeare’s family. It’s a strange experience reading a novel whose central subject matter becomes surprisingly topical. I also want to stress how much I enjoyed this excellent novel and I’m not surprised it has many enthusiastic fans, but I just wasn’t as impressed as some other readers have been.

The Women’s Prize for Fiction Shortlist 2020

Here are the six novels on this year’s Women’s Prize for Fiction shortlist! How are we all feeling about these picks. Good choices, right? I think it might be the best group in years as they’re a really strong and varied group of contenders. The stories range from the Bronze age to Tudor times to modern-day NYC. The shortest novel on the list is 208 pages and the longest is 882! I give a lot more of my thoughts on this year’s list in a new video I just posted here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3M75MGjEYbk

I must admit, I’m probably most happy to see “Weather” as I loved this short impactful novel and I’m glad it’s getting more attention. Of course, “Girl, Woman, Other” is excellent and yes deserves more attention even though it already co-won The Booker Prize. Will Evaristo get to stand on her own in the spotlight this time? I’m also glad “Dominicana” is on the list as I’m eager to read it and this nomination is the final push I need to get me to read “The Mirror and the Light” soonish (rather than letting it gather dust on my shelf for years with the intention to read it one day ) “A Thousand Ships” is really enjoyable (even for someone who has read a lot of the recent mythological retellings.) And I’m part way through reading “Hamnet” now - I’m enjoying it but not blown away by it yet (as many people have been) but it still might grab me.

I’m disappointed “Actress” and “The Dutch House” didn’t make the cut but that’s how prizes go!
How do you feel about the list? Any favourites or longlisted titles you’re sad not to see? Will you read all six before the winner is announced in September? I’m glad we have this to look forward to!