I'm Judging a Book Prize!

As many of you know, I enjoy following a lot of book prizes and I'm excited to share with you that I'll be judging a very popular book prize myself this year: The Costa Book Awards. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the format of the Costa Book Awards every year groups of judges select shortlists in five different categories which are Novel, First Novel, Biography, Poetry and Children's Literature. I will be a judge in the First Novel category which is great because I love debut fiction and discovering new voices. So I'll be involved in picking a shortlist and a winner for this category. I'm so excited about it, but it's going to be an interesting challenge too because this isn't just about picking my personal favourite book. I've been a judge on a number of book prizes before. They've all been quite different experiences but I've also had some of the richest, most involving discussions about books with fellow prize judges. Towards the end of the process it can get really difficult to choose between very different but equally great books but that's the point of the job. I'll be discussing the submissions with two other judges in my category for the Costas and we need to keep in mind the prize's guidelines. Last year's winner in the First Novel category was Sara Collins' “The Confessions of Frannie Langton” which I absolutely loved.

The guidelines for the prize which I'm keeping in mind while reading is that:

A ‘Costa’ book is a sparkling, eminently readable book with broad commercial appeal. Not esoteric; not so ‘beautifully-written’ that the story and characters got forgotten along the way. Just terrific, intelligent, readable books which (we hope) large numbers of people will want to buy, and read, and recommend to friends.

That's something I think Sara Collins' novel does perfectly and it's a book I've recommended to so many people. So this is a great standard to try to live up to.

I'm already reading some great novels that have been submitted for the prize, but – as you can probably guess – I won't be able to discuss any of the initial submissions here because that wouldn't be fair to the process of the prize or the publishers or authors. I'll still be reading other books over the next few months and publishers send me books all the time so I'll still be reviewing many of these I just won't be able to discuss them in the context of the prize or whether they've been submitted for the prize or not. But, later this year, I'll be very excited to talk about the short list we chose after the announcement is publicly made. And, no doubt, I'll talk about the books listed in all categories because over the years I've read a lot of great books that have been listed for the prize. So last year, in addition to Sarah Collins novel I also loved Mary Jean Chan's collection “Fleche” which was the Poetry category winner and Jack Fairweather's book “The Volunteer” which was the Biography category winner. And this book was also the overall winner of last year's prize because once the five category winners are chosen an overall winner is picked as well. (I won't be involved in this final process, but it'll be very exciting to follow.)

Way back in the year 2000 Zadie Smith won the first novel award for “White Teeth” and this award helped launch and establish her career. So it's an amazing opportunity for an author and I see judging it as a great responsibility. Also, more sentimentally, it means a lot to me that I'll be a judge on this prize because another previous winner from 2000 was the memoir “Bad Blood” by Lorna Sage. This obviously won the biography category in that year when this award was still called The Whitbread Awards. The name of the prize changed in 2006 when Costa Coffee became the sponsor of the awards. But the reason this book winning was so meaningful to me was that Lorna was my teacher at the time and I know it meant so much to her to win this award. And Lorna was one of the most inspirational teachers I ever had and she helped shape who I am as a reader. She introduced me to the books of writers such as Joyce Carol Oates and Angela Carter. So it feels really special to be involved in judging this prize and it's a great honour.

Watch this space. This is going to be great. The shortlists and winners will be announced later this year. I'm sure I'll be talking about it a lot more at that time and I hope you follow along and read along as announcements are made.

The Fragments of my Father by Sam Mills

Being a carer for a loved one isn't always a strictly defined role like other professions, yet it's a vital service which helps support the most vulnerable people in our society. It's also a job that no one plans to take on until it's needed. When author Sam Mills' mother died in 2012 she inherited the duty of caring for her father who has grappled with serious mental health issues throughout much of his life. As she gradually becomes familiar with his particular form of schizophrenia, she also learns to deal with the extreme challenges and sacrifices involved with being a primary carer. Her insightful and heart-wrenching memoir relates her personal journey alongside a wider view of how mental health and the duty of carers have been managed throughout time. As society has progressed there's been a more enlightened and humane view of how to care for those afflicted with mental illness and support the people who take on the responsibility of care, but it's far from a perfect system and Mills makes a strong case for how it still requires more governmental and financial support. “The Fragments of my Father” broadened my understanding about the needs of carers and it will no doubt be a great source of consolation for anyone who has been in a situation where they've had to devote an extensive amount of time, energy and money caring for loved ones.

Since the struggles involved with care mostly take place in private it can be incredibly isolating. It's powerful how Mills describes this condition: “Being a carer can be a lonely duty; you can feel as though you are the only one in the world suffering in restrictions whilst everyone else around you are living lives of butterfly freedom.” She dynamically conveys how caring for her father takes a large toll on her personal relationships, professional life, finances and her own mental health: “I was not a full-time carer, yet my caring made my full-time work hard to sustain.” It's encouraging how meditation serves as a solitary activity which helps stabilize her amidst her daily whirlwind of duties.

As an author and publisher at Dodo Ink, Mills also poignantly considers how past literary lives were shaped by the duties of being a carer in the examples of Virginia and Leonard Woolf and Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. She describes their very different journeys and relationships as well as how these have been interpreted in competing biographical accounts. It’s a very different perspective on grief and illness from what was portrayed in “All the Lives We Ever Lived”, another memoir which filters personal family experience through the example of Woolf’s life and her fiction. Mills gives an insightful new view of these literary lives from the point of view of carer and how this strongly influenced the literature these writers produced. So, alongside Mills' own story, I found myself engrossed in her dramatic accounts of these authors.

This memoir very movingly frames the dilemma of a carer who wants to do the best for her parents but wrestles with the challenges that must be faced within this role. It presents such a beautifully dignified and loving personal portrait of both the author's parents alongside a strong political message. Mills notes how during times of austerity it's funding for those who need it the most which often gets cut first. Given the enormous economic recession we're facing as a result of the pandemic, this memoir also serves as a timely reminder to be vigilant about government policy in regards to care programmes and how the challenges and struggles that carers face behind closed doors can't be forgotten.

Holiday Heart by Margarita García Robayo (translated by Charlotte Coombe)

Pablo and Lucía are Colombian immigrants who have established themselves in the US. They've been married for nineteen years and are raising adolescent twins Rosa and Tomás. Their relationship is extremely strained as they both grapple with ageing and their disillusionment with the American dream. While teacher Pablo is recovering from a heart condition he comes under scrutiny from his school in New Haven after the majority of his students make allegations against him. Meanwhile, Lucía has taken the children to her parents' holiday apartment in Miami and they spend placid but subtly-distempered days on the beach. In a series of alternating accounts between them we get a fascinating picture of a couple physically and emotionally divided. This is a perceptive and engaging novel about how the people closest to us can suddenly feel like strangers when we lose an understanding of ourselves and what we really desire.

Both Pablo and Lucía try to artistically articulate their points of view through writing rather than honestly communicating with each other. Pablo has been working on a novel for a long time and the way he goes about composing it is psychologically telling in regards to his understanding and expectations about Lucía: “an intelligent woman – like his character was supposed to be – would never leave her husband after so many years. She would prefer a miserable but stable life to the unpredictability of happiness.” Meanwhile, Lucía has also spent a long time trying to compose an article about gender and relationships which candidly reveals her frustrations with her family. She doesn't feel comfortable with the idea that a wife and mother should simply be caring and nurturing so purposely doesn't conform to the stereotype of a “good” mother: “The best thing she does for her family is fill their bellies with layers of cholesterol.” Equally, she finds no fulfilment in the tedious, time-consuming obligations which consume her days: “Her life was filled with important dinners that were completely pointless.”

It's moving and insightful the way in which Robayo writes about this couple who are uneasy in the roles they are expected to fulfil. Pablo is regressing to a kind of adolescent state by developing an inappropriate closeness to a student and fostering murky fantasies about returning to the homeland he's now estranged from. Lucía stubbornly asserts her independence, engages in a casual affair with a famous footballer and mostly passes the caring of her children onto Cindy, a maid and nanny who “came with the apartment.” While the title of the novel refers to a peculiar medical condition which Pablo suffers from it also describes the way adults try to take a break from the responsibilities of their lives - ones that they aren't sure they ever want to return to.

The novel also compellingly presents the complicated relationship this family has to race and nationality. While Pablo ponders themes for his novel and thinks about his job at the school he's idly aware of “The fear of wasting his life away in that building infested with minorities.” Meanwhile, Lucía looks with contempt upon the Russians she sees around the hotel and their son Tomás embarrassingly and loudly spouts racist statements such as “I don't like black people” on the beach. This probably reflects the resentment Pablo feels about different ways Latin American and African American people are treated in the US: “Being brown isn't an advantage, thinks Pablo – and he thinks about himself, his mothers and his sisters, even Lucía. Being black gets you further. A brown man is a watered-down man, stuck halfway between identities.”

It's bold how this story expresses the painful reality of never being able to fully integrate into American culture and how this arouses different prejudices. Yet, Lucía holds a different point of view feeling the nation one is born into isn't a defining factor of one's identity. At one point she angrily asks the rhetorical question: “Is anyone born with a flag tattooed on their neck?” The story movingly shows the many tensions engendered from self-consciously designating people into different “minorities”.

“Holiday Heart” brilliantly dramatises the disjunction between an idealized picture of life like sitting on a sunny beach and the reality of that life like getting sand caught in your teeth.

Swimming in the Dark by Tomasz Jedrowski

It's a big challenge for a modern author to write a historical gay love story that don't end in tragedy. Given the many past and current instances of homosexuals being persecuted in almost every culture around the world there are few opportunities to plausibly invent examples of such relationships which aren't entirely secretive or don't end in betrayal/exposure/death. It can be so discouraging as a reader because, while I don't want to diminish the painful reality and struggle of homosexuals throughout the ages, I also want to believe there are stories from history where same sex couples could enjoy the same opportunities for both swoon-worthy passion and heartbreak that heterosexual couples possess. I think a couple of novels such as Sebastian Barry's “Days Without End” and Patrick Gale's “A Place Called Winter” manage to faithfully represent the past while also offering an uplifting message of hope. 

Tomasz Jedrowski takes an interesting approach in his debut novel “Swimming in the Dark” which depicts two young men over the course of the summer of 1980 in Soviet-governed Poland. Prior to starting university they meet at an agricultural camp while serving their compulsory labour requirement for the country and embark on a passionate affair while reading James Baldwin's “Giovanni's Room”. It's described in highly romantic terms where the pair are able to form a world of their own: “we lay facing each other, the tip of your nose on the bridge of mine. Nothing else mattered in the dark.” They discover their own paradise in a beautiful, remote rural location. But, at the same time, the threat of Party politics and the punishment dealt for homosexual acts creates an atmosphere of suspense. Their story could go either way.

The novel is told in the second person where Ludwik speaks directly to his lover Janusz recounting their past experiences. This adds to the heightened sense of romance as these are memories which have clearly been retreaded in the narrator's mind until they have a smooth, hard polish. But, while the eroticism feels amplified, so does his resentment for the disagreements which divided them. Both men realise the perilousness of their positions within the Communist regime which actively punished same sex acts, but they have differing ideologies on how to survive this environment. While Janusz is intent on working within the system to ensure his individual survival, Ludwik becomes increasingly outspoken on condemning a system which leads to the suffering of many different people who don't enjoy the protection of privilege. It leads him to take risky actions and valiantly declare: “No matter what happens in the world, however brutal or dystopian a thing, not all is lost if there are people out there risking themselves to document it. Little sparks cause fires too.”

This a very readable story which does a good job at dramatising a gay romance while depicting a specific historical time period. It also has some memorable, complex female characters that feel like much more than window dressing (as women in gave love stories can often be treated.) However, I found some of the shifts in time to be slightly awkward making it confusing to locate where exactly the characters were in the narrative. It also felt like the novel didn't delve deep enough into either the complexity of certain political issues or the emotional ramifications they'd have for certain characters. Nevertheless, I think this is a very enjoyable book which meaningfully explores a part of gay history I haven't seen depicted in fiction before.

My Favourite Books of 2020 (so far)

At the start of this pandemic I found it so difficult to concentrate on reading any fiction because I felt like I had to check the news every five minutes. Like many people I felt extremely anxious, but I've gradually learned how to remain vigilant while also occasionally switching off to lose myself in a good novel. Reading has connected me with the world in an essential way while I can't physically travel outside my home. The books I read are such an important source of comfort and inspiration I don't know what I'd do without them. So I'm excited to share some recent favourites and I'd love to know about the best books you've read this year.

Love and Other Thought Experiments by Sophie Ward
You could call this inventive debut novel a book of short stories or interlinked short stories but it's primarily about a couple named Rachel and Eliza whose desire to have a child results in unforeseen circumstances. It's framed as a series of thought experiments exploring different conceptual ideas and philosophical concepts. I know that sounds way too cerebral for fiction but it's honestly so entertaining and engaging how she explores the emotional consequences of following different possible life choices to competing and dramatic conclusions. It's so creative and extraordinarily unique like nothing I've read before.

Weather by Jenny Offill
My favourite novel last year was “Ducks, Newburyport” and, in a way, “Weather” by Jenny Offill feels like a heavily condensed version of that book. They both explore our modern day anxieties concerning politics and the environment with humorous commentary. For instance, there will be a line such as “Today NASA found seven new Earth size planets. So there's that.” Weather has an incredible way of building out a much larger world view and a portrait of a life through snapshots of experience. It's a skilfully abbreviated view of one woman's reality. And I can't resist a novel that has a librarian as its heroine. This is currently shortlisted for the Women's Prize and I think it has a good chance of winning.

Huricane Season by Fernanda Melchor (translated by Sophie Hughes)
A notorious individual referred to as The Witch is found dead in a body of water in a Mexican village and through a series of accounts we get a portrait of both this victim and the larger masculine-dominated community. There's a dizzying pace and intensity to this narrative which is so hypnotic and gripping I found it hard to put down. Through the momentum of the characters' voices we see the complexity and contradictions of people who appear simply villainous on the surface. This novel feels heavily influenced by Gabriel Garcia Marquez with his journalistic or documentary style while telling a story from a variety of perspectives until the meaning of truth is completely obliterated. It's very powerful. Also this novel is currently shortlisted for the Booker International Prize and I think it has a good chance of winning.

The Illness Lesson by Clare Beams
This novel is set in the 1870s in New England at a newly-established private girls school founded by Samuel who has experimental views about the way community and education should function from a kind of Transcendentalist perspective. But the story focuses primarily on his adult daughter Caroline who works as a teacher at the school. Things go very wrong and it's extremely suspenseful. The girls become plagued by a mysterious illness and the the story goes to some very dark places saying something larger about complicity and sexual abuse. I think the author also uses such incredible imagery with strange red birds that periodically appear. It's very smart and movingly done.

The Eighth Life by Nino Haratischvili (translated by Charlotte Collins and Ruth Martin)
This great big family saga took me a long time to read but it was so worth it. It's enthralling, fascinating, beautifully-crafted storytelling about multiple generations of a Georgian family over the past century, their experiences throughout multiple wars across Europe and a cursed hot chocolate recipe. In my mind it's like “Gone with the Wind” crossed with “One Hundred Years of Solitude”. This novel has so much to say about family, shifting politics and the very direct impact that has on people's lives. I loved interviewing the author and her translators about this novel and you can listen to our conversation here.

Rainbow Milk by Paul Mendez
This novel primarily focuses on a young man named Jesse who moves from where he was raised in the West Midlands to London after being forced out of the Jehovah's Witness community he was raised in. The way the author captures this character's strength as well as his vulnerability as he plunges into city life and discovers who he is as a black gay man is achingly beautiful. And it's also very moving the way circles back to connect with past generations and the heritage he's been cut off from. Since I moved to London at roughly the same time as the main character I was also able to personally connect to many aspects of the story including different events, music and even local buses that I also regularly ride.

Minor Detail by Adania Shibli (translated by Elisabeth Jaquette)
I have some very big novels on my list here but this book is a masterclass in how much a writer can say in a short space. One half of the story is about a young Palestinian woman who is captured by Israeli soldiers in the desert in 1948 where she is raped and murdered. But we don't actually see this. It's filtered through the perspective of a commander suffering from a poisonous bite. The second half of the book is set many years later and follows a woman trying to find out more about this woman's death which only gets a brief mention in a larger article that she reads. The way their two stories connect through images and sensory experience is so moving and powerful and says so much about the way victims' stories get lost in the larger pages of history.

Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars. by Joyce Carol Oates
This novel begins with an act of racist police brutality. It's a startlingly topical opening given recent Black Lives Matter Protests in the wake of the horrendous real life instance of George Floyd's death. This is the story of a family grieving for the patriarchal figure who is killed as a consequence of his confrontation with the police, the painful loss felt by the widow, how some of their children in their misdirected anger resort to bigotry and how others find the courage to redefine their lives under their own terms. It's an epic story of American life as only Joyce Carol Oates can tell it and I'm still buzzing from the joy of recently interviewing Oates about her literary life and this novel. She's very candid in speaking about what inspired her to write this novel and you can listen to our conversation here.

The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett
This is the story of two sisters who run away from their small town in Louisiana in the 1950s and how they go on to lead very different lives. As light-skinned African American women one sister pretends she's white and marries a white man while the other marries a very dark skinned black man before returning to their home town. It's about the assumptions we make about each other, the brutal legacy of racism and the many different ways people reinvent themselves. This is such a skilfully constructed story which says so much about the uneasy relationship we have to our constantly evolving sense of identity.

The Mermaid of Black Conch by Monique Roffey
This novel has a mermaid at its centre but it's definitely not your typical fantasy story. A fisherman strikes up a relationship with a mermaid on a Caribbean island but one day she's captured by American tourists. It's a story filled with love, greed, betrayal, sex and violence but it also says something much larger about the history of Colonialism. It's fascinating how it considers this from the perspective of an indigenous woman who has been cursed to dwell in the sea. And the heartfelt way the author portrays this character's abiding sense of loneliness made me feel like I was right there at the bottom of the ocean with her.

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.