Luster by Raven Leilani

“Luster” is an excellent and accomplished novel in so many ways. To start with, it has such a gripping and tense story. Edie is a wayward young black woman who begins an affair with Eric, a much-older white man who is in an open marriage. Gradually Edie becomes intimately involved not only with Eric but his white wife Rebecca and their adopted adolescent black daughter Akila. This dynamic makes for a juicy enough plot with all its inbuilt conflicts in regards to economic, sexual and racial politics in current-day America, but Raven Leilani also expertly draws out the tension of this story so the reader is always guessing at its meaning and the motives of her characters. It's no wonder that this has become one of the buzziest books at the start of the year here in the UK having already made a splash in the reading community when it was first published several months ago in the US. I was glued to this novel over the weekend and couldn't put it down even while I was eating meals (which is something I normally try to avoid because it's messy and unsocial to ignore my partner during dinner.) 

This book also voices the concerns and depicts the sensibility of millennials in such a sympathetic and meaningful way. Edie's job at a children's publisher isn't going much of anywhere. She's had several messy affairs with colleagues. Both her parents are deceased. She's beset by student loan payments which threaten to financially and spiritually crush her on a month by month basis. At one point Edie is thinking about paying the rent and observes “I only have enough money for two months. I only have enough money for a month and an abortion”. Twined with this sobering and tragic reality is a humorous authorial eye for the absurdities and contradictions of modern life. There are frequent astute observations made about the online world and office politics including posting on social media and deleting it when it gets no likes; compulsively shopping by putting things in virtual shopping carts and not completing the purchase; and working in an open plan office where you are never eavesdropping but “accepting your silent role in everyone's conversation”. These elements expertly and meaningfully evoke the everyday mindset of a generation beset by very particular dilemmas.

There's a tragi-comic tone to the entire narrative which works so effectively to simply testify to this particular point of view rather than explain or offer any easy answers. I could feel the sliding scale of Edie's joy and pain although very little emotion is expressed in the character's dialogue or thoughts. Whenever she's outside the couple's house Edie is aware of a female neighbour who steadily watches her from her window. At one point when she's mowing the lawn Edie gets fed up with this surveillance and marches up to the window to match the neighbour's gaze but the mower veers into the street. This tense situation which could have resulted in a dramatic climax instead becomes a ludicrous spectacle and this felt very true to life in how simmering anxieties often result in pratfalls rather than satisfying showdowns. The awkward love triangle at the centre of the novel plays out in a similar way where clumsy gestures often take the place of sincere emotional exchanges. Truth leaks out in messy ways which leads the characters to stoically sit with this revealed information rather than maturely process or react to it.

It's concerning how all of the adults at the centre of this story seem to be partly trapped in a child-like state as they regress into adolescent activities. For his first date with Edie, Eric takes her to an amusement park. At one point Rebecca dyes her hair and goes to a gig where she strips her top off and plunges into a mosh pit as if she were still a teenager. Edie herself frequently reverts to comfort-viewing old episodes of Mister Rodgers' Neighbourhood and drinks from a cup with a cartoon environmental superhero on it. In a strange way, Akila feels like the most emotionally mature character in the novel as she's painfully aware of the perilousness of her state of being and knows this stable environment will be lost if the relationship of her adopted parents fails. Akila is also isolated as a black girl in a white household where Edie becomes a touchstone that not only teaches her how to treat her hair but also conveys that she will inevitably be a target of police brutality. This prompts Edie to reflect how “It must be strange for every black kid, when their principal authority figures break the news that authorities lie.”

As welcoming and seemingly liberal as Eric and Rebecca seem their actions and decisions are highly suspect. There are touches of humanity to these characters amidst their blundering, underhanded aggression and therapy babble. Yet, it's incredibly cringe-worthy and uncomfortable how Eric's commitment to adopting Akila is equal to his intent on having an affair and aggressive sex with Edie. Meanwhile, Rebecca’s cool aloofness belies a savage barbarism which is reflected in her work performing autopsies and how she believes a thing (or person) can't be fully understood until it's literally taken apart. They might be naively good-intentioned but I think there is a power dynamic cruelly at play as the couple's economic and racial dominance over the girls is a part of the caste system in America (as brilliantly described in Isabel Wilkerson's book) so it's not so much a question of racism but the way conditioned roles are played out in this state of inbuilt inequalities. Edie is so resignedly accustomed to this painful reality that she sharply and sombrely observes how “racism is often so mundane it leaves your head spinning, the hand of the ordinary in your slow, psychic death so sly and absurd you begin to distrust your own eyes.”

The many deeper meanings of this story quietly unfold as the drama plays out with alternating moments of hilarity and startling tragedy. I also relished Leilani's wordplay and power of description with objects becoming headily infused with emotions and nostalgia such as “the high-fructose sun of the park” that made me feel like I was drowning in the insufferably sweet soft drink SunnyD. This is a writer with a formidable talent in how she imbues experience and meaning into the everyday life of her characters. I had tender feelings for them even as I felt critical or repulsed by their actions. In recent years, there have been several novels which speak to the pressing concerns of a newer generation such as “Problems” by Jade Sharma, “Sour Heart” by Jenny Zhang, “Conversations with Friends” by Sally Rooney and “Rainbow Milk” by Paul Mendez. I'm glad “Luster” has added another newly pressing, dynamic and skilfully-rendered side to the story of our lives as they are experienced today.

Leonard and Hungry Paul by Rónán Hession

Some time ago I went to a family function and I was approached by the new boyfriend of one of my relatives. He leaned into me and whispered, “Tell me all the gossip!” It was clear he was expecting me to confide in him about secret scandals, simmering resentments and falling outs between my family members. But there weren't any. So when I shrugged and replied that we were all just having a nice visit he turned and walked away with a look of disappointment. The truth is that much of our ordinary lives and many family relations are made up of mundane details rather than high drama. But since this doesn't usually inspire riveting plots, it's not often represented in fiction. Therefore, it was refreshing to read Rónán Hession's novel “Leonard and Hungry Paul” which follows the low-key stories of two quiet friends whose interactions chiefly involve games of Scrabble or Connect Four. As with many novels, one of the main drives of this narrative is the lead up to a marriage – in this case that of Hungry Paul's sister Grace. Rather than being a high drama of anxious tension or calamitous mishaps surrounding the big day, the entire affair is summarized by one character as simply “Nice.” It's not that nothing happens; all of the main characters experience subtle life changes and shifts in perspective by the book's conclusion. But, by disallowing a story of scandalous intrigue, what I think Hession captures so beautifully and poignantly is the more realistic pulse and rhythm of life.

Leonard's mother recently died, but this has done little to effect his daily life writing children's encyclopedias until he encounters the prospect of a romantic relationship with a vibrant-haired woman. His friend Hungry Paul lives a fairly non-committal existence working part-time as a postman. But he's not even a full postman as he merely covers the shift of the regular postmen when he's too hungover to work. Why he's called “Hungry” is never explained but it might just be an ironic nickname given that he seems entirely without ambition. Even when he enters and wins a contest he doesn't see it as an achievement so much as an instance of being helpful and he can't conceive of doing anything with the substantial prize money except squirrelling it away in an account. Since he lacks definite purpose or drive his family worry about him when in reality he's as passively self-sufficient as a sunfish (which his sister likens him to after observing one in an aquarium.) His skill at quietude becomes useful in different ways. Firstly, as a volunteer at a hospital where he keeps a patient company by silently holding her hand. Secondly, and more humorously, he finds new employment as the organizer of a “Quiet Club” for the National Association of Mimes. This reflects the overall tone of the novel which playfully points to aspects of human nature that aren't often valued in life or in fiction - such as the value of silence and steady companionship.

I haven't read many novels which get the right tone of writing about such reserved characters and ordinary situations, but I think “Leonard and Hungry Paul” achieves this admirably. Perhaps the only other recent novel I can think of that does something similar is Eley Williams' “The Liar's Dictionary”. Since I'm more of a quiet and introverted individual myself, I naturally related to Hession's characters and their occasional awkwardness when trying to communicate with others. There are moments of emotional sincerity which felt tremendously poignant because their expression is so personally difficult. It made this a sympathetic as well as a deeply pleasurable and comforting book to read.

Luckenbooth by Jenni Fagan

Everyone's experience of a city is different. As an outsider, I've only ever seen Edinburgh through the limited perspective of a tourist who has visited it numerous times for the famous late-Summer festivals. So it was fascinating to read Jenni Fagan's new novel “Luckenbooth” to see this great, historic city through the perspectives of nine very diverse and intriguing characters who inhabit the same tenement building at different points of the past century. They include a spy, a powerful medium, a hermaphrodite, a coal miner, the madam of a brothel and the beat poet William Burroughs. Though they are individually unique, they collectively embody an economically and socially marginalized side to the city not often seen or represented. Also, threaded through their individual tales is a curse placed upon this tenement building by a woman that was taken here to be the surrogate mother for a wealthy couple who want a child. We follow the compelling tales of all these individuals and, as time goes forward, there's an accumulations of ghosts in this steadily decaying building. Time becomes porous in this place: “It is entirely possible to slip through the decades in between these floors.” There's a creepy gothic atmosphere to this novel as well as sharp social commentary testifying for the disenfranchised citizens of Edinburgh. 

The novel is composed of three parts and each part revolves between the stories of three residents who inhabit the tenement building at different times. Once I figured out the structure I was better able to settle into the stories of these characters because without a rigid structure all these tales would have felt too unwieldy. However, there are nine different plots in this novel. Though they all centre around the same physical location and we occasionally glimpse characters from other parts of the book, each story is more or less self-contained. This felt frustrating at times because naturally I felt more engaged by a particular character or storyline over another – yet each tale is only allocated the same amount of fleeting page space. Most sections are intriguing and well written but I wanted to know more. For instance, I wanted more details about Levi, a black man from the American south engaged in the scientific study of bones. I also wished I could have stayed with Agnes who is a true psychic intent on preventing charlatans from practicing because they give her profession a bad name. There's the beguiling secret drag parties in Flora's section and the eccentric musings and theories of writer Burroughs lounging around with his recent lover. I'd have gladly spent more time with these characters rather than switching to the more generic spy-thriller plot in Ivy Proudfoot's section or the crime-thriller plot in Queen Bee's section.

All this meant that by the end of the book I felt like I'd consumed a series of amuse-bouches rather than a fully satisfying meal. Fagan is a talented writer and the more concentrated story of her novel “The Sunlight Pilgrims” made it all the more moving. There is a connecting message between the stories in “Luckenbooth” which is a burning anger on behalf of those who have been marginalized by the dominant society and erased not only from the history of the city but from literally being able to inhabit Edinburgh. A character named Morag comments: “One day nobody will be able to afford to live here but rich people.” I fully sympathised with the overall sentiment of this book and Fagan brings to light many tantalizing historical facts as well as creating many engaging storylines. But sometimes it felt like the author was coming through the narrative too strongly in order to preach rather than let her message be organically told by the characters. This detracted from the building suspense of the resurrected fury of the murdered women at the beginning of the novel who emerge to rattle the walls and seek justice. Fagan refers to the spooky unease she evokes in each section of this book when she writes “On every floor, something is just out of sight.” But the brevity and perhaps overly-ambitious nature of this novel means that the actual reveal is never quite as satisfying as the build-up.

Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam

“Leave the World Behind” begins like a delicate portrait of a typical family going on vacation to a rented home in a remote part of Long Island, but it soon turns into a much darker story filled with dread. At first it feels like an Anne Tyler novel and then slides into Cormac McCarthy. I think it's clever how Alam draws you into the lives of parents Amanda and Clay to fully understand the minutiae of their psychology and self-centredness. They are probably no more egotistical than most people, but definitely justify their attitudes and actions based on notions of inherent privilege. Therefore, they find it deeply challenging and frightening when, after settling into their accommodation, an older black couple named the Washingtons arrive on their doorstep late one night. Ruth and G.H. Washington assert that they are the owners and need to stay in their home because there's been a peculiar blackout in NYC. While they have no means of getting information through the news or internet, we follow the story of how this group is terrifyingly cut off from larger world events as the world descends into chaos. It's a kind of dystopian story as felt through the limited perspective of a group of characters but also says something larger about the flimsy magnanimity of white middle-upper class life. 

Recently I read Don DeLillo's most recent novel “The Silence” which has a very similar premise. A group of people find themselves isolated and ignorant about the larger cataclysmic events of the world when they are cut off from the media. It's a potent and timely situation as we increasingly find ourselves utterly dependant on understanding events and the shape of society as filtered through the internet. Yet, where DeLillo's book felt more like a studious exercise, Alam's story was much more successful as a satisfying novel that raises a number of compelling ideas while delivering a chilling, compulsively-readable tale. It's cleverly structured in how we're trapped in the limited perspective of the characters through much of the story, but later on we glimpse the devolving structures of the world. The reader fully understands how everything is going badly wrong but also feels the agonizing fear of the characters as they experience little signs which indicate that they're all in deep trouble. Deer flock past the house in unusually high numbers. Flamingoes unnaturally inhabit their area. Amanda and Clay's son becomes strangely ill. Their control and grasp of the world slowly seeps away and this results in a horrifying kind of derangement. It made this novel an effective, potent and unsettling read.

Memorial by Bryan Washington

Bryan Washington's story collection “Lot” imaginatively delved into the fictional lives of a variety of characters in Houston. He movingly portrayed the numerous conflicts and strong bonds to be found amongst families, friends and neighbourhoods as well as many different ethnic and socio-economic groups. His debut novel “Memorial” is a kind of extended story you might have found in that collection but concentrates on couple Benson and Mike whose relationship is severely tested when Mike leaves their home in Houston to reconnect with his estranged dying father in Osaka. Although they alternately narrate this novel we also get glimpses into the lives of their families, neighbours and the larger community so there's a wonderful kind of plurality to Washington's narrative. This is also one of the most complex and honest portrayals of a modern-day gay relationship I've ever read. Although there is a strong emotional and sexual bond, this story lays out much of the ambiguity and uncertainty that exists between them. These elements can be found in many relationships, but there are specific challenges which African-American Benson and Japanese-American Mike face being a same-sex couple. Washington shows how these elements of their identities certainly don't define them but have a persistent impact on how they interact with the world and each other. 

It felt really true the way Benson and Mike never really define their relationship. From meeting on an app and a mutual acquaintance to living together to Ben being in the strange position of co-habiting with Mike's mother when he leaves, the state of their connection is uncertain and fragile. Neither is particularly good at communicating how he feels so these unwieldy emotions are primarily expressed in fights and sex. Is this an extended hookup? A loving affair? A marriage by another name? Roommates with benefits? The reader is never entirely certain because Benson and Mike aren't certain. I've been in relationships like this and know lots of gay couples that live in this state of uncertainty.

I think the variables involved are due in part from them both being obstinate men who don't want to commit one way or the other, but also because gay relationships aren't given the same credence as heterosexual relationships in their families and community. This is an effect of both external and internalized homophobia. When we meet them their respective families fully accept their sexuality, but it wasn't always so and the painful rejection Benson experienced when he admitted to his family that he's not only gay but HIV+ is still intensely felt. Details of these factors are gradually revealed as pieces of the story are recounted by both men. It makes the moments of silence or unemotional communication between them all the more meaningful.

One of the powerful ways Washington represents this is in a series of photos of their respective urban environments Benson and Mike message each other. We get the context of when both men are sending and receiving these images so understand their respective positions and abiding desire for a connection but it doesn't make it clear how their relationship will go forward. It says a great deal without using any language. This tension is movingly sustained over the course of the novel as both of their lives are evocatively brought to life with the details of their day to day interactions in Houston and Osaka.

I really appreciated the way the author represents the perspectives and voices of many different people in his story, but I felt the dialogue didn't always ring true. There are certain turns of phrase which are used by a number of characters. It'd be understandable if it was just Benson and Mike who speak the same way, but both Mike's separated parents and a man who works in Mike's father Eiju's bar in Japan use similar expressions at different points. This would occasionally take me out of a story I otherwise wholly believed.

Overall, I admired how this novel let its tale gradually unfold in many low-key scenes involving cooking or working or waving to neighbours. It's stated at one point how “The big moments are never big when they're actually fucking happening.” “Memorial” shows how some of the most dramatic decisions in our life often aren't ever definitively settled but result from circumstance and a resounding ambiguity about which direction we want our lives to go and who we want to be with.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

When Susanna Clarke's great big immersive novel “Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell” came out way back in 2004, I was completely enraptured by this fantastical alternate history. Since then she's only published a book of short stories so I was thrilled to pick up her second novel “Piranesi”. Though it also heavily incorporates seemingly other-worldly elements, it's much more confined and solitary in its scope. This novel is certainly much shorter than her debut. Its narrator resides in a series of impressively grand maze-like halls filled with an infinite amount of beautiful sculptures. There's only one other person found here, but he seems mysteriously aloof and only meets with the narrator for regularly scheduled appointments. The narrator refers to him as “the Other” and “the Other” refers to the narrator as Piranesi (although he's aware that this is not his real name.) Here the tides flow in and out washing over the giant sculptures forcing the narrator and “the Other” to move carefully between the halls so as not to be trapped by the sea. Piranesi spends his days cataloguing in his notebooks the sculptures and mapping the rooms in between scavenging for something to eat amongst the fish and seafood from the sea. Is this place the remains of some fallen civilization or a mythical landscape? And the way Piranesi notes how there are the bones of several unknown people here makes it also feel like a sinister mausoleum. As far as Piranesi is concerned, he has always resided here and these halls are the entire world. It's a tantalizing setting whose darker meaning gradually becomes apparent over the course of the story. This novel completely swept me into its intriguing mysteries and the methodical mind of its protagonist who communes with the sculptures and birds found in the halls. 

What's so moving about this novel is the way Piranesi's life and endeavours seems to subtly mimic our own – especially now that many of us have been largely confined to our homes for the past year of this pandemic. Similarly, the halls in this book are like the museums which have been closed for months with their wonders poised and ready for someone to discover them. Like Piranesi, I spend my days moving between the same rooms, diligently working and reading book after book. There's a peaceful and melancholy grace to Piranesi's life, but it also feels so fragile. And, though this circumscribed world feels stable, there's an awareness that chaos and destruction might come rolling in any day. So I felt a strong connection to this narrator whose pursuit for knowledge won't allow him to remain oblivious to the broader meaning of his environment or his reason for being there. Clarke also makes this a suspenseful read in providing hints and signs about what's really going on in this strange place. Though the truth is fully revealed at the end and it's a satisfyingly complex conclusion, what I mainly got from this book was its mood of scholarly dedication in a state of utmost solitude. It's the same kind of feeling I get from reading Donna Tartt's fiction. Part of me wanted to remain in the halls of this novel discovering sculpture after sculpture. Clarke's way of describing these wonders as Piranesi patiently catalogues and considers his environment strangely mirrors our own world in all its deteriorating beauty.

21 Classics to Read in 2021

One of the most consoling reading experiences I had at the end of 2020 was starting Anthony Trollope's 'The Chronicles of Barsetshire' series. The wonderful thing about reading a prolific 19th century author for the first time and greatly enjoying his work is that I now have his whole back catalogue to discover! I'm excited that I have four more books in this series to read as well as an entire other series (the Palliser novels) and all his many other books as well. This is certainly enough to keep me busy but I'm always eager to see what other classic books I might strongly connect with if I give them a chance. Every year I like to make a list of classic books I want to read (or reread) so I've chosen 21 books I'm hoping to get to in 2021. Some of these books are centuries old, some were written by 20th century authors and some are more recent books that publishers are putting forward as new classics. You can watch me discuss my choices here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDg-Vh88cnE

There's no set criteria for what makes a classic book. Who decides which books can be labelled classic? Is it scholars, literary critics, publishers, editors, book prizes or the general reading public? Some age-old books might fall out of fashion but find new relevance like Giovanni Boccaccio's “The Decameron” has in the past year because of the pandemic. Some books might be lauded at the time but their ideas, style of writing and sensibility might not continue to be relevant as the years past. The syllabus of literature courses is always changing. Just because a book wins a major award doesn't mean it will continue to be reprinted and read in the years to come. A book might be published to relative obscurity but find a champion who brings the book's importance to the attention of the public who newly embrace it many years after it first came out. Regardless of what makes a classic, I've always been fascinated by the concept and like to playfully consider what books being published today might still be treasured centuries from now. I'm looking forward to discovering both older and more recent classics this year.

My Top 10 Books of 2020

This has been quite a year! Although it might seem beneficial for readers to have more time at home, the anxiety and general stress caused by the pandemic and tumultuous politics certainly challenged my concentration at times. I know for many readers it's also created severe practical problems. However, books have also provided the most wonderful respite with escapism and intellectual engagement with difficult issues. While I primarily read new fiction, I've also found great consolation in starting Anthony Trollope's Barsetshire series recently. 

Maybe it's not a coincidence that some of my favourite books this year have been big 500+ page epics which have allowed me to fully immerse myself in their fictional worlds. Though I initially started reading it in 2019 and didn't finish it till May this year, “The Eighth Life” by Nino Haratischvili was the most dazzling family saga that covers multiple generations and wars. It was also a highlight of this year being able to interview both the author and translators of this brilliant novel.

Joyce Carol Oates writes so insightfully about the human condition and social issues in contemporary America. Her books often feel eerily prescient, but her most recent giant novel “Night. Sleep. Death. The Stars.” is one of her most monumental achievements with its piercing depiction of grief and the timely way it opens with a racially-motivated incident where police use excessive force. The dynamic way she shows the various reactions of the McClaren clan really speaks to the formation of prejudice and how people can fear others who are different from themselves. Additionally, it's been one of the great privileges of my life to interview Oates about this novel and her more recent collection of novellas “Cardiff, by the Sea”.

“The Mirror and the Light” was one of the biggest publishing events of the year. Not only was Hilary Mantel's new novel one of the longest books I read this year, but combined with the first two books in the Thomas Cromwell trilogy (which I also read right before its publication) and it adds up to over 2000 pages. Although I found it somewhat of a challenge getting my head around some of the complicated Tudor politics, this was also one of the most wondrous reading experiences I had this year. Mantel deserves all the praise credited to her because her storytelling is utterly gripping, psychologically insightful and she has a way of making the past feel very relevant.

I had an odd hankering to read sci-fi this year and another new doorstopper I was enthralled by was Rian Hughes' astonishingly inventive novel “XX”. When a strange signal from outer space is recorded and a mysterious object crashes into the moon, an unlikely hero and his tech company uncover a secret extraterrestrial plan. The drama is whether it's meant to save all intelligent life in the universe or destroy it. But this novel is so much more than a wild tale about aliens. There's so much in this book about technology, physics, consciousness and the question of human progress itself. It also uses font in a way which contributes to the story itself making it a very playful novel as well as an edifying read that gripped me for the entire 977 pages.

Alternatively, a very slender novel which absolutely gripped me and has left a lasting impression is “Minor Detail” by Adania Shibli. A woman comes across an article that briefly mentions the rape and murder of a Palestinian woman in the Negev desert in the war of 1948. From there she embarks on a journey to discover what happened to her. This novel in two parts is about our connection to the past, people who are memorialised and those who are forgotten. The way the sections mirror each other and form this bridge with history is so artfully and poignantly done.

Being a book prize fanboy, I'm always curious to follow and read what's listed for the Booker Prize. For this year's award two titles really stood out for me. The first is shortlisted “Burnt Sugar” by Avni Doshi which describes one of the most tense mother-daughter relationships I've ever read about. The narrator Antara's mother is showing signs of dementia and she must become her carer when her mother never nurtured or supported her. This conflict is grippingly dramatised, but it's also such a thoughtful story about memory and how honest we are with ourselves.

The winner of this year's Booker Prize was “Shuggie Bain” by Douglas Stuart, the heartbreaking story of a sensitive boy and his struggling mother in Glasgow in the 1980s. It's the most penetrating and moving depiction of alcoholism I've ever read. But for all its pain there are wonderful moments of humour and humanity in this story. I remember there's a hilarious scene where the mother and her friends get new bras. But I also love the way this debut novel portrays Shuggie's precociousness and the clever way it considers notions about masculinity.

While some curmudgeonly authors have been whining about the death of the “serious novel” this year, there have been many extraordinary debuts published which prove there are so many strong and powerful voices emerging in fiction. I had the honour of being a judge in the Debut Fiction category of this year's Costa Book Awards and one excellent novel from this list is “Love After Love” by Ingrid Persaud. This is the story of a single mother in modern-day Trinidad, her son and their friend Mr Chetan who form a strong family unit, but when certain secrets come out in the open it threatens to tear them apart. This novel made me laugh and cry like no other book this year. It's a story full of warmth, heartache and light and I absolutely loved it.

Like with the end of Hilary Mantel's trilogy, another tremendous literary multi-novel saga which came to the end this year was Ali Smith's Seasonal Quartet. But, rather than mining history, Smith has recorded and reflected upon our current times in these books which have concluded with “Summer”. And it is the most glorious ending both in how it brings together characters from the various books and considers where we are now in this pandemic and in a politically divided society. Her characters are complex and nuanced. And her writing is full of so much heart and humour reading it is such a pleasure.

Another deeply pleasurable book I read this year is the great Edmund White's most recent novel “A Saint From Texas”. This story chronicles the lives of twin sisters who are raised in rural Texas in the 1950s. Although they are identical they grow to live very different lives: one commits herself to pious charitable work in Colombia while the socially-ambitious other sister climbs the echelons of Parisian society. This story charmed, bewitched and completely mesmerized me to the last page. It's great fun but it's also so insightful in how it considers family and the phenomenon of personality.

Finally, a novel I just read recently and found incredibly moving was “The Pull of the Stars” by Emma Donoghue. It's fascinating how the circumstances of our lives can effect what we get out of what we read. Unsurprisingly, this story of a nurse working in the maternity ward of a Dublin hospital in 1918 during the outbreak of the Great Flu hit close to home. It's incredible how Donoghue wrote this before the pandemic this year but so many details about how people and society responds to such an outbreak rang true. I've now witnessed in real life the patterns of behaviour portrayed in this novel. But, beyond its relevancy, this is a tremendous story about personal fortitude and strength amidst tremendous adversity and it's also a beautifully tender love story.

It'd be great to know if you have any thoughts or feelings about these books or if you're curious to read any of them now if you haven't already. I'd also love to hear about what books have consoled or inspired you during this very testing year.

Most Anticipated Books of 2021

At the end of each year I always get excited browsing through what books will be coming out next year. I'm feeling that even more so now when I can't wait for 2020 to be done and dusted. There are certainly a lot of great-sounding forthcoming titles to look forward to. Some are new books from favourite authors. Not one but TWO new books from Joyce Carol Oates are being published in the US on the same day. She has a short story collection “The (Other) You” and the first collection of poetry she's published in 25 years “American Melancholy”. New fiction is arriving from literary powerhouses such as Kazuo Ishiguro with “Klara and the Sun” and Jhumpa Lahiri with “Whereabouts”. There's also new novels from great authors I've loved reading before such as “Diary of a Film” by Niven Govinden, “Unsettled Ground” by Claire Fuller, “The High House” by Jessie Greengrass, “The Sisters Mao” by Gavin McCrea and Danielle McLaughlin's debut novel “The Art of Falling”. There's also a new collection called “Slug” from the extraordinary poet Hollie McNish. 

There's also several novels whose stories sound so intriguing to me I can't wait to read them including “Bolt From the Blue” by Jeremy Cooper, “Old Bones” by Helen Kitson and “The Performance” by Claire Thomas. While there were many fantastic debuts published this past year, there are even more promising new voices for 2021 with first novels “A Crooked Tree” by Una Mannion, “Brood” by Jackie Polzin, “Open Water” by Caleb Azumah Nelson, “How to Kidnap the Rich” by Rahul Raina and “The Other Black Girl” by Zakiya Dalila Harris. I'm also hoping to read more nonfiction in the new year so have my eye on the memoir “Love is An Ex-Country” by Randa Jarrar and a meditation about the bottom of the ocean “The Brilliant Abyss” by Helen Scales.

Watch me discuss my most anticipated reads here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j22kUX_mPrc

What books are you looking forward to in 2021?

A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote

My cousin Martin used to throw a Christmas party in his Boston apartment every year. At one point in the party he'd gather everyone around who'd listen in rapt attention while he read aloud Truman Capote's beautiful short story “A Christmas Memory.” This was a decades-long tradition and I was lucky enough to attend one year. Martin worked professionally as an actor so he's especially good at dramatising and doing the voices in the story. Though he hasn't held his party for many years, this year he organized a video call with eighty or so guests to watch as he recited the story again. It was a lovely way to unite people from all over the US and globe who can't physically meet this year because of the pandemic. In order to carry the tradition on and share this good feeling, I've made a video of myself reading Capote's story aloud which you can listen to here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBb-9iB89gQ

This is the most lovely Christmas story and unusually sweet for Capote who was such a troubled and viciously distempered individual. I know he was a great writer but I can't help feeling somewhat prejudiced against him since he once said of Joyce Carol Oates that she's “a joke monster who ought to be beheaded in a public auditorium.” Putting aside his personal insecurities and bad behaviour, in this story he perfectly evokes a holiday spirit of cheerful sentiment, friendly goodwill, the evocative warm scents of Christmas baking and a melancholy longing for loved ones we've lost. In their perfectly-balanced companionship young Buddy and his much-older female friend create a harmonious world for themselves filled with loving traditions. Yet, at the same time, they are oddly strangers to each other since Buddy never gives her a name except “my friend” and though Buddy is not his name she calls him this “in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend.” This anonymity funnily makes the story feel more intimate as if individual identity doesn't matter as there is a perfect bond which makes them “each other's best friend.”

The relationship they share is made even closer with their opposition against the unnamed people who also inhabit the house. It's striking how the presence of these familial others is never felt except when chastising the pair for singing and dancing while getting tipsy after they've completed their baking. Their special friendship is sublimely self-enclosed and the cakes they send to people (many of whom are strangers) is such a touching gesture for rewarding mere moments or general expressions of kindness. Of course, it's somewhat uncomfortable reading the racist description of Mr Haha Jones with his “Satan-tilted eyes”. Though he ultimately turns out to be a kind-hearted individual and we're seeing him only through the pair's erroneously-fearful and misguided perception, I don't think this excuses such a detail in the story. It shows it to be a product of the time. Nevertheless, the overriding message of this tale is so graceful and no matter how many times I hear it I get very emotional at the end. I feel lucky to have made some similarly special friendships in my life.

The Pull of the Stars by Emma Donoghue

There have been books such as “Hamnet” published this year whose content and focus on a pandemic seem eerily prescient regarding the world we find ourselves in. Of course, such widespread and devastating illness has always been a part of human history so naturally historical novels will incorporate it into their stories. But I've not read a book that captures the feelings of living through it like “The Pull of the Stars” by Emma Donoghue. Set in a Dublin maternity ward in 1918 amidst the outbreak of the Great Flu, it follows a nurse named Julia who struggles to care for her patients in the understaffed hospital. It's terrifying how death feels perilously close and can come swiftly. Just as we're getting to know several idiosyncratic patients, one might become gravely ill while another might recover. Expectant mothers were particularly vulnerable to suffering more from this pandemic. Though Julia is very knowledgable and dedicated, there's only a limited amount she can do for them so I was utterly gripped by this harrowing situation. Matters aren't helped by the misogyny and dogmatic religion in Ireland at that time. But through all the strife comes a beautiful message of humanity and a tender love story. 

What amazed me were specific details regarding the effects of a pandemic that Donoghue gets so right in this novel and that I've witnessed this year. When Julia is travelling in the city there's an all-pervading sense of dread about the virus spreading. The story fully captures the nervousness of people on public transport and the sudden hyper-awareness when someone so much as coughs. There are also astute observations made about the pernicious side effects of trying to close down society in order to protect the population. For instance, it's remarked how closing schools results in some children going hungry because they aren't able to get the free lunches that might be their only meal of the day if they come from a poorer family. This was an oversight also made in England this year and it took some time before measures were made to help support the more vulnerable members of the population. It's remarkable how Donoghue evokes these common experiences but also shows the specific medical and technological limitations of the time.

As in her novel “The Wonder”, Donoghue is excellent at portraying the intensely-felt emotional reality of her characters and how they are affected by the social pressures of the time. A volunteer helper and a highly-capable female doctor enter Julia's life, but each are inhibited by religious and political strictures. Julia's brother also suffers the after-effects of war, but his disability isn't taken as seriously by the wider society because it's not physical. I also found it very poignant how we realise Julia has unexplored desires when she develops an attraction for another woman, but because of constraints and circumstances this dimension of her heart is soon stymied. Throughout the story, the author elegantly weaves through a message about the effect of the stars on our lives to consider whether we are subject to a certain fate or can form our own destinies. Though there are many sombre and terrifying moments of dealing with the reality of hospital life during a pandemic in this novel, I ultimately found it a heartening read in its message of hope and strength in the fight to survive.

Betty by Tiffany McDaniel

As I get older I've naturally become more curious about my family history and I've felt the urge to record this personal lineage before it's lost or forgotten. Of course, everyone's family story is unique to them but Tiffany McDaniel's is one that felt wholly new and bracingly honest to me. She's fictionally reimagined her mother's story in the artfully composed and extremely moving novel “Betty”. With her mixture of white and Cherokee ancestry, Betty has darker skin so stands out from the crowd. She's frequently teased and tormented in the rural area of Appalachia she grows up in during the 1960s. Additionally, she's made aware of the perilous vulnerability of women and girls who are frequently the targets of sexual abuse within their community. In telling her mother's story, McDaniel has memorialised not only the creativity, resilience and spirit of her direct lineage but also the conflicts and struggle of a whole community that's not often represented in literature, television or the media. She poignantly shows the way prejudice and a culture of silence is passed down through generations and thus perpetuates abuse and violence. But she also evokes the particular personalities of Betty, her siblings and her parents in such a compelling way that I felt intimately drawn into this family and fell in love with their story. 

One of the most affecting aspects of this novel is the way storytelling itself is woven into the lives of the characters. Betty's father relates the mythological traditions he's inherited to his children while also conjuring his own stories about their place in the natural world. Some characters scoff at these considering them to be simply tall tales, but Betty surmises their deeper importance: “Dad says so. That means it's true... I realized then that not only did Dad need us to believe his stories, we needed to believe them as well. To believe in unripe stars and eagles able to do extraordinary things. What it boiled down to was a frenzied hope that there was more to life than the reality around us. Only then could we claim a destiny that we did not feel cursed to.” The way that the larger community diminishes their family (Betty and her father in particular) means that these stories form a more meaningful and substantial reality than the one they exist in.

As Betty interacts with more slighted and marginal figures in the town she discovers many more people have their own hidden stories and legacies. This hits closer to home when she discovers the way her mother and sister have been secretly abused. The fact of their rape is shocking but so is the way it darkly affects their personalities. While her father is naturally gregarious and loveable, I found myself initially angry at the mother for the rough way she treats Betty. But I developed more sympathy for her as it becomes clear this is a consequence of the way the mother hasn't been able to deal with or voice the trauma she's experienced. Equally, I found Betty's sister Flossie such a compelling character as her vanity is initially charming and then takes a darker turn as her pretensions make her turn her back on her family. But, ultimately, it's tragic the way Flossie is unable to reinvent herself in the way she desires. The way McDaniel shows how private suffering is often turned inward and forms self-destructive behaviour in a variety of individuals is very powerful.

This novel is both a reckoning and a testament. When we begin to realise the challenges and strife our ancestors suffered (and sometimes didn't survive) the fact of our existence can feel like a kind of miracle. “Betty” is a very special personal story that speaks to this in the way it skilfully evokes a lost world and distinct individuals that shouldn't be forgotten.

Frying Plantain by Zalika Reid-Benta

I love it when novels take the form of interconnected short stories. I think this episodic style of narrative can feel more impactful because it only focuses on crucial moments in the lives of the main characters. Books such as “Anything is Possible” or “All That Man Is” tell stories about a range of characters whose tales cross over with each other to build a bigger picture of a community. But “Frying Plantain” focuses solely on the perspective of Kara Davis, a Canadian teenager of Jamaican heritage who comes of age and encounters conflicts with her family, friends and boys. Because each story centres around a particular incident from her development, this novel has a retrospective feel even though it's narrated in the present tense. It also forms a distinct impression of the community as Kara grows up in Toronto's 'Little Jamaica'. I really felt for her as someone who others label as “quiet” and who often feels alienated from those around her – even her closest friends and family. This novel movingly captures the way Kara gradually comes into her own, asserts her individuality and learns to overcome the limited way people view her. 

The novel also interestingly portrays the intergenerational tensions between Kara, her mother and her grandmother. During one period of her adolescence Kara's mother is so financially strained that she needs to move them in with the grandmother. But rather than immediately show how this arrangement breaks down residual bad feelings are woven into every encounter and discussion. This is a very sophisticated and impactful way of showing how resentments are borne throughout the years. It also made me feel deeply for Kara who is caught in a larger conflict between two rather difficult women. But it's also fascinating the way we gradually learn about the strained relationship between her grandmother and grandfather. His philandering is a well-established fact but they belong to a generation where such indiscretion is skeptically endured. Nevertheless, it's a source of great tension and the atmosphere this creates is evocatively described as Kara witnesses their strained arrangement and silent battles.

I really enjoyed this sensitive novel and felt a tender connection with Kara even though her life is very different from my own.

Dear Reader by Cathy Rentzenbrink

Readers are a special type. We're drawn to spending hours between the covers of a book when the world tells us there are more important and more exciting things to do. But readers know that there is nothing more important or more exciting than the story which is waiting on the page to come alive in our imaginations. As such we devote countless hours to reading and we make room in the busyness of life for this remove from reality because we know that it is richly-rewarding time well spent. Cathy Rentzenbrink is a true reader. In “Dear Reader” she enumerates the many books which have held special meaning for her while chronicling the events of her life. More than this, she elegantly describes a life spent reading – how books are a central fixture in her life providing ballast, comfort and joy. Although reading is necessarily a solitary activity it also makes us all feel less alone. Rentzenbrink states “I find it consoling to be reminded that I am not alone, that everything I feel has been felt before, that everything I struggle with has been perplexing others since the dawn of time. My favourite books are specific yet universal. They illuminate my own life as well as showing me the lives of others and leave me changed, my worldview expanded.” This beautifully summarises the gift of reading and why for many of us it is a way of life. 

If reading is viewed as a leisure activity predominantly for the middle-upper class, Rentzenbrink proves this is wrong. She describes her youth being raised in a working class family with a father who only learned to read and write later in life. Books were always present from an early age: “My granny gave me my first book when I was a few months old.” Growing up she always got her hands on books through the library or school or buying books as a special treat. As a naturally gregarious and extroverted individual, Rentzenbrink worked in pubs when she became an adult. But her penchant for recommending books to people naturally led her to becoming a book seller. The jobs she held in a number of different bookstores from Harrods to Waterstones to Hatchards is described so compellingly from the mechanics of shop life to the varied experience of dealing with customers.

Because her passion was so integral to her work, it naturally led to more opportunities in the wider publishing industry including programmes to encourage reading/writing in prisons and initiatives to support adults who struggle with literacy. In addition to being the fascinating life story of a bookish soul, what I loved about this account is the way Rentzenbrink comes into contact with a wide spectrum of readers from many different social groups. It shows the many ways books populate and influence people's lives.

A quality common to all readers is an intense curiosity about what other readers are reading. The author describes a familiar habit of peering at the covers of what people are reading on public transport and when someone is reading a book she loves finding it difficult to resist striking up a conversation with them about it. Part of the draw of this book is seeing what titles Rentzenbrink will discuss. The experience is like scanning a great reader's bookshelf where I quickly identified books I'm familiar with (“Little Women”, “The Goldfinch”, “A Tale for the Time Being”, “A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing”, “What Belongs to You”); titles I've always meant to read (“The Diary of a Nobody”, “The Crimson Petal and the White”, “Jamaica Inn”); and novels that I've not heard of before but Rentzenbrink makes them sound so intriguing (“March Violets”, “Mr Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore”, “Instructions for a Heatwave”). But many more books are discussed throughout. She groups lists of books under certain qualities or styles and summarises each with brief insights into how she personally connected with them. They're bracingly honest book recommendations like you'd get from a friend. When describing the novel “A Little Life” she accurately assesses “I won't lie to you, dear reader: there is little comfort or joy in this novel, but it is a work of genius that asks the hardest questions about the limitations of love.” It's wonderful the sheer variety and scale of Rentzenbrink's reading especially as she explains how she never distinguished between so-called “high” and “low-brow” literature when she was growing up.

There were so many parts of this book that I found myself nodding at because even though the author has a very different life from my own I could deeply connect with her experiences as a reader. This includes issues such as the bewildering question which committed readers are often asked “How do you read so much?”, the dilemma of not wanting to say anything bad about a book and the feeling of not being good enough as a reader “it is too easy to get in a panic and decide that the fact I haven't read everything means I have no right to love books.” She also describes the dismaying feeling we can get when going through a period of our lives where we can't concentrate on reading as we normally do. This is commonly known as the dreaded “book slump”. There was a period following the birth of her son when Rentzenbrink couldn't read and she describes how “I hadn't felt right before, like I'd been robbed of my magic powers.” What the author also describes so movingly is the reason why we readers are so engrossed by this solitary activity and how it provides an endless source of inspiration for us throughout our lives: “The very way that fiction works – the process of conflict and resolution at the heart of every story – means that novels are full of people encountering challenging situations and, usually, surviving them. Books are a masterclass in how to carry on.”

This book is deeply consoling for any keen reader. It made me feel understood. Opening this book is like passing under that sign in Foyles bookshop that proclaims “Welcome book lover, you are among friends.” Rentzenbrink is brilliant at articulating why the physical object of a book and its content is so important to us. “Every book holds a memory. When you hold a book in your hand, you access not only the contents of that book but fragments of the previous selves that you were when you read it.” I think that's partly why my personal library is so important to me. Not only do these books offer enthralling stories I can return to and learn more from but they are touchstones to the past and to the person I was when reading them. If you're a reader, you'll know what it means to stare at a shelf of books and feel like they are a part of you. “Dear Reader” poignantly conveys the deep pleasure to be found in the experience of reading and the communities that books build.

The Swallowed Man by Edward Carey

When thinking in more depth about the story of Pinocchio I realized that it is absolutely a story about loneliness. What bigger expression of loneliness can there be than to ascribe consciousness to inanimate objects and pretend they are your family? Edward Carey beautifully plays off from this classic fairy tale by writing from the perspective of Geppetto during the period when he became trapped in the belly of a whale after embarking out onto the ocean to try to find his lost puppet son. He describes a ship that the whale also swallowed and how this becomes his home with a limited supply box of candles and hard tack to sustain him. Interspersed with Gepetto's text are illustrations of the pictures and figures he newly creates within the prison of this marine mammal. What emerges is the most touching and creative portrait of a solitary individual desperately trying to fashion some companionship for himself as he contemplates the meaning of his life.

There's a sweet playfulness to Geppetto's character. He befriends a tiny crab in his beard who he calls Olivia and when he anticipates that he might have some company he fashions dried sea stuff into a toupee. This reinforces how he is caught in a childlike state where he believes a doll he created came to life. Not only that, but he and Pinocchio developed a multi-layered relationship filled with disagreements, fights and reconciliations. It's an expression of loneliness but one which is filtered through his creative artistry. Geppetto states “I am – despite my father's deepest wishes – a carpenter. My art is bolder than I. It send messages of me out into the world. When I come to wood and we work together, things come out of me that I should never have thought possible.” He persists with his craft despite discouragement from his father who neglected and oppressed him. Geppetto movingly describes how he never received the nurturing he needed and how he was unlucky in love with a series of women. He became a figure of ridicule and scorn in his community after his family's business collapsed. So he was essentially on his own.

The state of Geppetto's current situation reinforces the melancholy state of his existential absolute aloneness. Here he is a being trapped inside a much larger being that has no awareness of his presence (except when Geppetto tries to dig his way out of the whale.) It's in some ways worse than being a small dot in a cold universe because his circumscribed universe is a living, breathing animal. This combined with Geppetto's recollections and reflections produces a touching meditation on what it means to be totally on your own. It's also a powerful depiction of ageing and how “Old age is a single room.” In additional to the physical, financial and societal pressures that come from getting older we also essentially become trapped in ourselves and our memories. In the case of Geppetto, there's an additional anxious tension to the story and the narrative becomes increasingly hallucinatory as Geppetto's situation becomes more desperate and the candles begin to run out. I strongly connected with this artfully rendered short, impactful and haunting novel.