A Crooked Tree by Una Mannion

There's a bitter-sweet vein of nostalgia running throughout Una Mannion's novel “A Crooked Tree”. It's told from from the point of view of Libby who is looking back at a period of her teenage years at the beginning of the 1980s in a rural Pennsylvanian community. She recounts a dramatic incident where her younger sister Ellen is abruptly left on the side of the road when their single mother is driving the family home and gets fed up with Ellen's backtalk. A series of dramatic and frightening events follow on from this. But the story is also suffused with a feeling of yearning for the idle days of her early life and the certainty of being part of a family unit though she realises they were troubled and imperfect times. I felt a kinship with Libby because (though I grew up much later than her) I had a similarly agrestic American childhood filled with long summer afternoons spent in the forest, roasting marshmallows over a fire or sneaking into places I wasn't supposed to with friends. This novel also gives the feeling that we're all lucky to have survived our childhood because it's only in retrospect that we truly understand how precarious life was and how vulnerable we often were in those early years. 

The sense of yearning in this story is emphasized by the undercurrent of mourning Libby feels since her proudly-Irish father died. She frequently recalls memories of their time together in a way that sours any pleasure she has in the present. His notable loss combined with their mother's frequent absence since she has a long-term secret lover means that Libby and her siblings must rely more on each other for guidance and support. There's a grudging sense of forgiveness expressed when Libby recalls her mother and thinks “I knew she loved us in the way that she could.” These circumstances mean that Libby's persistent emotionally-closed nature makes sense and, though it's frustrating to read about the many instances where she should have been honest about her feelings and been loyal to her friend Sage, I understand her compulsive need for privacy and secrecy.

Though it was realistic and relatable, the trouble with this story was that it too often meandered in a way which sometimes felt tedious. The dramatic tension from Ellen being left on the roadside and what happens to her directly after quickly sputters out as there's an extended amount of speculation about whether or not there will be dangerous and larger consequences. This allows time for Libby's world to be atmospherically evoked but, like the day-to-day life of many teenagers, it's not very interesting. I could definitely relate to this but it reminded me of how boring and insubstantial those days were. When the ultimate results of the initial incident finally play out it feels more melodramatic and forced than meaningful. This is a shame because I mostly enjoyed Mannion's writing and how she evoked the texture and feeling of this troubled working class family's life. I'll definitely be interested to read any of the author's future publications but as a debut novel this book didn't pack quite the punch I wanted.

Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope

Although “Barchester Towers” is often considered to be the most widely-read and best-loved of Trollope's novels (it was voted the public's favourite in a recent poll held by The Trollope Society), it is the second book in the author's Barsetshire series. Therefore, I'm glad I read “The Warden” first because this new tale follows directly on from the first by developing (or quickly dispensing with) many of the characters and continuing the dilemma of who will be the warden of Hiram's Hospital. But it also introduces several absolutely fascinating new characters into this English cathedral town and positions them in sharp opposition to each other. It's as if Trollope sets out a number of beautifully-crafted chess pieces and lets them battle with each other. But, rather than bloodshed and earth-trembling theatrics, the drama of this novel is relatively low-key concerning prospects of marriage and who will be employed in different professional positions. That doesn't mean the emotions in this book are less intensely felt. Rather, it's a wholly absorbing narrative which is both entertaining in its plot and fascinating in the way it evokes a particular society from a certain era. 

The esteemed bishop of Barchester recently died and, rather than being replaced by his son Archdeacon Grantly as expected, a new Prime Minister instead decrees that relative newcomer Mr Proudie take the appointment of bishop. It soon becomes clear that Bishop Proudie is rather weak-willed and heavily influenced by the figures of his domineering wife Mrs Proudie and the calculating chaplain Obadiah Slope. Their new power immediately introduces a schism in the community and church between Bishop Proudie's camp on one side and Dr Grantly, Mrs Grantly and Mr Harding's camp on the other. This leads to a lot of scheming and gossip especially when it comes to the programmes the church will conduct and who will be appointed to that controversial position of the warden of Barchester. Will it be Mr Harding, Mr Slope or Mr Quiverful, a poor clergyman with fourteen children? In a way the dilemma regarding this role of warden is so drawn out having been debated about over two novels that it does become a bit tiresome. Yet, it also allows for moments of great humour as the heated discussions bring out the petty, conniving attitudes or befuddled natures of many different characters.

Caught between these two camps is Mr Harding's daughter Mrs Eleanor Bold, a widow who possesses a comfortable fortune. Unbeknownst to her, she's become the most eligible bachelorette in town and multiple men including Mr Slope, Bertie Stanhope (an idle, roguish, bearded artist) and Mr Arabin (the vicar of St Ewold) all vie for her favour. Other parties become involved in trying to arrange her suitor as well. The romantic question of who Eleanor might ultimately end up with is the more interesting dilemma of the novel especially because she's such a strong-willed individual whose best interests are subsumed by the gossip and political battles of those that surround her. I felt Eleanor's plight is sympathetically handled as she tries to introduce an even-handed attitude towards the warring factions of this community but finds that speculation about her intentions sadly supersedes honest engagement about what she wants.

As if these dilemmas and array of personalities weren't enough, Trollope introduces a number of other sub-plots and characters to the story. The most striking of which is the imposing presence of La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni who is the imperious sister of Bertie Stanhope. She likes to pretend she's a member of high nobility through her estranged Italian husband though he “had not the faintest title to call himself a scion of even Italian nobility.” She has a wickedly flirtatious manner and commands the attention of any room she enters, especially because the leg injuries she sustained because of her husband's abuse means she must be carried around on a sofa. This is such a fascinating character I felt she really deserved a novel of her own. And her presence, in addition to many other characters, does make the flow of this story a bit too unwieldy and overly complex. However, I think a reread of the novel would make the presence and motives of these individuals a lot more clear. There's also so much pleasure to be had in the story that I know it's one I'd like to return to.

Trollope's writing style is so fascinating because, as in “The Warden”, the author's presence is strongly felt over the course of “Barchester Towers”. He'll sometimes self-consciously direct the narrative (especially based on his preference for certain characters), introduce opinionated asides or debate about the form of the novel itself within the story. Rather than being disruptive, this adds more humour to the novel and makes it almost theatrical in the conceit that what we're experiencing is fiction rather than a straightforwardly realistic drama. Sometimes the characters themselves seem in on the joke such as when at one point Signora Neroni remarks: “There is no happiness in love except at the end of an English novel.” As with all great classics, the plot isn't the most interesting aspect of the novel. Rather, the process and discussion which happens in between the action is consistently fascinating. That's what makes it a book worth going back to because it offers such an interesting point of view and is full of compelling ideas. Reading this novel, especially in the context of the Trollope Society's 'Big Read', was so enjoyable and I'm greatly looking forward to reading the third book in the Barsetshire series.

The Golden Rule by Amanda Craig

This month marks the centenary of Patricia Highsmith's birth so I recently rewatched Hitchcock's 'Strangers on a Train'. I also read Amanda Craig's most recent novel “The Golden Rule” as its plot is a modern interpretation of this classic Highsmith story. However, instead of two men meeting by chance, Craig's novel begins with two women from different social classes meeting on a train to Cornwall. Hannah is a single mother who is struggling to pay the rent in London and travelling back to her childhood home as her mother is dying of cancer. Here she encounters Jinni who invites Hannah to join her in the first class carriage and instantly wins her over with her glamorous demeanour and sympathetic story about her horrid husband who has left bruises on her arm. After a few glasses of wine and having a long intimate chat about their estranged abusive husbands they hatch a plan to dispose of each other's wicked spouses. It's a simple plan, but murder is never simple or easy. 

As with Highsmith's story, Craig atmospherically builds the tension and complications of actually executing a plan like this but she also says something larger about class and economic divisions in England. Hannah is an enterprising, clever woman who has been dragged down by a bad marriage and the responsibility of having a child while she's young. Endearingly, she's also a devout bookworm who has always clung to novels for inspiration, guidance and solace. But any reading time or career prospects are smothered by the drudgery of the cleaning jobs she must take in order to feed her family as her estranged husband continuously fails to provide the required financial support. I felt for her struggle but also her indignation at how people with money fail to understand how truly desperate someone without any money can become. She's an extremely sympathetic character and I grew to really care about her as she discovers things are much more complicated than they seem when she journeys to find Jinni's husband.

Another inspiration for this novel was the French fairy tale “Beauty and the Beast”. Imagery and themes are enjoyably worked throughout the plot. However, an issue with having such direct influences is that certain aspects of the story become exaggerated in a way that detracts from the overall impact. Craig is a smart, well-read novelist who has meaningful things to say about today's society and marginalized groups in modern-day England, but sometimes the flourishes used to nod towards classic stories and larger concepts become intrusively theatrical. Despite these occasional distractions, there are many intriguing arguments and ideas incorporated into this story. I especially enjoyed debates which are had about the nature of storytelling between novel reader Hannah and gaming programmer Stan. Overall, this is a wonderfully engaging book full of intriguing suspense that moving depicts the tangled dynamics of current sexual and social politics.

The War of the Poor by Eric Vuillard (translated by Mark Polizzotti)

There have always been brutal inequities within society and numerous historic harrowing moments of revolt where there's a radical shift in power. One interesting figure is Thomas Müntzer, a German preacher and radical theologian of the early 16th century. Before reading Eric Vuillard's short 65-page novella I'd not heard of this figure who opposed both Martin Luther, a leading figure of the Reformation and the Roman Catholic Church. This book is primarily about this idealistic man's relatively rapid rise and fall in his quest to expose the hypocrisies and abuse of power by the church and royalty. It's a fascinating subject. The trouble is that it's a far too brief and shallow account. It doesn't provide enough information or dramatic flair to make it into a satisfying story. The overall tone is also quite muddled so I often wasn't sure if I was reading fiction, an essay, a poem or a biography. In the end this book felt like little more than an extended Wikipedia entry with a few personalized flourishes. 

An interesting point Vuillard makes early on is how an increased ability to reproduce and distribute the Bible at this time made the text more accessible to the general population. It allowed Thomas Müntzer to read the text himself and find passages which he interpreted as contradicting the actions of the church. Of course, the way in which the leading religious figures hoarded wealth while demanding that the working classes surrender the little money they had to further enrich their treasury was scandalous and Müntzer was someone with enough conviction to call out this blatant injustice. He also inspired others to revolt. But the author doesn't creatively bring his character or the time period to life. Vuillard hints at interesting and complex disputes. For instance he writes, “At the time, three popes were laying claim to Peter's throne: the Pope of Rome, the Pope of Pisa, and the Pope of Avignon. Gregory XII, John XXIII, and Benedict XIII. That's a lot of names and numbers to keep straight; it was complicated.” Perhaps this is his humorous way of brushing over some of the intricacies of this historical period but it felt frustrating that he so quickly dismissed what sounds like a larger compelling story.

The great thing about historical novels is that the writer can imaginatively fill in the gaps when history books can't provide a definitive account. A writer of fiction often makes reasonable assumptions about how and why obscure events played out as they did. “The War of the Poor” feels more like an extended list with some general asides. Therefore I didn't feel in any way emotionally engaged by this book and little informed beyond the few facts I've stated here. Despite it's short length it was a slog to read. It's a shame and a missed opportunity so I hope someone one day writes a genuinely compelling novel about Müntzer. 

The Art of Falling by Danielle McLaughlin

When I read Danielle McLaughlin's debut book of short stories “Dinosaurs on Other Planets” I knew this was an author to watch. Her ability to capture the nuances of our psychological reality and complex relationships in fiction is extraordinary. McLaughlin's talent has been confirmed by being awarded a Windham Campbell Prize and the Sunday Times Audible Short Story Award in 2019 as well as numerous other literary awards. So her first novel comes with a lot of anticipation. 

At its heart, “The Art of Falling” is about a seemingly ordinary woman named Nessa whose busy days are filled with her work at an art gallery and caring for her family: husband Philip whose ambitious property development business has fallen on hard times in the wake of the devastating Irish property bubble and teenage daughter Jennifer who is growing secretive and difficult. Yet, amidst juggling gallery lectures and shopping for food to make the family dinner, Nessa grows increasingly aware of how fragile her secure reality has become. Her marriage is still recovering from the recent discovery that Philip was having an affair. More inconvenient truths from the past soon emerge. An eccentric woman publicly asserts that she is the true creator of a famous sculpture that's the centrepiece of an exhibit Nessa is curating. Also, the son of Nessa's long-deceased friend Amy visits the area seeking to learn more about his mother's life. These factors tip Nessa's world into chaos as she scrambles to keep things together and she must question whether buried truths should remain so. These dilemmas create an emotional pressure which is intensely felt and the complex meaning of this story gradually unfolds as the facts are revealed.

One of the things about getting older is that our versions of the past become solidified within our own self-justification and egocentric certainty. Anything that challenges this is often met with suspicion and hostility. Therefore it's moving the way Nessa must accept her own role in perpetuating mythologies which have emerged regarding an artist's career and her friend whose life was tragically cut short. McLaughlin's story raises many intriguing questions. To what degree are facts manipulated to serve a common narrative? What does our subjective experience do to bend the truth? Does excavating certain truths about the past enhance our reality or disrupt it? How much forgiveness is necessary if we want to honestly know what happened in the past? This novel inspires a deep reckoning with one's personal history in a way similar to Julian Barnes' “The Sense of an Ending”. It made me reflect on my own past and how much I have psychologically tidied away to serve my own purposes. What Nessa's tale beautifully shows is that this is a very human trait and we need to be careful about how we manage collective and personal memory.

I admire how McLaughlin is able to raise all these probing questions gradually so they primarily emerge and continue to meaningfully linger after the story finishes. While reading this novel I got so involved with the sympathetic details of Nessa's life and the mysteries of the plot as it unfolded. Like Anne Tyler, McLaughlin has a way of making the everyday wonderfully engaging. This made reading it a very pleasurable experience. There are details which have stuck in my imagination such as the central sculpture which was made with a material that causes it to slowly disintegrate over time. The artist might have been done this purposefully or not, but the nature of this artwork raises a point about what should remain permanent. By encoding personal history into a certain narrative we're limiting the truth about how complex the experience of living really is, yet it's a necessary part of forming identity. “The Art of Falling” shows how the messiness of these dilemmas and questions make being human both beautiful and eternally troubling.

The Truths We Hold by Kamala Harris

I'm not someone naturally inclined to read memoirs by politicians, but the tumultuous “leadership” in America over the past four years has been so horrendous and upsetting to witness I wanted to do something more to celebrate and engage with the inauguration of President Biden and Vice President Harris rather than just following the news. Also, other than knowing the professional roles Kamala Harris has held as a senator from California and attorney general as well as the policies she spoke about in the vice presidential debates, I had little knowledge about her background or beliefs before reading her memoir “The Truths We Hold”. So it was wonderfully engaging to read in her own words how her convictions have been shaped by her experience of working on tough political battles concerning everything from crime to health care to same-sex marriage to climate change to immigration to education to the economy. This was not so much about ticking through a list of hot-topic issues but proving she intimately understands the numerous challenges facing the country. And what America sorely needs now is knowledge and experience to guide it! 

One of the most heartening things about reading the accounts of her professional work is how Harris knows the day by day effect that political decisions have for countless people and the consequences of not taking action. She feels the urgency. She cites specific examples of cases she's been both instrumentally involved in and others she's engaged with as part of a much larger process. Additionally, she proudly writes about her personal background as the daughter of a biologist born in India and a professor of economics born in Jamaica. That a woman of mixed heritage has now reached one of the highest political positions in the country is so encouraging and important. We follow how she met and married her husband and became the mother to two step children as well as the emotional rollercoaster of her election campaigns. She explains why having Sunday dinner with her family is so important to her. She gives an intimate view of both the personal challenges she's faced and how setbacks have only fuelled her to work harder. It's inspiring to read how her values and sense of justice drive her to enact real progress.

There was a somewhat snippy review of this memoir which appeared in the Guardian when this book was first published in early 2019. True, this might not be the most artful work of literature ever created and might serve as an extended political campaign pamphlet. It's narrative is controlled in a way to be personable without tipping into anything too revealing or risque. But so what? This book is full of heart and sincerity. It gave me a close understanding of Harris' point of view and her convictions. I fully understand that in entering the vice presidency she might have to make compromises and that she won't entirely fix every problem in America. But something she asserts towards the end of the book is that “words have power.” As we know all too well from recent events, when a political leader speaks carelessly and purely out of self interest the integrity and security of the entire country is at risk. I believe this book is filled with pledges and promises Harris will do her best to realise, but even if it’s nothing more than campaign promises – and I don't think that's all it is – she says the right things here. It fills me with teary-eyed optimism to know that these are the words which will lead the nation for the next four years alongside the new president.

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?