Asylum Road by Olivia Sudjic

I enjoy it when I'm wrong-footed as to what a novel is really about until I get into the heart of its story. “Asylum Road” is very cleverly structured in how it carefully reveals information in different sections as it carries you through the emotional journey of its protagonist Anya, a 20-something PhD student. The novel's opening line is “Sometimes it felt like the murders kept us together.” But rather than describing a couple who commit murders it goes on to detail their journey from London to France while listening to true crime dramas along the way. Anya is tense thinking her ecologically-minded boyfriend Luke might break up with her on this trip but it turns out he proposes to her with a diamond ring. It feels like this will become a typical modern-day story of the highs and lows of romance yet the ominous tone of that opening line remains and is carried through the story as we gradually learn that Anya was a survivor of the Seige of Sarajevo which occurred when she was a girl. But this isn't a historical account of the Bosnian War. Instead it shows the day to day experience of someone living with a deep trauma that other people are incapable of understanding. 

The tone of unreconciled violence in this story is perfectly encapsulated in an early scene where Anya refers to her Balkan heritage when making casual dinner conversation with an elderly woman at someone else's wedding. It's described how “She'd blinked at me kindly and said it must be sad when your country no longer exists, then returned to pulverising her asparagus.” Similarly, there seems no way to create a bridge in understanding between Anya and Luke regarding Anya's past. In the second section of the book they travel back to her homeland to reconnect with her family including her mother who is suffering from Alzheimer's. The awkwardness of this journey and the emotional tug of war which occurs in a day to day relationship is vividly described: “His moods would shift abruptly, and at times I would find myself having crossed an obscure boundary into a strange place, a territory which only minutes ago had not been there.” Not only does Anya still carry with her the constant threat she experienced in childhood, but there's also the ever-present danger of being exiled from this relationship which seems like it will be cemented in marriage but remains precariously fragile.

It's admirable how Sudjic draws us so close to the reality of Anya's experience yet there's a building tension as the reader grapples to understand her motives. Often she seems trapped in a kind of inertia when she doesn't respond to someone speaking to her or make progress with larger elements of her life like working on her PhD. Instead the past constantly threatens to drown her like an undertow and we feel an ominous panic suddenly surge up to make her experience a debilitating vertigo. I greatly sympathised with Anya who wants to achieve a comforting stasis yet finds the world is in a constant state of flux – both in her personal life and the larger society. There are references to Brexit and recent terrorist attacks in London which have resulted in the creation of both mental and physical barriers between people. Despite being informed and connected through the news, the novel signals how there will always be a tragic gap between living through a traumatic experience and viewing it from the outside. The way in which “Asylum Road” artfully conveys this makes it a powerful and haunting story.

Open Water by Caleb Azumah Nelson

I love a good love story. So few novels about love get the right balance between poetic feeling and poignantly rendered realistic detail. But Caleb Azumah Nelson confidently combines these elements to produce a debut that's beautifully distilled yet expansive in what it's saying. It's about two young black British people who meet in a pub in South East London. Their relationship starts as a friendship and tenderly eases into romance. They're in their early-mid twenties and trying to maintain their artistic aspirations while earning money. He's a photographer and she's a dancer. Nelson narrates the story in the second person to focus on his perspective. This gives the compelling effect of being at a distance at the same time as being privy to his innermost being. It's like the act of being photographed itself where you feel curiously both inside and outside yourself at once. There's a lot in this book about the act of seeing which develops in nuance and meaning with the impactful refrain: “It's one thing to be looked at, and another to be seen.” There's a freedom in truly being yourself but there are consequences that come from such vulnerability. “Open Water” powerfully captures the longterm effects of two specific people who really see each other as uniquely beautiful and endearingly flawed individuals. 

The story references and pays tribute to the influence of current writers like Zadie Smith and Teju Cole – in the case of Smith through a literal meeting with her at a book signing. As well as giving a sweet nod to these figures it makes complete sense that the male protagonist is guided by these writers' words as he ponders what it really means to inhabit a black body. It's powerful how his story shows the complicated formation of his masculinity as he's expected to be both tough and sensitive, grateful for his opportunities as well as resigned to the knowledge that he's undeservedly feared. Momentary respite from these pressures is elegantly captured in fleeting encounters with other individuals at Carnival Sunday or in a barbershop where there's a shared understanding of this ever-present burden. There's a swirl of experiences described in brief, emotionally charged chapters from getting a takeaway after a night out to a joint being shared with a near stranger to tearfully watching the film of ‘If Beale Street Could Talk’ to the sobering intrusion of being stopped and searched by the police. And there's also the heat and romance of this young man and woman alternately finding and losing one another. This is such a short book but I feel the resonance of all these moments and sensations like memories.

Bernard and the Cloth Monkey by Judith Bryan

Bernardine Evaristo made history when she was declared the joint winner of the Booker Prize in 2019. It's shocking that a black woman hadn't won the award before that point and “Girl, Woman, Other” has gone on to receive deserved success as a bestseller. It's great to see that Evaristo is using her fame to highlight black British writers from the past whose books went out of print by curating a series for Penguin Books called 'Black Britain, Writing Back.' These include newly reprinted editions of books by a variety of black writers focusing on different subjects in different genres. Evaristo states that these aren't meant to form a new canon, but begin to correct how “Black British writers rarely appear on these reading lists, are rarely taught to new generations of readers and unless they become commercial successes, their legacy very quickly disappears.” 

I'm looking forward to exploring all the books in this series and the first book I read from it is Judith Bryan's “Bernard and the Cloth Monkey” which was first published in 1998 and won The Saga Prize. Anita or “An” returns to her family home in London after the death of her father. There she reconnects with her sister Beth who cared for their father during his illness. Their mother has gone on an extended holiday leaving the sisters alone together for the first time in years and this gives them time to sift through their troubled family past. As they care for and inhabit this home it takes on such a strong presence as the rooms seem laced with memories. The author evokes these through the eyes of the sisters whose narrative sometimes slips into the second person or takes on the characteristics of a fairy tale when describing the past. At first I found these shifts jarring but they came to make sense and feel very moving when I better understood the mentality of the sisters and the different traumatic events they experienced. It's a psychologically suspenseful story as well as a powerful portrait of the deleterious effects of complicit silence within the family home.

It's striking how strongly this novel conveys how when we live in close quarters with others we are also living with those people's egos. A person can form an enhanced sense of self which takes up space outside the physical body and when you live in close proximity to them you can be very aware of its presence. The author poignantly describes this in scenes where Anita witnesses her father's fantasy about reigning imperially over crowds of people or how her sister “bestrode the hall like a colossus” as she moves through the house in the early morning. For Anita herself, the imagined sense of self has more complex and serious consequences. I love how this story captures the ways in which we become so attentive to the people we live with that we can almost see their projections of themselves and the way they subjectively view the world. This novel also shows how significant and tragic it is that we learn not to speak about certain things or remark upon injustices which are occurring under one's own roof. It's such an honest representation of the intimacies of family life.

Although they are very different from each other and often have an antagonistic relationship, the sisters come to discuss a number of subjects which need to see the light of day. The story describes realms of female experience that have been pent up because of the domineering presence of their parents and men in their lives. In doing so it records a shift in perspective between generations and there's an especially poignant scene where a number of black female characters are together discussing the particular burdens placed upon them even while they are aware their parents sometimes made sacrifices for their (intended) benefit. The evolving and sometimes conflicting views expressed feel like they can only be vented now that the parents are absent from the house. By doing so the sisters take ownership of both the home and their heritage as well as expelling the mythologies their parents created.

I also appreciated how this novel showed different sides of London. Outside of the suburban home, Anita meets an old flame of hers in a number of different locations around the city. It gives a distinct and refreshing view of a city as it is actually inhabited by people who live there as opposed to how it's glamorized in post cards. In one funny scene Anita and Steve take a boat ride with tourists and view London from the perspective of outsiders. But there's also a sense of how the city has taken residence within their home to depersonalize it: “The spoils of John Lewis stores and Selfridges obscuring the real house An knew to be just under the surface.” It's interesting that the story shows how these physical locations and the people within them are in a state of flux and continuously influence each other. “Bernard and the Cloth Monkey” is filled with striking imagery and expresses a memorable point of view.

We Are All Birds of Uganda by Hafsa Zayyan

I love it when novels are so richly transportive they make me what to physically visit the place depicted in the story. The way in which protagonist Sameer visits Uganda in the later part of “We Are All Birds of Uganda” and experiences the spectacular sights and delicious food makes me want to go there too. That's not to say this book is like a travel brochure because it takes seriously the politically turbulent history, the complex effects of colonialism and the deadly consequences of the 1971 coup that occurred within the country. But Hafsa Zayyan's story also lovingly depicts this landscape whilst dramatically portraying multiple generations of a family forced to reconsider the meaning of home between their lives in Uganda and England. 

The story alternates between high flying lawyer Sameer's life in present-day London and successful businessman Hasan who is still deeply mourning the loss of his first wife though he's remarried in 1960s Uganda. Many novels have used a dual narrative to dynamically tell their stories, but this excellent debut does this in such an artful way that adds tremendous meaning to the story. At first the narratives seem quite disparate but gradually the familial connection is made clear and at one point the two protagonists physically cross over into each other's countries. There's a beautiful symmetry to how this occurs in the narrative. Also, this isn't only a geographical change but it transforms each character's understanding of the world, themselves and the gaps between generations. Something this story captures so meaningfully is generational conflict and the importance of establishing an understanding between the young and old despite having different values.

I admire how Zayyan builds both Sameer and Hasan's stories so they were equally compelling. Sameer's ambition to advance in his career at a law firm means he works ridiculous hours. So he has very little time to keep up with his friends or establish romance. His experience socializing primarily through What'sApp groups is relatable for a lot of young professionals working in London today. Sameer also experiences a multitude of micro-aggressive behaviour from certain colleagues in his workplace because on his skin colour and Muslim faith. I felt fully involved in his personal and professional dilemma as well as the familial one he experiences when travelling back to Leicester where he's expected to join in the family business. Hasan's story is equally moving in the letters he writes to his deceased wife communicating his innermost thoughts and expressing his grief at her loss. His tale grows increasingly alarming as political unrest occurs in Uganda and the new regime shows a horrific intolerance towards the Ugandan Asian population. There's also a compelling mystery at the centre of his story to do with why his wife died.

These two stories combine together to say something much larger about the impact of displacement and racial intolerance. It addresses complex questions regarding the meaning of home and who has the right to establish themselves in a particular nation. Of course, there's no answers to these dilemmas as the characters come to understand that they are part of the much larger machinations of society and political change. It also movingly contemplates the meaning of Muslim faith as it's practiced today. I came to feel a deep affection for the characters and I'm grateful for the new view of the world that their stories gave me. It's also made me want to know more about Uganda's history. My only other fictional encounter with this country is through the novel “Kintu” but I'm very keen to read Makumbi's most recent novel “The First Woman” as well as another new novel coming out soon called “Kololo Hill” which also portrays the devastating effects of General Idi Amin's decree that Ugandan Asians must leave the country. “We Are All Birds of Uganda” was a co-winner of the inaugural Merky Books New Writers' Prize, but I hope it goes on to win many more awards this year.

Doctor Thorne Big Read

I've been enjoying reading more classic fiction recently and a new favourite is the work of Anthony Trollope. Part of the pleasure of reading his famous Barsetshire series of novels for the first time is that I've been doing so alongside members of the Trollope Society. Over the months of November and December there were online video meetings discussing sections of “Barchester Towers”. This greatly enhanced my understanding of the context of the historical period portrayed and it was enlightening to engage in debates about the characters and plot. More than this, since we've been in various stages of lockdown for the past several months, it was just nice to see a range of new faces! 

It was also helpful to get a range of points of view about the book from beginners, devoted fans who have read and reread Trollope's books and experts like the professor John Bowen who wrote the introduction to the Oxford World's Classics edition of “Barchester Towers”. This meant discussions about the book were both educational and light-hearted. At one point in the final meeting there was a funny debate about whether the somewhat stuffy and dull character of Mr Arabin was sexy or not. Although, personally, I have more of a soft spot for bearded Bertie Stanhope!

Since it was such a delightful experience I'm thrilled that the Trollope Society is launching another global online Big Read focusing this time on “Doctor Thorne”, book three in the Barsetshire series. It will take place on Zoom every two weeks from February 1 to March 15. There will also be a very special guest on February 8 when director and screenwriter Julian Fellowes will be in conversation with broadcaster Gyles Brandreth to discuss Fellowes' 2016 television adaptation of “Doctor Thorne”.

This is a great opportunity for people who are new to the novel (like me) and people who have read it before to join in regular meetings to talk over this story which focuses of the difficulties of forming romantic attachments outside one's social class. I'm sure the novel is also filled with Trollope's characteristic humour and engaging writing style. Unlike the first two novels in the series, I believe this book mostly includes new characters so can be more easily read independently if you've not yet got to reading “The Warden” and “Barchester Towers”.

Over 300 Trollope enthusiasts from around the world took part in the first Big Read and multiple people wrote to let me know how much they enjoyed participating so I’d love for you to join me in the “Doctor Thorne” Big Read. You can find out more information and register for free here: https://trollopesociety.org/event/doctor-thorne-1/

I'm really looking forward to starting “Doctor Thorne” and hope to see you there on February 1st!

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.