Lullaby Beach by Stella Duffy

It's riveting reading a well-plotted, artfully constructed multigenerational story where there are long-held secrets. It's especially moving when the family clearly loves each other but still find it difficult to confess things that are destroying their lives. This is the case with the three generations of women portrayed in “Lullaby Beach”. The story begins when teenager Lucy goes to visit her great-aunt Kitty in her dilapidated seaside home and discovers she died from taking an overdose of pills. Over the course of the story Lucy's mother Beth and Sara seek out what really happened to this spirited, independent woman and why she chose to end her life in this way. Sections of the novel move back and forth between the decades to show that it's not only Kitty who was compelled to conceal the truth. Many secrets are gradually uncovered. The story compassionately shows how we can become entangled by circumstances and are driven by fear to make desperate decisions - especially when being coerced or cornered by domineering men. 

This novel portrays a particularly compelling sister relationship. Sara and Beth are quite different from each other. They have a strong bond, but feelings of competitiveness and jealousy underline a lot of their actions. Details such as the way Beth's daughter Lucy is naturally drawn to confiding in Sara over her mother show how family dynamics can grow to form inbuilt tensions. Duffy is also very good at building larger social issues into the specificity of her stories. She shows the way particular characters in different time periods are marginalized by overt or inbuilt racism. There's also a class system at play in the small seaside town at the centre of the novel. The longterm residents of this community are being systematically cut out of receiving the financial benefits from the redevelopment and rejuvenation of their surroundings.

But the central theme of this novel is the many ways women are silenced by shame. Though Kitty is an adventurous, forthright and intelligent individual she becomes stuck in an abusive relationship in which she's exploited. All too often society is quick to judge the victim from the outside and say a person being abused should just leave, but Duffy portrays the emotional, financial and social circumstances that can lead to the continuation of this painful situation. At one point Sara describes how “We get ashamed of something we think the world disapproves of, but shame's more about something we know ourselves is wrong. Or maybe it's something that's wrong in others and we feel it because of them, because of how they've been to us.” Stella Duffy's novel poignantly shows that this shame can lead to longterm secrets – especially with the people we love the most.

The Prophets by Robert Jones Jr

When I was learning about history in high school I never thought to question where I could find out about the lives of gay people from the past. It strikes me as strange that I didn't question this even though I was out as a teenager and craved to learn more about gay life. But I think the way our received knowledge about the past is framed contributes to why it doesn't even occur to us to ask about marginalized individuals whose stories aren't included amidst the grander narrative. I've deeply appreciated how some recent novels such as “A Place Called Winter” by Patrick Gale and “Days Without End” by Sebastian Barry introduced gay lives and gay love stories into specific historical settings. These are periods of time in which we know little or nothing about the lives of queer individuals because any records of these identities and relationships were either too dangerous to keep or were purposefully erased. But (of course) gay men existed and loved each other in these times from the past! Since we can't recover what's been lost the only way to reintroduce these lives into the narrative of history is by fictionally imagining them there. 

In school I certainly had a lot of lessons about the history of slavery in America and the Civil War (although a lot of the shamefully grim reality of what happened was no doubt withheld.) But, again, I didn't think to question where gay lives fitted into these historical accounts. Some might consider it crass or redundant to ask this when so much about the lives of America's African American ancestry was maliciously and purposefully destroyed. Some might even feel exhausted by the prospect of reading another slave narrative when so many books have already covered this heinous but vitally important era of US history. But, as Robert Jones Jr said in a wonderful interview he gave with Brit Bennett: “If there were 20 million enslaved people there are 20 million stories to tell and not every story is told.” So, yes, there is both a desire and need for a fictional story of two enslaved black men who are in love with each other to be told and I'm grateful Jones has done this in his artful and extremely moving debut novel “The Prophets”.

The main story literally begins with a roll in the hay as Samuel and Isaiah, two slaves on a remote Mississippi plantation primarily work and reside in relative solitude within the property's barn. If this seems romanticised we're soon made aware of the cruel reality of this hellish place. What it vitally establishes is that there is an intense desire and love between these two men which would otherwise blossom naturally if it weren't for their enslavement. Their relationship is made all the more precarious as the white masters and other enslaved people on the plantation become aware of their romantic and sexual connection. Their reactions to this knowledge vary and Jones conveys in a fascinating way how the judgements made upon them aren't simply moral or religious, but also have to do with the commercial loss of two strong and healthy black men who won't produce babies in the breeding programme designed by the plantation owner. The physicality of their relationship also inspires feelings of admiration, confusion, kinship, desire and envy among the many inhabitants which further complicates the ways these men are alternately befriended, betrayed, used and punished. Equally, Samuel and Isaiah themselves have different ways of admitting, denying or suppressing their desire for each other in these dire circumstances. This story delves deeply into the full complexity of the issues at stake and the emotional snags that would have resulted from a same sex relationship such as this.

At first I felt dismayed the narrative didn't stick solely with Samuel and Isaiah's perspectives because I wanted to feel and know more about the dynamic of their relationship. Yet the lives of the other black inhabitants of the plantation are written in such a compelling and vivid way I was so drawn into their individual stories as well as how their actions impacted upon the male couple. I was also concerned about going into the point of views of the white plantation owners and overseer (or toubab men and women) because I was concerned Jones would feel the need to portray them somewhat sympathetically as most novelists feel it's a necessary part of the fiction writing process that you must have empathy with all your characters whether they are good or villainous. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for them because American history is too often dominated by white perspectives. The author approaches this dilemma in a compelling way showing how they would logically justify their dominance over fellow human beings, but also shows their wilful ignorance and despicable abuse of power. I came to feel it was necessary to allocate space for their viewpoints because otherwise it'd be too easy to dismiss them as simply evil. In doing so, Jones creatively shows the way the religious, political and economic ideologies of the time reinforced and perpetuated this system of exploitation.

The novel also ambitiously reaches back in time to portray the ancestry of Samuel and Isaiah which they are unaware of because no records were kept. Patriarch Paul's book which logged the slaves’ arrival at the plantation is presented in the story in a way which is so memorable because its details are so thin. The story depicts the inventive way in which the community of the Kosongo people in Africa was organized to show the markedly different frames of mind from a non-Western perspective. Voices of the prophets also emerge from beyond the grave to advise and comment upon Samuel and Isaiah's bond. This beautifully gives the sense that these men who love each other are cherished and held in a way they aren't in real life. It's another aspect of the narrative which felt somewhat distracting at first but then came to be necessary as it gives some welcome relief from the more difficult aspects of this story. The novel is not difficult in terms of readability. The language is not overly-complicated and though the plot is filled with many characters and layers it's relatively easy to follow. What's difficult to read are the scenes of horrific violence and the surprisingly insidious degrees of malice exhibited by different characters. Yet, that I was unaware of the many specific ways enslaved people in America were systematically abused and kept in bondage is another reason why this book feels necessary. Because it was so harrowing also meant I felt intimately involved in the story. The final sections of this novel are startlingly dramatic and I was thoroughly gripped wanting to know what the fate of the many individual characters would be. The conclusion is both surprising and very moving.

I can only imagine what impact reading this novel would have had upon me as a teenager in my burgeoning understanding of our lost gay history and how valuably it'd have contributed to the formation of my own gay identity. I'm glad “The Prophets” exists now to inspire a newer generation and hope that it's taught alongside texts about the history of slavery in America. I know this makes it sound like I'm recommending this book because reading it is a worthy experience, but its characters are so compelling I felt intimately involved in their lives and stories. Reading this impressive novel is an absolutely absorbing and enlightening experience.

The (Other) You by Joyce Carol Oates

It's common for us to question what our lives would have been like if we'd taken a different path at a certain point or if events had unfolded in a different way. It feels like an intrinsic aspect of human nature to imagine what form this alternate self might take. Perhaps the past year of the global pandemic has provoked us to ponder this question even more intensely and reflect on the collective fate of humanity. What would our society look like if the virulent virus hadn't indelibly changed our lives? Enduring questions such as these expand to more ponderous queries regarding fate and destiny. These are the poignant issues at the heart of Joyce Carol Oates' new collection of short stories “The (Other) You”. The book is divided into two distinct parts which elegantly mirror each other to say something much larger and more meaningful about these metaphysical questions. 

The first part of the book includes creative and dramatic stories which primarily present characters caught in the question of alternate destinies. An American woman finds her solitary sojourn in Paris is disrupted by a man in an emergency. An adolescent girl twists her ankle and painfully makes her way home to find an ominously curious gathering of people. A husband who doesn't like to wear his hearing aid calls out to his wife and tragically can't hear her response. A professor embarking on his retirement revisits the Italian city he spent time in during his formative years to discover it's darkly altered. A woman uses her anonymity to assassinate a prime minister. These tales often include a psychological twist where the real world slides into the surreal and time is skewed so the protagonists suddenly find themselves in a markedly altered reality. It makes these stories thrilling to read both in their plots and the ingenuity of their narrative techniques. But they are also meaningful in what they imply regarding unexpected consequences if we were suddenly allowed to inhabit a different potential life.

A single location called the Purple Onion Cafe appears in three of the stories. Friendly meetings at this spot are troubled by a much larger event when a demoralized teenage boy detonates a homemade bomb here. Yet time often shifts so at some points of the stories this horrific event has already occurred and at other points it is about to occur. It's as if the enormity of this tragic disruption which introduces the larger problems of the world into everyday local reality ruptures the very fabric of time. The way in which this plays out in the different narratives is fascinating. In 'The Women Friends' a chance delay or a moment spent away from a regular luncheon changes the fate of one or the other of the friends. A man waiting for his lifelong friend in 'Waiting for Kizer' finds himself confronted by less-successful alternate versions of himself. It's brilliant how Oates captures a particular kind of masculine competitiveness: both in how men compete with each other and with themselves. The Lynchian vibes of this tricksy story are reminiscent of both Beckett's 'Waiting for Godot' and Paul Auster's novel “4321”. The cafe also appears in the story 'Final Interview' where a famous author grudgingly grants a meeting with a presumptuous interviewer. Here we get a disturbing glimpse into the frustrated perpetrator's mind as he decides to bomb the cafe. It's striking how different representations of this location and incident say something about the way monumental events can mark and steer the lives of a group of people whose lives are otherwise only tangentially entwined. 

The second part of the book primarily includes stories about characters who are confronted with the stark truth of their reality rather than being caught in meditations about alternate lives. In 'Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God' an affluent couple find their liberal, non-religious community is under threat from the insidious intrusion of the deteriorating environment and the ravages of ill health. Questions of holy vengeance are rephrased to include more practical concerns: “It's Andrew's (half-serious) opinion that in the twenty-first century damnation isn't a matter of Hell but not having adequate medical insurance.” Three stories which are narrated in the second person differently approach the longterm effects of grief and the propensity for denial to avoid living with the reality of death's aftermath. It's bracing and heartbreaking the way these tales portray specific moments when truth disrupts the flow of time: “For this is not a story, and not a fiction. This is actual life, that does not bend easily to your fantasies.” The story 'Nightgrief' portrays how simply living has become a gruelling task for parents who have lost their child. They prefer to become nocturnal beings to avoid crowds (especially children) and they find they are inextricably caught in the arduous flow of time whether they want to or not: “the worst that might happen, that had happened, had the power, or should have had the power, to stop time. Yet - time had not stopped. Not in the slightest had time stopped. What a joke, to imagine that there was an entity – Time – that might choose to stop.” These stories meaningful show the way we are forced to accept the circumstances of our own lives because the past, the present and the inevitability of death are all concrete fixtures of our reality. 

It feels like the opening and closing stories of this collection must be extremely personal to Oates herself. Again, the second person is used to give the sense that the main character is both inhabiting herself and viewing herself from the outside. The titular story 'The (Other) You' portrays a woman who recalls a significant instance in her young life when failing an exam meant she wasn't able to progress to university or leave her provincial hometown of Yewville in upstate New York. Though she idly dreamed of becoming a famous writer and moving away she got married, had a child, became a local poet and bought a used bookstore. Descriptions of how at a young age she created stories with pictures are similar to anecdotes Oates has given in interviews about her early compulsion for storytelling before she learned to write. Though the protagonist of this story is very content with her life she still wonders about what her other life might have been like. It's remarked how “For your lifetime, this is the sentence. A life-sentence.” I admire the double meaning of these lines which describe how we create narratives about our lives but also how we can become imprisoned within a certain state of being.

The final story 'The Unexpected' presents the imagined “other” life of the woman from the opening story and it's also about a character very much like Oates herself. A famous writer returns to upstate New York to receive an honour from a university and give a talk at the Yewville library. Here she glimpses the used book store in town which has closed down in this alternate reality. Oates described going back to her hometown library in a poignant article in Smithsonian Magazine. Though it can be presumed the final story in this collection is inspired by autobiographical experience it is quite clearly about a fictional character. The narrative darkly morphs into the surreal as the haphazard talk and signing she gives at the library results in barely recalled figures from her past coming forward with accusations and demands. It's an eerily rendered reckoning with the past, but also a meditation on the way we can persecute ourselves by believing that if we'd made other choices those other selves might have lived a differently fulfilling and meaningful existence. Oates evokes the longing and wonder of this duality with tremendous verve. These entertaining and enlightening stories also show that it’s important to keep humour and humility in mind when mulling over the mystifying experience of inhabiting a self. 

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.