Transcendent Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi

I loved reading Yaa Gyasi's debut “Homegoing” so much that I felt a slight sense of trepidation picking up her second novel “Transcendent Kingdom”. Could it live up to the quality of the first book? The answer is yes, but it also surprised me because it's a very different novel and a more self contained story of family life. Instead of creating an expansive saga about multiple generations as she did in her debut, this new novel is about the collapse of one particular family until only the narrator is left. We know this from the beginning and it's riveting and moving to gradually learn how this promising young woman comes to be left all alone. It's also a story that gives an impactful personal take on larger issues. There have been many books about the tensions between religion and science, but “Transcendent Kingdom” eloquently ponders it from a unique perspective asserting “this tension, this idea that one must necessarily choose between science and religion, is false.” Narrator Gifty had a strict Christian upbringing and now studies neuroscience. Using lab mice she researches the mysterious workings of the brain and whether hard-wired behaviour can be altered within all that grey matter. Her work is primarily motivated by a need to find answers about why she lost members of her family to drug addiction and depression. Of course, there's no easy answers but she also meaningfully considers the psychological and sociological factors at play. It's a tremendously meaningful story that completely gripped me. 

The question of faith can't be so easily dismissed when someone is raised to whole-heartedly believe in a certain religion. Gifty certainly sees through the hypocrisy and frequent misinterpretations of the Bible as practiced in the Alabaman community she was raised in. However, Christian practice and belief is a deeply encoded part of her personality so that she feels “'I believe in God, I do not believe in God.' Neither of these sentiments felt true to what I actually felt.” She's experienced the brutal way that some people use religion to justify their own prejudices (whether that's Christians in Alabama or Christians in Ghana) as well as the intolerant attitudes of budding young students who dismiss any notion of religious belief. It frequently leaves Gifty feeling painfully isolated as her distinctive sensibility doesn't allow her to feel like a part of either of these groups. These attitudes also don't reflect the way religion was practiced by her family in their home – especially in times of crisis. It leads her to the complex notion that “My soul is still my soul, even if I rarely call it that.”

It's moving how the narrative becomes a reckoning with the self as the story is interspersed with pieces from a diary Gifty kept growing up. These are her conversations with God where she desperately asks unanswerable questions but they're also a thoughtful attempt to understand the world around her. The tenderness of this child self paired alongside the more hardened solitary scientist she is today creates a heartbreaking picture of a sympathetically lonely woman. Therefore the defensive, withholding way she conducts her personal and romantic relationships (with men and women) makes sense and I felt for her stance. The circumstances she grew up in and her self consciousness about society's superficial assumptions also means that she ardently wants to be viewed as an individual freed from identity labels: “I didn't want to be thought of as a woman in science, a black woman in science. I wanted to be thought of as a scientist, full stop”. 

I was very struck by the tense relationship with her brother Nana who becomes addicted to opioids after he sustains a sports injury. The story portrays the agonizing pain of trying and failing to help a loved one overcome addiction. But it also confronts the attitudes surrounding drug addiction and how it's often connected in the US with racial prejudice. Gyasi is quite rightly excoriating about the behaviour of the community that celebrates Nana's athletic achievements and coldly turns their back on him when he becomes entangled in addiction and can no longer play basketball. This judgemental attitude is something Gifty wrestles with herself reflecting how “I would look at his face and think, What a pity, what a waste. But the waste was my own, the waste was what I missed out on whenever I looked at him and saw just his addiction.” This reminded me of the continuing stigmas fostered by America's “war on drugs” as described in “Chasing the Scream” by Johann Hari. Gifty comes to understand the suffocating social factors which encourage Nana's addiction and contribute his tragic downward spiral. The legacy of shame she feels from this is powerfully depicted. 

This is a brilliantly accomplished novel which is captivating in the way it shows the methodical way its narrator searches for answers to complex, deeply-felt questions.

Before My Actual Heart Breaks by Tish Delaney

On the outside it feels baffling that two people who marry and spend their lives together can be virtual strangers to each other, yet this is the reality of many arranged relationships. Tish Delaney movingly depicts the life of one such Northern Irish woman in her debut novel “Before My Actual Heart Breaks”. Mary Rattigan once dreamed of moving far away and being with her sweetheart, but those aspirations were dashed by the reality of her circumstances. When we meet her at the beginning of this novel it's 2007. She's estranged from her husband and her five children have gone away. Now there's nothing to bind her to the rural farm she's been confined to since she was sixteen but she finds herself questioning the heady plans she made in her youth and finds it difficult to articulate what she now desires. Over the course of the novel we discover the story of how she got to this point as well as a vivid depiction of The Troubles as experienced by a Catholic girl growing up in the 1970s who felt the alarming proximity of this long-term and bloody conflict. It's a story that powerfully represents the tension between the life you wanted and the life you've lived. 

As much as it feels like the Irish immigration novel is its own category, there's also been a rise in novels about Northern Irish women who never leave the place of their birth. Books such as “Milkman” and “Big Girl, Small Town” explore the interior lives of young women whose voices are often ignored by the larger community. Though Delaney's novel fits neatly alongside these others it's also very much its own piece as it poignantly presents the perspective of a married woman who comes to learn the habits and nature of her husband over many years but tragically fails to understand his heart. It's also a captivating coming of age tale as we follow the painful abuse she suffers at her mother's hand and how her sexual awakening becomes a form of rebellion because the worst thing she could ever become is a T.R.A.M.P. Though she finds it liberating to transgress the moral expectations placed upon her she soon finds the enormous longterm consequences of this brief pleasure which is over in “less time than baking a sponge cake”. It's heart wrenching when she realises that her parents would honestly prefer her to be blown up by a bomb rather than be “in the family way” as an unwed teen.

While the novel meaningfully portrays the suffocating effects of the religious and familial strictures in her life, it also shows the intelligence and humour of her wry perspective. Mary makes deliciously cutting observations about the tragic waste of sectarian conflicts and the way emotions aren't discussed in family life. At one point she describes how the Irish substitute for love is tea. She also forms some tender connections with certain individuals who inspire her and provide a steady source of comfort. The spectre of her grandmother is at times glimpsed in the distance as well as a good-natured soul named Birdie who becomes a kind of substitute mother for her. However, most of her relationships often include gaps of understanding so she comes to understanding the painful irony in how “No one knew us better than each other and we didn't know each other at all.” I enjoyed the way the story creates a building sense of tension concerning what Mary will do now that she's on her own and truly knows what she wants. Delaney's powerful novel shows the precarious bonds that exist between people who've had to abandon their dreams and the unexpected love that can be found when honest connections are made.

Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

“Klara and the Sun” is the first novel Ishiguro has published since he won the 2017 Nobel Prize in Literature which – of course - means that this is one of the publishing events of the year, but given this author's output producing a new novel roughly every five years means it's also coming right on time. I was entranced by his most recent novel “The Buried Giant” which reads like the most psychologically-compelling fable or fantasy tale. Yet, even though I have a high regard for his work, I was initially skeptical of the premise of “Klara and the Sun” which is told from the perspective of an Artificial Friend or AF who at the beginning of the story is waiting on a shop shelf for an adolescent child to purchase her. It sounds similar to the film series Toy Story or perhaps a bit like Pinocchio. This isn't a coincidence since Ishiguro described in a recent interview how he initially conceived of this story as a children's book. Additionally, given that this new novel is also about genetic engineering, the question of what it means to be human and it's set in an unspecified future point means it's also reminiscent of his novel “Never Let Me Go”. But the magic of Ishiguro's writing is that any reservations I had were quickly forgotten as I got into the drama of this suspenseful and moving story. 

It's difficult to discuss this book without giving spoilers, but I'm going to do my best to avoid them. This isn't simply a saccharine tale because it's sweetness is also what makes it unsettling as we follow Klara's gradual understanding of the world around her and the expectations placed upon her. She's a naïve, highly perceptive and well-intentioned AF who has no qualms with the purpose she's been designed for: to support, nurture and give unqualified friendship to her child owner. When she is eventually purchased she does exactly that and her loyalty means that she goes to great lengths to be the best companion she can. Her faith in the power of the Sun drives her to perform a charmingly ardent act to help her child and around this time we also learn about the deeper purpose for which she was purchased. This means that these two narrative threads which are light and dark intertwine at almost the same point making the reader feel beguiled as well as horrified. It's a powerful effect which makes it a gripping story as well as one which raises lingering questions about the binding force of love. 

Ishiguro is brilliant at withholding information and providing tantalizing details which fully draw the reader into the story. Things are revealed at just the right moment so they blossom into a startling revelation. The fact that we're locked into Klara's perspective as she retrospectively considers these events means our view of this world is filtered through a perilously subjective focus. She is (as one character dismissively calls her) simply a machine so the way she perceives reality isn't how we would. A sometimes surreal effect is produced from the way she processes shapes and makes sense of what's around her. At one point she thinks she's looking at a multi-limbed monster which turns out to be two people passing by each other. It adds to the unsettling effect the author builds in the lead up to understanding what's happening in the immediate reality of this family as well as wider changes concerning the ill-effects of genetic modification and the way this is producing a more classist and divided society. Klara's limited point of view means that (perhaps too conveniently) Ishiguro doesn't need to fully flesh out or delve too deeply into how this dark future is organized or how it's adversely effecting people. It's a very handy method commonly used in sci-fi and, though it left me slightly frustrated wanting to know more about this world, Ishiguro gives enough information to see the logic of how good intentions on both a personal and societal level can go very wrong. 

Recently I read Edward Carey's novel “The Swallowed Man” which retells Pinocchio from the perspective of Geppetto when he's trapped in the giant whale. It made me realise how this fairy tale is really about loneliness and a desire for companionship so fierce that a person is willing to delude themselves in order to have a friend or child. Similarly, “Klara and the Sun” delves deeply into this question as Klara herself comes to realise “what was becoming clear to me was the extent to which humans, in their wish to escape loneliness, made manoeuvres that were very complex and hard to fathom”. This is explored in different ways throughout the story. Not only do the child and her mother use Klara as an emotional stand-in, but the child and her friend Rick form a co-created future plan to protect themselves from being overwhelmed by an impending darker reality. The relative bonds people share in the story means that their solitary struggle might be assuaged by friendship or a character might resolutely choose to be alone. As Klara describes to a character named Miss Helen at one point: “Until recently, I didn't think that humans could choose loneliness. That there were sometimes forces more powerful than the wish to avoid loneliness.” These delicate relationships and the way different individuals negotiate the truth that they're willing to admit to themselves and others throughout the story is very moving and left me pondering their deeper implications. 

In “Klara and the Sun” Ishiguro demonstrates his considerable ability for telling a riveting tale and creating characters you can't help but fall in love with by following their harrowing struggles. He does this while also engaging with larger issues about technology, the environment and social divisions. It's also hard not to interpret his choice to name a character Melania Housekeeper and what happens to her in the story as a sly commentary on the former First Lady. Although he said in an interview that this wasn't a direct reference and he simply wanted to use a common Eastern European name it's impossible not to make the connection or deny that this must have been on some level intentional. This and other such details add a welcome playful tone to this impressive story which skilfully balances terror with insight and deep-felt heartache.

Square Haunting by Francesca Wade

One of my ideal ways of spending a morning is listening to an audiobook of my favourite novel “The Waves” by Virginia Woolf while I'm walking or riding on a bus around London. There's an added pleasure of experiencing the text while travelling around the streets that Woolf herself walked while observing the people and shop windows (an activity she referred to as “street haunting”). For the past several months of the pandemic this “haunting” has taken on a different meaning whenever I walk through central London because it's mostly deserted. Naturally, I've had a long fascination with Woolf and the Bloomsbury group so I've previously made a pilgrimage to Monk's House, followed the trail of “Mrs Dalloway” and I like to musingly wander by Woolf's statue in Tavistock Square where she had a longterm residence. However, until picking up Francesca Wade's fascinating and creatively-written group biography “Square Haunting” I wasn't aware of Mecklenburgh Square which exists on the edge of Bloomsbury. 

It's striking that Wade begins her book with the partial destruction of the square she's writing about. In 1939 Virginia and Leonard took up a lease at 37 Mecklenburgh Square after the noise of nearby construction work at Tavistock Square got to be too much for their nerves. This book is partly about their short time at this residence which was bombed in a German air raid in 1940. Luckily the Woolfs weren't in the building when the bomb hit, but Virginia had to dig through the rubble to save her diaries. Wade's book is also about the (sometimes intersecting) lives, careers and interests of four other trailblazing female academics and writers who also resided in this square at different periods of time during the early 20th century. These accounts are skilfully organized in a way that tunnels back not only through their personal histories but how they contributed to the intellectual and political battle for gender equality.

I'd not encountered these fascinating women before but after reading Wade's succinct and compelling accounts of their lives I'm keen to read their work and know more about them. They include H.D. (a pen name created by Ezra Pound for the modernist poet and novelist Hilda Doolittle); the detective novelist Dorothy L Sayers (who lived in the same building that H.D. had previously inhabited); the classicist and translator Jane Ellen Harrison; and the historian, broadcaster and pacifist Eileen Power. All of these talented women had their ambition and desire to intellectually engage with society through their writing stymied in different ways by the dominant patriarchy. Wade details the particular challenges they faced and the individual ways they successfully challenged a system which hampered their ability to be taken as seriously as their male counterparts. The spirit of “A Room of One's Own” takes a direct relevance in their stories as these women established their professional and personal lives in the homes they made while living in this square. Wade's accounts of these five lives are filled with tantalizing details about their unique struggles to live, love, work and write in the way that they most desired.

I admire how Wade artfully weaves these lives together to show the overlapping influence or friendship these different women shared. In a way this makes the book feel like a wonderfully compelling collection of interconnected short stories. Occasionally there will be other figures such as a charismatic landlady, members of the Bloomsbury Group or leading intellectuals such as Sigmund Freud who appear in their separate stories. It brings this physical location to life as you see the series of coincidences and incidents in common which formed the web of experience these women shared rather than viewing their individual lives as a collection of self-contained historical studies. Recently I visited the square during a rare snowy day. It was moving to look at the plaques dedicated to these different women while imagining how they lived in these stately old buildings and walked these streets. Of course, the weather further enhanced the feeling of “haunting” and made me feel like the ghost while pondering the exuberant experience of reading Wade's group biography.

No One is Talking About This by Patricia Lockwood

As soon as I saw the online hype surrounding Patricia Lockwood's debut novel I knew I was out of touch with the internet. I wasn't even aware of Patricia Lockwood. *epic fail* Of course, whenever someone is trending who everyone seems to love but I've not heard of or couldn't recall I did the thing you're meant to do and googled her. The abbreviated biographical understanding I got from the succinct biography provided on wikipedia was that she first gained fame on twitter (having successfully baited publications like The Paris Review into joining in jokey banter), published two collections of poems as well as the poem “Rape Joke” which went viral in 2013 and the memoir “Priestdaddy” in 2017 which the Times included on its list “The 50 Best Memoirs of the Past 50 Years” and the Guardian named as one of its “100 Best Books of the 21st Century”. Oh, so I had heard of her! Or, at least, I saw mention of her on these lists and was intrigued but (like hundreds of other writers) haven't got around to reading her work yet. And so, I merrily plunged into reading Lockwood's “No One is Talking About This” because suddenly (at least within my online bubble) everyone seems to be talking about this debut novel. 

This is a story about an online personality who has become so famous on platforms like twitter for tweets such as “Can a dog be twins?” that she travels around the world giving talks and lectures. The text is divided into brief sections which give an impressionistic sense of her life and the people within it without ever providing a completely clear picture. It's an intriguing and surprisingly poignant style of narrative similar to Jenny Offill's novels. Here Lockwood uses it to show how the internet has modified her narrator's sense of self to become both individual and collective. It's also reflective of the distracted attention span that comes from scrolling online and how concepts can be compressed down into crystallised pithy thoughts before being quickly abandoned for a new idea or trending discussion. This is a clever way of commenting upon the effects of the internet in the very structure of the way Lockwood tells her tale. 

In the first section of the novel we get anecdotes and impressions about her travels and interactions from the virtual world to the real world as well as meditative asides about the meaning of our online lives versus our real lives. This amusingly expresses a lot of the existential angst and carnivalesque absurdity of our devotion to screens and the internet (which the narrator refers to as “the portal”). I loved how she captures the way this online existence has changed the way we use language as well as how it's reconfigured our psychology. Terms and phrases such as “shoot it in my veins”, “it me”, “toxic” and “normalize” have taken on specific meanings through their repeated use and become their own kinds of internet speak. Lockwood shows both the joy and frustration of this noting how if you don't keep up with this evolving speech you're quickly left out of the loop.

As someone who spends a lot of time online but doesn't feel like I fully understand what many people online take as collectively understood (such as who Patricia Lockwood is) I found it amusing and relatable how Lockwood describes the scramble to keep up with what's happening and what everyone is talking about. Sometimes her summary of the experience of online life movingly spills into the poetic: “Someone was dead, she had never met him, yet she had zoomed in on the texture of his injuries a dozen times, as she might squint at the pink of a sunset she was too lazy to meet outside. And that is what it was like.” This also shows how the tone of our experience is so chaotically jostled by what we witness while scrolling online. Our emotions can so rapidly veer from humour to grim fascination to heartfelt sympathy that we're left wondering what responsibility we possess to act or react. Lockwood richly expresses how the portal is an arena ripe with possibilities that can also feel like a hellish hamster wheel.

In the second section of the novel the narrator is called into action by her mother who summons her home. Her sister experiences complications with her pregnancy and gives birth to a girl with severe birth defects. The narrator undergoes a change in this section as her preoccupation with an online existence is often surrendered for her real world experiences with this uniquely beautiful girl. It's challenging to maintain a sardonic distance or distil meaning into glib humour when she's confronted with this luminous reality. Yet she still mediates much of her interactions through the filter of the curious ego that was formed within the portal and this creates a kind of crisis: “If all she was was funny, and none of this was funny, where did that leave her?” Though I hoped this second part of the novel would be an engaging reckoning with the narrator's struggle to recalibrate the value of herself and her actions I found it strangely flaccid. Perhaps Lockwood was trying to portray the difficulty of being caught in a habitual need to find the funny in framing every observation with cooly detached irony, but it mostly left me feeling unmoved. 

I wonder what readers who don't engage in social media and the raging debates online will make of this novel. There are many references to specific memes and online community trends which spark a feeling of fond recognition if you're aware of them or create a disgruntled feeling of alienation if you don't. I'm sure I missed a lot of specific references but I don't think that spoiled my understanding or appreciation of the book. Personally I laughed out loud at Lockwood's summary of the generic plot found in Hallmark movies and in the way her mother misunderstands the more sordid connotations of using certain emojis. In a way it feels worthy to capture in fiction fleeting online obsessions like the nannying demand that people wash their legs so we can ruefully muse at a future point why our collective willpower was steered toward this trivial issue, but like the question of the internet itself I wonder how much value there really is in it.

Lockwood is pondering this too especially when there is a looming threat of a political figure referred to as the dictator and she considers how much online activism can challenge this real world threat. These questions are framed in a more immediate and personal crisis when her sister must undergo difficult decisions and finds the state seeks to regulate her body. There's a poignant tragedy expressed when the narrator realizes the limitations of her influence when she often feels so empowered by having a substantial amount of followers within the portal. Though “No One is Talking About This” certainly gives a lot to enjoy and contemplate I didn't feel like the story fully followed through to portray the consequences of how the narrator grapples with the challenge of managing a healthy relationship with the portal. Or maybe this isn't possible and that's the point. Nevertheless, many nonfiction books and articles have written about the myriad ways our psychology and culture have been changed by the internet so I'm glad Lockwood has written a novel giving a creative and powerfully subjective take on these larger issues.

Diary of a Film by Niven Govinden

Niven Govinden writes beautiful and extremely thoughtful novels often centred around intimate relationships, artistic communities and the creative process. His novel “All the Days and Nights” focused on the life of an ailing female visual artist and his novel “This Brutal House” dynamically depicted the politics of NYC's embattled drag scene. His stories raise compelling and complex questions while capturing the emotional uncertainty flooding through these richly-imagined characters' lives. This is equally true in is new novel “Diary of a Film” which follows a number of days in the life of an unnamed auteur at an Italian film festival as he presents his new movie based on sensitive novel “The Folded Leaf” by William Maxwell. Scenes of chaotic ribaldry and champagne sipping amidst interviews and photo sessions with the press are very much in the background of this surprisingly intimate story of artistic collaboration and friendship.

The auteur (who the other characters refer to as maestro) wanders from the bright lights of the festival and meets an intriguing woman named Cosima in a cafe. He's enthralled by tales of her past and her tragic relationship with a graffiti artist who committed suicide. Not only is the maestro keen to view one of this artist's still-existing murals but he also tracks down a novel she wrote which inspires him to plan out a new film. His conversations with her are interspersed with time spent with his lead actors Lorien and Tom. They play lovers in the film but are also now lovers in real life. Given the men's age difference and the novel's Italian setting it's easy to think of parallels with the film 'Call Me By Your Name'. The comparison with Aciman's work also seems apt because Govinden's narrative similarly revolves around individuals who strike up strong bonds through chance encounters and have extended high-minded conversations about the intricacies of human relationships. However, I find Govinden's style of writing much more engaging.

There's an intriguing tension to the affair between Lorien and Tom as the intensity of their passion for each other which developed on the film set now has to withstand both public scrutiny and upcoming physical separation as they move onto new acting roles. The story presents a counterpoint to this blossoming gay love affair with the maestro's longterm marriage to a male writer. It's poignant the way the maestro contemplates his desire to create films which demand extended periods away from his home versus the deep comfort to be found with the family he's created with his husband and their son. They've found an amicable balance over the years, but this depiction of the maestro's life is another way which Govinden explores what it means to be an artist as a profession. In what way does life inform the work of an artist and in what way does the artistic process prevent the artist from fully living? The maestro feels that he is an “observer in the shadows; watching life but somehow not being part of it”. This sense contributes to larger questions about what sacrifices are needed to be an artist and the question of whether creating a meaningful work of art is worth missing out on life.

Before the maestro took an interest in her writing, Cosima's novel was all but forgotten. Yet she grows to feel very uncertain about the maestro's plan to interpret her writing through film because it's like taking possession of her artistic vision. She comes to bitterly feel that “This is what your precious imagination boils down to: stealing and hoarding.” Such reservations feel surprising at first, but Govinden delicately shows the discomforting way egotism (perhaps necessarily) plays a role in artistic creation. There's also an unsettling way in which gender factors into this especially in the world of film where male directors dominate. It's interesting how the author presents this situation where questions of ownership of art and ideas surrounding the process of inspiration and creation arise from the maestro's earnest intentions.

The novel is comprised of chapters of block text which entirely fill the pages without breaks or quotation marks. Because it's narrated from the maestro's point of view, this gives the sense of being boxed into his thought process. It's not at all difficult to follow the story, but I know this style of writing will create a practical imposition for some readers as we follow the uninterrupted stream of the maestro's experience, feelings and memories. As the novel goes on it felt to me like being fully enveloped into his world and his singular vision of it. However, this is interrupted by the perspective of others such as a comic scene at the beginning where his romantic gazing at a fish market is broken by the sellers and buyers who are frustrated that he's getting in their way. This shows the way he isn't ever able to be fully present as he is so consumed with his own ever-evolving artistic vision and the story intriguingly plays out the consequences of this. It's a distinct and elegantly rendered journey that I found very moving and enjoyable.

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M Danforth

Since I've been reading more 19th century fiction in the past year I have been hungering for a contemporary writer to utilize the particular kind of authorial voice often found in these classic books. I'm sure this has been done in other recent novels but going into Emily M Danforth's “Plain Bad Heroines” I was thrilled to find it includes a narrative voice that self-consciously interjects and steers the story. It only shows up occasionally so as not to be intrusive but it does add another dimension to the story and there's something so playful and comforting about this “dear reader...” style of telling where we all agree to sit down to lose ourselves in a riveting, imaginative tale. Of course, it's a technique that's most commonly and potently used in ghost stories and gothic tales so it's ideally suited to the content of Danforth's creepy and darkly playful novel. The text is also beautifully illustrated with evocative drawings making it feel even more like a Victorian novel. 

This book is partly a historical novel about a fictional New England boarding school for girls called Brookhants which briefly existed at the beginning of the 20th century. A number of girls are found dead amidst mysterious circumstances which gives rise to rumours and local legends. Interspersed with this tale is a contemporary story about a Hollywood film being made about the deaths of these girls and the supposed curse upon this school. As the book progresses and we move slyly between the past and present, there are numerous twists and turns in the plot which skilfully tread the line between the supernatural and the realistic. The story thrillingly shows how certain characters utilize or exploit this grey area for their own purposes. It's such a richly immersive read for its atmospheric detail that gives the spooky ooky factor while also making me desperate to know what happens next. 

One of the great pleasures of this novel is that it's awash with literary references in a way which adds to and enhances the plot – as well as giving little sparks of joy for book geeks like me. Titles such as Henry James' “A Turn of the Screw”, Oscar Wilde's “The Picture of Dorian Gray” and the (problematic) work of HP Lovecraft are dropped into the story. There's a reference to Willa Cather's 'Paul's Case' which prompts the author to step in to encourage the reader to seek out this famous queer short story. A modern day character named Merritt has written an account of the Brookhants deaths which is being used as a basis for the film. Her profession means many literary allusions are naturally dropped into the story as well as her planned project to write an alternate version of Truman Capote's infamous unfinished book “Answered Prayers”. Most of all, Danforth incorporates into her story the work of the writer Mary MacLane who became notorious for the openly bisexual and feminist autobiographical books she published at the beginning of the 1900s. I must admit that I initially assumed Danforth had invented this author and her book “The Story of Mary MacLane” but she was a real writer and I'm now very keen to read her work.

As well as honouring Mary MacLane who is now relatively unknown the spirit of her books and ideas serve as an important part of the plot. Some girls and women at Brookhants avidly read MacLane and are inspired by the “forbidden” content and opinions they find there. MacLane's emotional and sexual bonds with other women serve as a touchstone to a queer sensibility which validate the girls' own same sex attraction and/or feminist feelings prompting them to form a club of plain bad heroines. This naturally leads more conservative characters to try to suppress and forbid her text being read. The story also toys with the idea that MacLane herself is a mischievous haunting presence. I love how this highlights the vital importance of queer antecedents and how their influence can wreak the most marvellous and riveting havoc to the established order.

The novel wonderfully plays upon Hollywood tropes and conventions as much as it does on literary ones. The film being made about Brookhants isn't a conventional one as it's about manipulating the public's desire for the production to be cursed as much as it is for creating a cinematically tense story about a legendary curse. The mythology surrounding the creation of films such as 'The Shining' and 'The Omen' is consumed as tantalizingly as the movies themselves. When the director in the novel tries to manipulate the actresses and writer to create hype for the production things don't go exactly as planned. It's satisfying how Danforth draws out the tension of whether the creepy scenes you're reading about are really happening or an elaborate hoax. This is another fascinating way this novel asks questions concerning what we want to be true and what's actually true whilst producing a really fun story.

Overall, “Plain Bad Heroines” is such a joy to read and I was glad for its relatively high page count which allowed the author to fully flesh out the complexities and many layers of its delicious plot.

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!