A Ghost in the Throat by Doireann Ní Ghríofa

Sometimes writing has a kind of talismanic force drawing us into the past so that we feel enlivened and profoundly connected to the sensibility found in the text. “A Ghost in the Throat” is a book dedicated to such an experience. It's part memoir, part exercise in fiction and part process of translation. Doireann Ni Ghriofa meditates upon the life and writing of Eibhlin Dubh, an 18th century poet and member of the Irish gentry. After her husband's murder, Dubh composed the ‘Caoineadh Airt Ui Laoghaire' which is a long poem or dirge that is a visceral cry for this agonising loss which still feels painfully real centuries later. Ghriofa connects to this voice and it fills her imagination as she goes about her days caring for her children. She sets out to translate the poem from the Gaelic into English but is also drawn into researching and recreating what can be traced of Eibhlin Dubh's life since little is known about what happened to her following her husband Art's murder except through the recorded history of her children and their progeny. The caoineadh wasn't originally written down but orally passed along over time until it was eventually set to paper so the text is also imbued with the lives of all who've spoken it. Ghriofa meaningfully describes how this makes it a uniquely “female text” and how the state of motherhood physically connects her to a wider sense of women's history. It's extremely moving how Ghriofa describes the way Dubh becomes such a strong presence in her life and how that connection is transformative.

Ghriofa is a poet so there is a lyricism to her writing which reveals the deeper meaning and beauty of everyday tasks even while acknowledging that reality can often be habitual and mundane. Her intense desire to research the poem and Dubh's life prompts her to continue doing so even when the demands of motherhood mean her time must be parsed out in carefully planned minutes. She writes that “This is the life I have made for myself, always striving for something beyond my grasp, while hauling implausibly complex armfuls.” Yet there's a nobility to her efforts which show how this is the way in which life is meaningfully spent. The fact that so little was recorded about Dubh's life says something about the way history placed less importance on the lives of women. Ghriofa's task of tracing the barest of clues and imaginatively filling in the blanks is both an act of commemoration and a reclaiming of this female lineage. She acknowledges that “We may imagine that we can imagine the past, but this is an impossibility.” So the narrative she creates is necessarily a fiction and imbued with her own sensibility, but it takes on its own power and truth. This book is startlingly original in the way it describes how great literature can become a living presence in our lives and I loved the expansive power of Ghriofa's prose.

A Room Made of Leaves by Kate Grenville

“A Room Made of Leaves” begins with a note from Kate Grenville in the guise of a transcriber and editor who found these pages which are supposedly the secret memoirs of Elizabeth Macarthur, a real Anglo-Australian merchant from the late 18th/early 19th century and wife to one of the most famous and wealthy entrepreneurs in New South Wales at that time. However, at the end of the book Grenville acknowledges “This book isn't history. At the same time it's not pure invention.” This playful ruse makes the novel an immersive fictional experience but it also adds to the sense of what went unsaid both in the historic documents Elizabeth left behind and concerning the circumstances that led this couple who came from humble origins to build a lucrative Australian wool industry. Grenville fictionally reimagines Elizabeth's journey from growing up among provincial Cornish farmers to her challenging marriage to her indomitable husband John to settling in the relative wildness of the New South Wales colony. It's a tale of self-invention, hidden passion and the canny resolve needed to outwit a patriarchal society in order to achieve real independence. Grenville creates a portrait of a woman with hidden veins of emotion while also atmospherically depicting the gritty reality of pioneer life in a foreign land. 

The chapters which make up this novel are quite short in length which gives the text the punchy immediacy of diary entries. I enjoyed how this kept the novel skipping along at a good pace. It's terrifying how Elizabeth becomes entangled in such a nightmarish situation marrying a brutish husband and being forced to move across the world. Yet she's intelligent enough to know the real danger of stepping out of her role and falling into an even more perilous position. At one point during the long sea voyage to their new home John becomes very ill and she realises that if he dies she'll be even more vulnerable. I found it moving and relatable how she discovers the key is to time things right to allow for opportunities for certain freedoms within this restrictive society as well as chances to discover what she really wants in life. Crucially, Grenville frames this story within the context of colonization and that the land where Elizabeth and John found rich opportunity is also a place which was stolen from the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. A mystery about what really happened during a crucial battle between the English and the native people gives a haunting quality to this intimate tale about how one shrewd woman might have triumphed over considerable obstacles to realise her full potential.

International Booker Prize Shortlist 2021

The shortlist for this year's International Booker Prize has been announced. You can watch this video where I watch the announcement while discussing the overall list and each book: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5lZND1rC6uU

I have big mixed feelings about this group of titles. I just finished reading “At Night All Blood is Black” by David Diop and think it's an incredibly powerful story about the savagery of war and how it can rob soldiers of their humanity. “The Employees” by Olga Ravn is such an inventive sci-fi novel both in how it's constructed and the story it evokes about what it means to be human. The short stories in “The Dangers of Smoking in Bed” are quite inventive but rely too much on gimmicks and twists which end most of the stories. I appreciated its imaginative invocation of the supernatural but, on the whole, it didn't entirely work for me. 

Most surprising to see here is “The War of the Poor” which is the most disappointing book I've read so far this year. I didn't feel it went into enough depth on the subject matter or the individual it focused on. I am really interested and eager to read both “In Memory of Memory” by Maria Stepanova and “When We Cease to Understand the World” by Benjamin Labatut. So I'm looking forward to getting to those over the next few weeks before the winner is announced on June 7th. I have to say I'm very disappointed the incredible novel “Minor Detail” by Adania Shibli isn't on this shortlist, but that's the way prize lists go! 

Have you read any from this list? Are you eager to read any? Let me know your thoughts on any of these books or the list as a whole. 

At Night All Blood is Black by David Diop (translated by Anna Moschovakis)

Military officers often describe how it's necessary to mentally and physically break recruits down so they can be rebuilt into soldiers. The idea is that creating a steely sensibility which follows the absolute authority of commanding officers is necessary for the brutality of war. Arguably, it's a process that entirely strips individuals of their humanity to transform them into killing machines. This is what the character of Alfa has turned into at the start of David Diop's “At Night All Blood is Black”. When his “more-than-brother” friend Mademba is killed during combat while they are fighting in WWI, Alfa goes on a rampage assassinating German soldiers and cutting off their hands to keep as trophies. This Senegalese soldier fights for the French army and at first they find his deadly tenacity admirable and then fear he's actually a madman or demonically possessed. Within the context of war, questions of humanity or inhumanity become dangerously confused. This intensely brilliant novel portrays the conflicts this soldier has over this issue as he literally battles through his grief and rage. In deftly pared-down prose the author powerfully describes the chaotic savagery of war and how it spiritually crushes this beautifully unique and traumatized individual. 

The story begins with Alfa's indecision about whether he should put Mademba out of his misery because his friend has been horrifically and mortally wounded and begs to die. It's an impossible situation to be in and breaks Alfa so that he embarks on his own vengeful missions. Plucking enemy soldiers at random he inflicts upon them the mutilation that Mademba experienced but he spares them the extensive suffering that Mademba felt waiting to die. This brutality is vicious but is it any more cruel than the way soldiers are ordered to destroy the enemy within the rules of battle? The captain takes Mademba to task demanding: “You will content yourself with killing them, not mutilating them. The civilities of war forbid it.” Yet, Mademba has only transformed into the savage which the French want the Senegalese soldiers to present themselves as to the Germans. They play upon racial and cultural stereotypes to more effectively intimidate the enemy and view the Senegalese as more expendable strategically placing them in more dangerous situations than the French soldiers. It's compelling how the novel examines the way prejudice plays a part in these battles which are about more than fighting on one side or another.

Though the prose style of this book is stripped down, the word choice and dramatic situation speaks volumes in relaying complex ideas about what it means to be human. The writing also gradually develops a poetic rhythm in how it follows Mademba's logic. He frequently invokes the refrain “God's truth” when pressing a particular point and the flow of his thoughts evocatively bring his clashing emotions to life. The later parts of the book also describe Alfa's past and his community in a way that the French he fights for has chosen to ignore. It's so moving how we get small insights into his background and the possible future he wanted to build with his friend Mademba. Some readers may be put off by the horrendous violence this novel contains, but I admire how it honestly confronts the raw brutality of armed conflict and the complex impact this has on those who get indoctrinated into warfare.

Consent by Annabel Lyon

“Consent” begins with interesting dynamics between two sets of sisters. Identical twins Saskia and Jenny have very different personalities. Where Saskia is studious and humble, Jenny is glamorous and thrill-seeking. Then there are Sara and Mattie who have a very different relationship with each other because Mattie's mental disability means she needs daily assistance. Though Sara enjoys fine wine and expensive clothes she must take on the more modest role of being a carer when their mother dies. Annabel Lyon alternates between the stories of these sisters over a period of almost thirty years. At first we're left wondering what the connection is between these two stories, but eventually a commonality is revealed which leads to a suspenseful conclusion. It's interesting how these women's contrasting stories give a different perspective on sisterhood and how challenging it is to form an individual identity apart from being a sibling. However, I felt it turned into too much of a thriller about revenge which prevented me from emotionally connecting with the plight of these characters. 

At first I felt really drawn into Sara's story when she was still young. Her passion for fashion drives her to relentlessly seek the respect of the snobbish staff of a high end shop and spend almost all of her inheritance on designer clothes. Strangely, as the story progressed, I felt that there was less distinction between the characters even as they grew older and circumstances forced them into very different situations. I would have preferred it if the novel focused on the story of only one pair of sisters. There are other novels such as “The Vanishing Half”, “A Saint from Texas” and “The Looking-Glass Sisters” which I feel have more compellingly described the alternating feelings of connection and disconnection in different kinds of sisterly relationships.

I did find it moving how Sara's distress about her sister's fate drives her into a circular self-destructive pattern. The author writes, “She's chained in the masturbatorium of her own guilt”. This is an evocative way to describe this state since grief sometimes drives people into forms of masochistic behaviour. But the overall issue of where consent tips over into victimhood is used more as a plot device and I didn't feel the story conveyed the psychological complexity of this issue as meaningfully as it could have. Also, both Saskia and Sara seemed to lack motivation until they were driven by a common purpose so I found it hard to care about them. The story raises some intriguing ideas and I liked the author's tightly-controlled writing style filled with sharp declarative sentences, but I ultimately found the story a bit disappointing.

How the One-Armed Sister Sweeps Her House by Cherie Jones

The beach in Barbados where this novel is set may be promoted in tourist brochures as a holiday spot known as Paradise, but the reality is anything but idyllic. On the other side of high-walled expensive houses the real residents of this area dwell in much more ramshackle accommodation and many barely make a living by working as cleaners, hairdressers, drug dealers or prostitutes to visiting foreigners. Economic disparity couldn't be any more evident and the way this is so sharply described shows how it underpins much of the horrific violence in this novel. The story mainly switches focus between two characters. There is Lala, a young wife, mother to a newborn baby and island resident who is the victim of persistent domestic abuse. And there is also Mira Whalen, a woman who married into wealth and whose husband is shot dead during an attempted robbery of their upscale holiday home. The novel explores the way their stories intersect alongside a group of characters surrounding them and frequently tunnels into their backstories. However, events primarily revolve around dramatic crimes which occur in the late summer of 1984. 

As in many instances of extreme poverty and desperation, violence against women is prevalent in this community. The novel shows how this physical and sexual brutality persists through generations. Lala's husband Adan vocalizes his justification for beating his wife and makes her feel like she deserves what he's doing to her. This is infuriating and frightening to read about, but one of the most shocking things about this story is the sense Lala's grandmother Wilma gives that women are to blame because men can't help their lust which leads to aggressive and sexually abusive behaviour. Therefore, she turns against her own daughter and granddaughter. This meaningfully shows the way a patriarchal sensibility poisons the minds of everyone who lives here. So, while it's difficult to read about the many kinds of abuse and violence portrayed in this novel, it's also powerful how it conveys the deeply ingrained sexist dynamic of this particular society. There's also a strong element of suspense running throughout the book. I read it compulsively as I had to know what was going to happen to Lala, Mira and Lala's longtime flame Tone. The ending is suitably explosive! The one-armed sister of the title refers to an allegory which Wilma tells Lala as a girl and I enjoyed how the conclusion of the novel makes an ironic statement which undermines the moral of Wilma’s tale which was meant to keep Lala in check.

Because of You by Dawn French

It was a bit of a surprise when I saw a novel by Dawn French on this year's Women's Prize longlist since I knew she'd written a memoir but wasn't aware she wrote novels as well. Of course, I'm a fan of her work as a comedian so I was excited to try her fiction. “Because of You” is a family drama concerning a newborn girl that's stolen from a hospital by a grieving mother whose child died in birth. Minnie is raised by loving mother Hope without any knowledge of her true origins. But, when Minnie becomes pregnant as a teenager, the truth must come out and there are dramatic consequences as she's reunited with her birth parents Anna and Julius. That's a bit of a spoiler but I don't think the plot is the best thing about this book. Where it's most successful are in the lively characterisations and scenes which are imbued with a wry sense of humour. It also realistically portrays a racially diverse cast of characters without making the politics of skin colour a primary element of the story. 

I felt very emotionally engaged by the opening section of this book but, as the story progressed, it came to feel increasingly melodramatic and sentimental so it turned into something like a soap opera. The characters' actions seemed more directed by the plot rather than feeling logical or real. In particular, I felt the character of Anna was thinly drawn and it was hard for me to believe she'd act so graciously given the circumstances. There are some funny and tender moments within the story but overall it felt a bit too forced for me to fully enjoy it or find it impactful. It's a bit unfair to react to French's writing in connection to her celebrity status. However, I feel like there are some well-known public figures such as Graham Norton who've written popular novels which are fine but they probably receive undue attention just because the authors are already known to the public. I probably wouldn't be so harsh criticising this novel if I weren't reading it in the context of a book prize because I think it's mostly enjoyable, but I don't think it's as impactful as the other books listed for this award.

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez (translated by Megan McDowell)

It's so exciting to read new fiction that imaginatively blends the surreal and supernatural to tell inventive (oftentimes horrific) literary tales. In Enriquez's short stories the narrators are often haunted by ghosts or plagued by curses. Spirits enact their revenge. Communities are driven into a frenzy by fear. These stories frequently focus on or are told through the points of view of the vulnerable and maligned: children who are impoverished or abused, disenfranchised teenagers or deviants. Neither the protagonists or the ethereal beings often adhere to a moral code. Many act deviously, tyrannically or selfishly. An abused woman is entrapped by a hotel's ghost. The “evil” which plagues a family is transferred onto an innocent girl. A young filmmaker knowingly films and sells videos of children swimming in a pool to a paedophile. The depiction of the sheer chaos of this society which doesn't necessarily reward the good or punish the bad is in many ways more terrifying than the sensational violence or gross details portrayed. It suggests a world that is restless and unhinged. These tales are filled with a lot of tantalizingly dark detail and imagery, but the problem is they too often rely on a twist or gimmick in their plotting. This frequently left me reeling (or rolling my eyes) from the shock of what's revealed rather than being moved by any profundity or psychological insight. 

Interestingly, I felt the final story in this collection 'Back When We Talked to the Dead' was the most successful. This is narrated from the collective point of view of a group of girls recalling a time when they secretly met to use a Ouija Board in order to contact or locate people they've lost. Their connection with the spirits is severed one night when a session ends in a terrifying way. This story hints at institutionalized violence which has led to people disappearing or falling between the cracks of a dysfunctional social system. The point of view evocatively brings to life the voices of friends who were once united but have grown apart because of age and the abiding fear of their actions. It's also genuinely tense and scary as we discover what freaked out these girls so much. Sadly, too many of the previous tales feel like they are self-consciously striving to disturb the reader. Two stories feature people defecating in the streets and multiple female characters aggressively and violently masturbate. I'm not prudish but the repetition of these kinds of details simply revolted me rather than engaged me. I can't see anything revelatory in this specific realism; it's just stomach turning.

The longest story in this book 'Kids Who Come Back' is almost novella-length and explores a theme common to many of the stories. Children frequently disappear in this collection only to return in an altered state where all innocence has been lost. This lengthy story is narrated from the point of view of a woman named Mechi who literally maintains an archive of lost and disappeared children in Buenos Aires. She becomes fascinated by a beautiful missing girl named Vanadis who abruptly returns one day, but not in as the person she was before. Many other lost children also reappear including many of whom definitely died and they are the same age they were when they vanished. People grow to fear them and see them as shells of the children they once were. This is a premise somewhat similar to another Argentinian story 'Underground' by Samanta Schweblin. I feel like Enriquez is able to more effectively build and draw out tension and mystery in this longer story. It better describes doubles or doppelgängers which appear in several tales. It's also more pointed in how it encapsulates a frequent theme of this collection where a neighbourhood or area and a group of people are “tainted” by a scandal or popular myth so they are in a sense “cursed”. The resulting social alienation is just as cruel as the rancour of the spirits. Perhaps the many positive elements of this longer story mean that I'd find Enriquez's fiction more successful in the form of a novel where her rich imagination can be given a constructive amount of room to stretch.

Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters

Pregnancy is a traditional storyline that's part of many domestic dramas. With the prospect of a child those involved must decide whether to see this pregnancy through to birth and, if so, how they will make room in their lives for a baby and organize themselves as a family unit to support the child whether that's as a single parent, a married (or unmarried) couple or an extended family. Torrey Peters portrays this universal situation with the inclusion of a trans woman and an individual who has detransitioned. Katrina is a successful businesswoman who discovers she's pregnant while having an affair with her employee Ames. Neither are certain they can handle the full responsibilities of parenthood. Meanwhile, Ames reveals to Katrina that he'd previously transitioned to being a woman before transitioning back to being a man. While he was a trans woman he had a serious relationship with a trans woman named Reese. Although Reese has a tempestuous personality she has strong maternal urges so Ames proposes she could help them both raise the child. Peters brilliantly traces the compelling and complex story of these three characters in the time leading up to and proceeding conception. 

I'd been wanting to read this novel since it was first published but was encouraged to prioritise it after it was longlisted for this year's Women's Prize for Fiction. There's been a controversy around the book being listed for this prize because the author is a trans woman and some readers object to the way female identity is portrayed in the story. I almost don't want to mention these claims as I don't believe they are credible and demonstrate damaging and prejudiced views against trans women. Yet to completely pretend the furore surrounding the novel isn't happening is to ignore the political questions this story wholeheartedly engages with. Peters addresses many issues to do with transphobia and trans identity within the story showing the full complexity of arguments that are occurring within the trans community, the overall queer community and society as a whole. The story skilfully represents many perspectives while also portraying views that are particular to these specific characters. The novel fully deserves recognition on this prize's list because it engages with an important dialogue about womanhood and how the concerns of many different women often intersect, but moreover it's an extremely enjoyable and well crafted novel.

The tension in this story emerges not just out of the question of this pregnancy but the many explosive or contemplative scenes where the characters have tense conversations or an inner dialogue about their circumstances. There are so many funny and tender moments as well as instances of emotional vulnerability where characters grapple with complex issues to do with sexuality and gender identity. It's pleasurable how pop culture references are frequently integrated into the characters' metaphorical understanding of the world. Humour often arises from the snappy dialogue but also the way characters frequently trip over their own contradictions and the irony of their situations. This makes them very relatable and I felt like I intimately knew all three main characters by the end. I also felt close to Ames and Reese as we get memories of their development which portray the pain, pleasure and hope both experience amidst their personal evolution. A scene where Ames (when he was Amy) first goes to a clothing store for transexuals felt particularly vivid as it's both a liberating and shameful experience. I also admire the way the novel boldly portrays the way people can act in self-destructive ways – especially when it comes to sexual relationships and how what we desire can contradict our moral beliefs. Most of all, it's such an engaging, intelligent and compelling story that takes seriously the dilemmas and struggles of its individual characters and the political issues which arise out of this family affair.

Small Pleasures by Clare Chambers

If you hate the ending of a novel after really enjoying the majority of the story is it still a successful reading experience? It's a tricky question and one I've been left pondering after finishing “Small Pleasures”. Set in the late 1950s it follows Jean, a journalist at a local paper in the suburbs of London. Though she's around 40 years old she still lives with her mother whose cantankerous and overbearing manner leaves little room for Jean to have a personal life. Jean is assigned to write a feature about Gretchen, a Swiss woman who claims her daughter is the result of a virgin birth. During the process of researching this curious case Jean gradually develops a personal relationship with Gretchen, her husband Howard and their daughter Margaret. The author skilfully evokes the atmosphere of mid-20th century England alongside a compelling mystery which plays out in such an interesting way. It's a delight how Jean's fluffier news pieces about domestic matters are interspersed throughout the novel. Most of all, I grew to feel strongly emotionally involved with Jean whose quiet but painful loneliness is assuaged by her growing affection for this family. It's also very intriguing how this personal story intertwines with the facts Jean uncovers surrounding Margaret's birth. But the novel ends with a dramatic event which feels entirely disconnected from this gentle and beautifully immerse tale and it's left me feeling betrayed.

I'm not someone who needs a happy ending in novels. Even if I come to feel so attached to characters that I hope to see separated lovers reunited, good individuals rewarded and villains get their just deserts, I can accept it when things don't work out for the best because that often happens in life. But I think the conclusions of novels ought to be consistent with the tone of the story and stay true to the integrity of the characters I've come to care about after following them for hundreds of pages. It's true that disasters occur and the chance of being caught in such a horrific circumstance is a reality we wake up to every day. At any moment the narrative of our lives can be horrifically thrown off-kilter by such an occurrence. However, in a novel such unexpected events should be integrated into the story in a way that allows the reader to emotionally process a calamitous occurrence alongside the characters. That's why novels plotted around dramatic events often follow the aftermath so we can see how people survive or falter when confronted with tragic loss.

The way “Small Pleasures” ends simply left me feeling cold and manipulated because it's like the trust I'd formed over the course of the narrative had been broken. The afterward of this book made matters worse because the author describes how she wanted to self consciously incorporate two historical incidents into one novel. But the way she did this felt tacked on rather than artfully blended into the story. I'd rather not have spent so much time focusing on these final pages because I truly feel the majority of this book is moving and well done. It's poignant how there are storylines about suppressed same sex desire, the way family members can become overly burdened with becoming their relatives' carers and issues to do with untreated mental health problems. But I feel like the conclusion of this novel taints the overall experience of the story which is very unfortunate.

Nothing But Blue Sky by Kathleen MacMahon

One of the reasons I love reading is so I can get a sense of people's lives and situations that are very different from my own. So it presents an interesting personal challenge to encounter a novel about a man who I feel like I already understand as he's similar to many men I've known throughout my life. The narrator of MacMahon's “Nothing But Blue Sky” is David, a middle class, middle age Irish journalist. He's a bit grumpy, unfailingly practical and drags his feet when he has to go to social occasions. In some respects he's probably like the man I'm rapidly becoming. But he also has a morbid sense of humour which is imbued with an underlying contempt for the people he's blithely making fun of and I find this kind of masculine comedy particularly odious. His jovial, kind-hearted wife Mary Rose provides the perfect counterbalance to him. But she died in a tragic event and when the novel begins we meet David as he is grieving for the woman he might not have ever fully understood or fully appreciated. He recounts his memories of her, the awkward process of continuing to holiday with friends without her and discovers new familial connections which he never knew existed. 

MacMahon presents the pain of his grief and his lingering regret in a sympathetic way. Of course, I have empathy for his situation but the difficulty for me is that he's not the kind of character I'm naturally interested in reading about. I know this says more about the kind of person I am than it does about MacMahon as a writer and I think the novel is partly about the question of whether privileged men like David are often unfairly overlooked. Is there more to a man like David than I'm willing to give him credit for? I'm still not sure after having finished the novel. Certainly, the pain of his situation is no less sincere or deeply felt than anyone else's. David is exactly the sort of character Anne Tyler often writes about with great profundity. But, while there are moments of insight and pleasure in MacMahon's novel, I found spending so much time in David's head somewhat tedious as if I were forced to sit next to him and make conversation. However, MacMahon does present interesting dilemmas which I continue to wonder about. What would have happened to David and Mary Rose's relationship if it hadn't abruptly ended in tragedy? Like all the unrealised possibilities in life this question haunts David's ongoing existence in an intriguing and troubling way.

The Pear Field by Nana Ekvtimishvili (translated by Elizabeth Heighway)

One of my favourite novels from last year was Nino Haratischvili's epic “The Eighth Life” which follows multiple generations of a family from the country of Georgia. So it was fascinating to read a much more self-contained story from this nation with Nana Ekvtimishvili's “The Pear Field”. This is set in a Residential School for Intellectually Disabled Children on the outskirts of Tbilisi which is understaffed and the slim amount of government funding it receives is mostly filched by the management. Having no knowledge about the family who left her there when she was young, 18-year old former-pupil Lela still lives and works at the school. She used to be fearful and regularly abused but now she's older, more confident and sees the corruption of the administrators more clearly. Irakli is a sweet boy who is half her age and he longs for the return of a mother who keeps promising she'll take him back but disappoints him week after week. Lela wants to help him escape the school and the country before settling a score and leaving this dysfunctional institution herself. 

This story is a finely-rendered realistic portrait of a community of children who only survive through their own ingenuity and resilience. Moments of playful rebelliousness are alarmingly paired alongside horrifying instances of abuse. Because violence has become normalized the children approach a game of jumping on the springs of abandoned beds as seriously as the regular sexual violation of female students. It's effective how the author shows the cruel circumstances these children are unnaturally maturing under. However, I appreciated that the story isn't all misery because there are also moments of deep-felt friendship and some scenes of clandestine pleasure such as a night when a group of children successfully steal delicious ripe cherries from a neighbour's tree.

Early in the novel Ekvtimishvili gives flashes of the societal change which led to the degraded state this school has fallen into and I appreciate how this connects this school's particular story with a larger social history of the country. The novel also includes powerful symbolic images such as a staircase Lela likes to climb hoping it will emerge into a more promising space but there is only a wall at the top. The pear field referred to in the book's title borders the school and it looks inviting, but its ground is flooded and its fruit is hard and spoiled. Equally, the students may be given glimpses of an auspicious future only to find the price of entry is too costly and the result isn't what they were expecting.

This slender novel powerfully depicts the hard lessons that children on the fringes of Georgian society learn as their maltreatment and neglect are often unseen.

International Booker Prize Longlist 2021

I follow a lot of book prizes but the longlist of last year's International Booker Prize was the most enjoyable and interesting that I read. Last year's winner “The Discomfort of Evening” wasn't a personal favourite, but many other books up for the prize were among the best that I read in 2020 and I love that the prize helped me discover many new authors I've not read before. So I'm very excited to see the thirteen books that have been listed for this year's award. These are touted as the best books translated into English from the past year. They primarily come from European countries but some also originated in Argentina, China, Chile, Kenya and Palestine. Though they span many countries and historical periods something that connects a lot of these books is the way many blend form and genre to tell a unique story. Some combine fiction with memoir, history, travel, essay and poetry. I find this kind of innovation and diverse storytelling really exciting so I'm looking forward to reading many from the list. 

Currently I've only read three of these books. “Minor Detail” by Adania Shibli was one of my top books that I read last year. It's such a powerful, artfully-written novel so I'm thrilled to see it get even more prize attention as it's already won an English PEN Award and was shortlisted for the National Book Award for Translated Literature. Unfortunately, “The War of the Poor” really didn't work for me as it felt like little more than an extended wikipedia entry about a fascinating 16thcentury historical figure. Vuillard is a highly respected writer and there are many positive reviews of this book so I was surprised to find it so disappointing and slight. However, it's thrilling that the inventive sci-fi novel “The Employees” is listed because this collection of testimonies from human and humanoids that work on a spaceship that discovers strange objects on an alien planet is such a pleasurable and thoughtful novel. It's also great see such an exciting and relatively new publisher Lolli Editions getting attention. 

The shortlist will be announced on April 22nd and the winner will be announced on June 2nd so it will be interesting to follow which books progress forward in the competition. Several of these books I've not heard of before so I'm glad this longlist will introduce me to new writers and publications I wouldn't have found otherwise. I'm looking forward to reading them as well as joining in all the public discussion about them. You can watch me give summaries of each book here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JBlCQD_El2M

Which ones are you keen to read? 

The Employees by Olga Ravn (translated by Martin Aitken)

The recent pandemic has caused many people to be furloughed or forced them to change their careers. So it feels especially poignant now to contemplate the degree to which our work defines us and expresses who we are as individuals. “The Employees” by Olga Ravn is a very thoughtful and artfully-written science fiction novel that speaks a lot about this subject through a future-set fantastical point of view. I'm hesitant to filter everything I've been reading lately through the events of the past year, but how we read is often reflective of our states of mind and so I'll naturally have a slanted experience of what I'm reading in response to how the pandemic has consumed my recent life and effected the entire world. This book's relatively new publisher Lolli Editions has also been intimately concerned with the effects of the pandemic as one of their first publications was the anthology “Tools for Extinction” which gathered writers' responses to the pandemic from around the world. Of course, Olga Ravn couldn't have anticipated this reading of her novel because the book was first published in Danish in 2018. Nevertheless, I found a lot of relevancy in how the human and (robotic) humanoid employees of the Six-Thousand Ship discuss their approach to labour in relation to their essential purpose for being. This short novel is composed of over a hundred brief statements given by the ship's crew in relation to some evocative and mysterious objects gathered from a distant planet as well as their perspective about a growing crisis aboard the ship. 

Given the limited resources of a spaceship every human must fulfil an essential purpose. Equally, the humanoids were literally created to perform a necessary function. Yet their interactions with the extraterrestrial (living?) objects provoke them to question many things about their existence including whether their work defines them and what it means to be human. In some of the statements we're told whether the speaker is human or humanoid. In others the speaker seems to have forgotten or become confused about whether they are organic or manufactured. Some feel a more secure sense of self knowing they provide a useful contribution. Others feel enslaved by the tedious obligations they must perform. It's so evocative and playful how their interactions with the curious objects which emit different scents or light provoke the employees to contemplate their positions more deeply. They inspire memories or sensuous feelings which had previously been dormant. It has a liberating effect for many including one humanoid who declares “I may have been made, but now I'm making myself.” These are issues reminiscent of Philip K. Dick's classic novel “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep” but Olga Ravn approaches these subjects from a highly original perspective.

As the testimonies progress we become more aware of the bureaucratic force behind these interviews and the mystery surrounding a certain cadet being removed. We also get a sense of an individual named Dr Lund who invented the humanoids. These larger plot points form an overarching narrative behind the individual points of view with their subjective concerns. Naturally, this style of storytelling gives a limited perspective as we only get very small pieces of the story from different human and humanoids. I longed to know more about some of their lives such as a human that forms a strong bond with a humanoid who eventually disengages from further personal contact. Nevertheless, I enjoyed their contrasting voices and felt together this complex network of employees make interesting psychological, sociological and philosophical points. This is a very thoughtful novel but one which also delivers doses of immediate pleasure with it's imaginative take on space exploration.

The High House by Jessie Greengrass

It may seem perverse to read an apocalyptic novel when we've spent the past year living through a pandemic. I can certainly understand the hesitancy to engage in a fictional crisis when there's so much in reality to make us anxious or angry or mournful about what we've so recently lost. Yet, I think it's ingenious the way Jessie Greengrass has written about an environmental disaster which floods the country and leaves a small group of people subsisting on a small plot of elevated land. This story reassuringly solidifies the physical world at a time when our minds are consumed with calamity. When you're in a moment of deep distress it's common for someone to calmingly say to you “there, there.” To be reassured that “you are there” when feeling trapped in an interminable limbo is a precious comfort. Similarly, reading the accounts of three individuals recalling the events which brought them to this house and the stark nature of their meagre living energetically brings us back to the present moment.

Francesca is a world-renowned environmental scientist and activist who sees with alarming clarity that there will be a widespread disaster due to climate change. This has been highlighted by scientists and the media so often that it doesn't need to be explained in the narrative. The difference in this story is that Francesca knows it will occur sooner than we thought possible or were willing to admit so she makes provisions in a house she inherited and its surrounding farmland to prepare for this crisis. Unlike most survivalists, she does this not to save herself but her young son and his older step sister. She also arranges for a local young woman and her grandfather to live in this sanctuary to help maintain it. The fact of this cataclysmic event is inevitable from the start of the novel, but what Greengrass presents so meaningfully is the journey of how Caro and her brother Pauly and Sally and her grandfather (who is nicknamed Grandy) arrive at this place. Just because we know what has happened and where they will end up doesn't decrease the spellbinding tension of their flight or their sober realisation of the large-scale devastation.

There's a pared down simplicity to this story which enhances its effectiveness. From the characters' actions to their dialogue there doesn't need to be any philosophical speeches, whimsical descriptions or melodramatic flourishes because what they are dealing with is the stark reality of tragic situation. For instance, the question of survivor's guilt is presented rhetorically: “What option is there, in the end, for those few of us who have survived, but to be the unforgivable, and the unforgiven? All those who might have lived instead of us are gone, or they are starving, while we stay on here at the high house, pulling potatoes from soft earth.” The unstated emotions of sorrow, doubt, grief and existential crisis are all here beneath the surface of the immediate necessary action of pulling potatoes from the soft earth so that they may continue to eat and live.

I found it especially poignant the way that salvaged objects, the things they grow and the stored supplies are enumerated because we know their importance in this strained new reality. Equally, we strongly feel the longing for objects that were taken for granted and have now been lost when Caro recalls a half-consumed chocolate pastry or the forgotten scissors which would have made cutting her brother's hair so much easier. These present and absent objects are what bring Greengrass' story into such sharp focus. It's akin to how Virginia Woolf described the power of “Robinson Crusoe”: “by means of telling the truth undeviatingly as it appears to him – by being a great artist and forgoing this and daring that in order to give effect to his prime quality, a sense of reality – he comes in the end to make common actions dignified and common objects beautiful. To dig, to bake, to plant, to build – how serious these simple occupations are; hatchets, scissors, logs, axes – how beautiful these simple objects become.” In the specificity of these realistic details the world of Greengrass' characters with all their attendant emotions arise fully formed in the reader's imagination. Thus we come to better appreciate what we have and take for granted.

Greengrass has previously imagined what effect widespread disaster would have upon an individual in her fiction. In her collection “An Account of the Decline of the Great Auk, According to One Who Saw it” there is a story called 'Some Kind of Safety' in which a narrator is trapped in a bunker with a dwindling food supply. It's unsurprising that an author prone to testing out philosophical concerns should fictionally conjure scenarios where individuals are cut off from the wider society to arrive at a place that allows deep contemplation. What's admirable about this novel is the way no special insight about humanity or the cycle of nature is achieved from arriving at this state. The grandfather simply states: “All I can think is that what's different now is that no one can claim this is progress.” Nor does it prompt the characters to lyrically describe the ruins of the world that's left. Rather, it simply gives them a perspective about the true value of the things they have and the agency they possess to support each other and continue to survive.

If you follow the news for any length of time it's difficult not to feel an imminent threat of crisis and thus we often bear the weight of the world's problems on our shoulders. Of course, we watch the news because we want to be informed, but like the characters in the novel we can be left wondering “what difference did my knowledge make?” Lucy Ellmann voluminously documented this condition in her lengthy novel “Ducks, Newburyport”. Where Ellmann skilfully captured this mental state, Greengrass has encapsulated the dignity of our individual actions and the true value of what we possess. In the past year we've become all too aware of the potential lack of the things we take for granted because the merest hint of scarcity sends us all racing to the shops to stock up on toilet paper. Equally we now know what it means to be physically removed from a collective and many of us have felt intense loneliness and isolation while being in lockdown. Like the characters in the novel we've run the risk of losing “that sense of being a small part of a whole which persisted, even when we might dislike everything about it.” So reading about characters forced into a state of self-reliance when the larger world is drowning around them gives a strange sort of comfort. It connects us to humanity and makes us grateful for what we still have and what we have to lose.