Libertie by Kaitlyn Greenidge

It's so moving when historical fiction gives an entirely new view of a particular time period while also raising larger questions which resonate with the world today. That's what Kaitlyn Greenidge “Libertie” does admirably while also telling a deeply engaging coming of age story about Libertie, a free-born black girl in Brooklyn being raised by her single mother in the time before and after The American Civil War. Recent novels such as “The Water Dancer”, “Conjure Women” and “The Prophets” created a radically new perspective about the abolition of slavery. These stories re-view our assumptions of the past and provide a deeper understanding of the resonance of history. 

Greenidge's novel considers the lasting impact of slavery for individuals who've been freed but are permanently burdened with the trauma sustained during their subjugation: “The people of Culver's back room had all lost themselves. They had returned in their minds back to the places they'd run from, the places they didn't name, even to their fellow travellers.” It also questions whether liberty can truly be found when systems of government are overhauled by people who also abuse their power - especially against women and the impoverished/under-educated working classes. It's gripping following Libertie's journey as she strives to obtain independence from her country, her mother and the husband who lures her into a life she doesn't expect. Through her eyes we see the hidden costs of compromise and how difficult it is to live in society without being subject to the will of insidious ideologies.

Libertie's mother is a practicing physician and, though she's a role model as a strong educated woman, she doesn't offer much emotional warmth to her daughter. She also has a clear plan that Libertie should follow in her footsteps, intently trains the girl in her practice and sends her to a school to get a formal education in medicine. But Libertie's interests don't align with her mother's nor are these two women held to the same standards as Libertie's mother has lighter skin than her own. When she meets a man named Emmanuel who entreats her to marry him, she sees a way to escape the path her mother laid out for her. Emmanuel brings her back to his native Haiti where his family seek to become leaders in this liberated black-governed nation. But Libertie soon discovers that this family's sense of national identity and who belongs in Haiti are confused, especially as Emmanuel's father Bishop Chase considers himself neither Haitian nor an American Negro. I'm glad I happened to recently read the biography “Black Spartacus” about a leader of the Haitian revolution as it gave me an idea of the challenges this newly independent country faced.

Having committed to a new life in Haiti, Libertie faces a painfully difficult decision about what she will do when she discovers this place doesn't live up to its utopian promise. In fact, (much like the character Kay Adams in The Godfather) she's unwittingly attached herself to a family involved in an insidious power structure she cannot abide. She seeks instead to form a kind of autonomy outside of either Haiti or America's rules. It's a heartening message especially now as we're growing ever more cognizant of hidden power imbalances in society and the lasting effects of trauma. This is such a distinct and impactful novel because its protagonist offers an entirely unique view of the past and present. 

Still Life by Sarah Winman

I find something very moving about stories of intergenerational friendships. Novels such as “Autumn” by Ali Smith and “The Offing” by Benjamin Myers describe profound connections between individuals who are at very different stages of life but establish a rapport that obliterates traditional social divides based on age, gender or sexuality. Sarah Winman has explored such a relationship before in her novel “A Year of Marvellous Ways” where an eccentric ninety-year-old woman and a soldier who just returned from fighting in France form an unlikely bond. In her new novel “Still Life” a similar dynamic is established at the beginning of the story when Evelyn Skinner, a 60-something art historian and Ulysses Temper, a young British soldier meet in Tuscany during wartime. This fleeting but profound encounter sticks with them both over the years. When he returns to England Ulysses discovers his early love affair and marriage to free-spirited Peg has inalterably changed during the time he's been away at war. Meanwhile, Evelyn fights for the preservation of art while musing upon the early years of her life when she fell in love with Florence and a woman who taught her more than Italian. We follow their lives over the decades from the mid-40s to the late 70s as their lives separately develop and society changes. 

While I found the interactions between Ulysses and Evelyn (and, later on, between Peg's daughter Alys and Evelyn) touching, I felt somewhat ambivalent about the way the narrative keeps them separated and then draws them together again through coincidence. There was something artificial and controlled about this device which makes a game of how they come close to encountering each other on numerous occasions before finally reuniting. Similarly, there's a whimsical nature to Winman's style of characterisation which kept me at a bit of a distance from many of the personalities in this story and meant I never fully believed in them. This was especially true when it came to a blue-feathered parrot named Claude who likes to quote Shakespeare and performs near-fantastical feats. I wanted to love them yet never found myself completely falling for them. This was dismaying because I love to read about unconventional personalities in historical novels which bring colour to a history which too often feels black and white. People who break social boundaries and live their own truth aren't often memorialised so I appreciate how stories like this try to forge connections across time.

One of the most dramatic and striking sections of the book concerns the 1966 flood of the Arno in Florence. This is brought vividly to life as people hastened to preserve themselves and the vast treasures of art the city holds. It also reinforced the moving sentiment of the book concerning how life and culture can be so quickly obliterated due to war or natural disasters. However, I felt the most successful and poignant section of the novel is the final part which suddenly switches back to the beginning of the century when a young Evelyn first arrives in Florence. Here we see the details of a past she anecdotally recalled at the novel's start concerning the sentimental importance of a pressed flower and her fleeting interactions with the writer E.M. Forster. After following Evelyn as an endearingly eccentric older lady throughout the bulk of the novel to suddenly see her as a naïve love-struck expat who discovers herself in a foreign city was very moving and beautifully rendered. It was a very good way to end this predominantly enjoyable novel that breathes new life into the past.

Unicorn: The Memoir of a Muslim Drag Queen by Amrou Al-Kadhi

Coming out stories will always be an important part of LGBT literature since the way we arrive at a queer identity is a unique journey for every individual growing up in a predominantly heterosexual society. Sometimes I'll idly wonder if we've had enough of them and then come across a tale which is so moving and says something vital about how difficult it is to grow up feeling different in the world today. Amrou Al-Kadhi's memoir is like none I've read before as it describes their life growing up in a strict Iraqui Muslim household, moving to England and developing a fearless drag queen persona named Glamrou. 

Even though Amrou's life is very different from my own there were so many aspects of their feelings of alienation and moments of solace that I found relatable. From fancying a cartoon fox to intensely identifying with bizarre undersea lifeforms, I connected strongly with the experiences described. Other parts of this story felt new and surprising to me especially how Amrou became a perfectionist in their studies as a way of dealing with being rejected from their family. From the outside it's difficult to understand a mania to get everything exactly right but when a child feels like they have no value it makes perfect sense.

Amrou brings a meaningful level of context and critique to their own story – not simply describing the extraordinary experiences of their life but the meaning and reasoning behind their actions. A justified level of criticism is directed at their family as well as the patriarchal society and Islamophobia in Britain, but also at how Amrou participated in that prejudice after internalizing these sentiments. This self-critique shows an admirable level of maturity and understanding. There's also something so lively and playful about Amrou's tale which finds humour in the many missteps and confusion there has been along the way while taking seriously the blistering pain of growing up queer and misunderstood.

This is such an absorbing and emotional story which carries a heartening message that connections can be found in the most unexpected places.

The Promise by Damon Galgut

Damon Galgut's brilliant 2014 novel “Arctic Summer” was a fictional reimagining of the life of EM Forster which describes his experiences after the publication of his novel “Howard's End”. Forster's classic book about who will inherit a house serves as the structure for Galgut's new novel “The Promise”, but it's set in South Africa in the years immediately before and after Apartheid. It follows the experiences of a relatively-privileged white family who own a small farm and their fates over time. An annexe to their property is inhabited by Salome, a black maid who has worked for the family for many years and the novel begins with matriarch Rachel on her deathbed requesting that the deed to this property be given this woman who has served her so faithfully. Although her husband Manie promises to fulfil her wish, the transfer of ownership to Salome is delayed year after year after year. The self-consumed and selfish family members are so concerned with their own dramas that fulfilling this bequest always seems tediously inconvenient or perhaps it's a power they are unwilling to relinquish. But youngest daughter Amor witnessed the promise being made and persistently reminds her family it should be honoured (much to their exasperation.) Just as Forster's novel symbolically asked who will inherit England, Galgut's story asks who will inherit South Africa but I think his query is much more complicated than that simple concept sounds. 

The striking thing about how this novel is written is its impressively fluid style which artfully weaves in and out of certain perspectives, briskly navigates through different scenes and frequently switches point of view. At first this felt almost disorientating to me as transitions in focus are made so rapidly it sometimes requires careful attention to follow the narrative, but it soon became mesmerising as I felt caught in the flow of time and Galgut's gorgeously poetic language. However, the apparent freedom of this narrative to roam wherever it wishes (even into the perspective of the dead) is deceptive. As the story progresses, it becomes apparent that in following the fates of different members of the Swart family we're also tragically locked into the white gaze from which they cannot escape. Their prejudiced views saturate the sensibility of this novel. Their assumed superiority and odious casual racism appears with wincing regularity. For example, a typical paranoid statement made about black servants is that “You have to get rid of them before they start to scheme.” If these racist attitudes come to feel exasperating and if the reader longs to instead get Salome's perspective I think that's fully intentional. It's something the Swart family with their myopic view of the world never considers and so the reader is similarly denied access except for brief glimpses such as the family's black driver Lexington who observes with exasperation: “It is not always possible to please two white people simultaneously.” As such, we come to understand the real crisis in a country where legalized segregation may have ended but the tragic divide between two groups of people remains.

The crucial character in this tale and its moral ballast is Amor who slowly comes to understand the poisonous society in which she's being raised. At first she has a childish innocence about this: “Amor is thirteen years old, history has not yet trod on her. She has no idea what country she's living in.” As soon as she realises how her family and nation are locked into insurmountable prejudiced attitudes she removes herself from them and the novel itself. We're fed very little information about her life other than how she trains as a nurse, works with AIDS patients, has a relationship with another woman and ends up living on her own. But the more intricate details and her emotional reality are something we can only imagine just as the narrator wistfully imagines furnishing her sparse apartment. Amor only appears when a crisis occurs in the Swart family and it's very difficult for them to locate her because she's made it almost impossible to contact her or doesn't respond to their calls. She realises there isn't a way to change her family's attitude or mend the deep fissure which exists in this country. Nor does she presume to know or understand Salome and her son's situation. All she can do is insist upon the rightful ownership of a crumbling piece of property. Herein lies the tragedy of every person's position in this system which Isabel Wilkerson wrote about so powerfully in her book “Caste”.

Galgut's inspiration for the plot of this novel may have come from a book frequently cited as one of the greatest works of English literature, but its message feels more rooted to me in the 1950s classic Hollywood melodrama 'Imitation of Life'. In this film, a white woman named Lora takes in an African-American widow named Annie whose mixed-race daughter is desperate to be seen as white. When Annie dies, Lora looks shocked at the enormous amount of people who come to mourn her maid and how Annie had a full life outside of her home that Lora was entirely ignorant about because she never asked. The radical thing about this is that the director is also asking the audience to consider why they didn't think about Annie's life outside of the circumscribed boundaries of Lora's white world. Similarly, late in the novel “The Promise” the narrator makes an accusation of his reader “if Salome's home hasn't been mentioned before it's because you have not asked, you didn't care to know.” While we avidly follow the story of justice being served to the Swart family as their archaic world implodes over the course of the novel, there are different characters' stories we are being denied access to... or perhaps we are wilfully blind to the reality of certain people different from ourselves. This is an unsettling distinction and I admire Galgut for raising this point in such an artfully constructed novel.

The Orwell Prize for Political Fiction 2021 Shortlist

I've been a fan of George Orwell's fiction and essays since I was a teenager. So I was delighted when in 2019 The Orwell Prizes created an award for the best new political fiction. This seeks to commend new writing which comes closest to George Orwell’s ambition ‘to make political writing into an art’. I especially enjoy novels and short stories which actively engage with major social, cultural, moral, historical and political subject matters so it's great this prize is highlighting this aspect of current fiction. The first two winners of the fiction award were “Milkman” by Anna Burns and “The Nickel Boys” by Colson Whitehead. 

I'm eager to see what this year's winner will be after looking at the shortlist. It includes three novels I've already read including “The Vanishing Half” by Brit Bennett, “Leave the World Behind” by Rumaan Alam and “Summer” by Ali Smith. It's always a pleasure when book prize lists include a mixture of books I've already read and ones I want to read as I feel more engaged with how the judges might pick a winner. I would still like to read “Apeirogon” by Colum McCann which was also longlisted for last year's Booker Prize and “Afterlives” by Abdulrazak Gurnah whose writing I've previously enjoyed. I had very mixed feelings about Akwaeke Emezi's novel “Freshwater” so I'm unsure whether I'll like “The Death of Vivek Oji” but I have heard a lot of positive things about it. You can watch me discuss this prize and give summaries of the shortlisted novels here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HyKYW-wy0kM

From what I've read so far, I'm hoping “Summer” will win because Smith's 'Seasonal Quartet' has engaged with our current politics more dynamically and artfully than any other recent books I can think of. Since this is the final novel in her series it'd also be wonderful to see her commended for such an outstanding and lengthy literary achievement.

What do you think of the shortlist? Are you keen to read any of these novels? What's the best fiction you've read recently that you'd classify as overtly political? 

Cathedral by Ben Hopkins

When going on holidays to foreign European cities I'll sometimes visit cathedrals as this seems like the thing tourists should do. I remember walking through a cathedral in Portugal and passing an Irishman who impatiently sighed to his friend “I don't wanna visit another feckin church.” I too wander around their cool-aired interiors staring up in befuddled wonder, gazing at the majesty of it all but uncertain why I'm visiting a centuries-old monument. Even if I'm impressed by its beauty and stature I can't help thinking how such solemn grandeur must have demanded considerable sacrifice and been built with untold backbreaking labour. 

The impetus for Ben Hopkins' novel “Cathedral” is the construction of a principle church for the diocese in the fictional German town of Hagenburg. Taking place over the 1200s & 1300s, it follows the lives of several characters from many different levels of society whose fortunes rise and fall over time. Even after a century as bishops and popes come and go, the cathedral still hasn't been completed because of frequent societal tumult, a lack of funds and the complexity of building such a structure. Its place at the centre of the novel is more symbolic because the real focus of this impressive and immersive historical novel is a shift in society as capitalist opportunities disrupt the feudal system which governed Europe during that time. Enterprising peasants ascend in power to challenge the nobility and feckless noblemen find themselves ousted by opportunists. However, religious and political instability means that no one's status is secure and it's thrilling to follow the fates of the many fascinating characters who we encounter.

The novel is organized into four parts with chapters switching focus between a number of individuals. Some characters are revisited at a later date and others meet an untimely end. Given the pervasive violence of the time it's not surprising many lives are cut short. It's touching how a character who dies is memorialised by the author at the end of a chapter with the dates of their birth and death. Chance and circumstance play into who makes it or doesn't so it's tense seeing who survives and who perishes over the years. Initially I struggled to follow some of the storylines and keep track of the many characters as it's quite an epic and complicated tale. At one point I went back to reread several chapters to straighten out some factors and the dramatic consequences of certain events, but it was well worth doing this as it builds to an extremely worthwhile and wondrous story. I only wish a character list with brief descriptions had been included at the beginning of the book as this would have been a useful reference while reading the novel.

Three primary characters emerge from a serf family to ascend to different levels of wealth and achievement. Two brothers and a sister use their cunning and intelligence to establish themselves in different parts of this community. Following their progress we get a glimpse into various factions of society which alternately bargain, betray and fight with one another. We also come to see the personal expense and compromises which must be made as these characters encounter the pervasive sexist, homophobic and anti-Semitic attitudes. It's particularly fascinating to read how Christian and Jewish communities who couldn't openly do business with each other found ways around the restrictions by using intermediaries. Other sections describe how defending religion is used as an excuse to legally pillage wealthy groups of people to fund the expense of constructing the cathedral. The intimidating bishop's treasurer Eugenius von Zabern ominously remarks “God forgive me, but there could be good revenue in this heresy hunt.” Whether the persecuted are heretics or not is often beside the point because the religious powers see the potential financial and political gains from the accused.

I grew attached to many of the vibrant personalities in this novel whether they were villainous or virtuous, but I was particularly impressed with the way in which the author sympathetically portrays the life of a gay man who manages to maintain a same sex relationship for a period of time. Ben Hopkins stays true to how each character is a complex individual with many different parts to their identity while also showing how their sensibilities are shaped by the circumstances and ideologies of this time period. It's what makes reading this historical novel such an immersive experience. There are also small enticing mysteries scattered throughout the book such as a missing intricate drawing for a grand window and the unknown identity of a bandit leader. As well as telling a thrilling story this is also a contemplative book which raises deeper questions about how politics came to be so driven by capitalism and how the complexity of history can be smoothed out by the dominant narrative. The cathedral comes to symbolize so much more than an achievement of construction built for religious glory. It's also the product of political manoeuvring and the remnant of a powerful leader's ego. At one point Eugenius wonders 'What is this new cathedral but the product of vanity?' I doubt I'll regard any cathedral I visit in the future with the same bland passivity because there must be countless stories attached to ever block of stone that went into it. “Cathedral” is a truly wondrous, entertaining and clever novel that's given me a new perspective.

Heaven by Mieko Kawakami (translated by Sam Bett and David Boyd)

Nothing twists my heart like recalling the alienation I felt in childhood. That was a time of blistering self-awareness made all the more painful by children around me who gleefully pointed out my apparent “flaws” and punished me for them. In retrospect we like to say it's our differences which make us unique. We like to assert how the antagonism we endured has made us stronger. These are empowering notions, but what truth does this rationality hold when we still experience the visceral sting of emotional wounds from bullying? 

Mieko Kawakami's novel “Heaven” meditates on the real meaning of these trials of childhood. It contemplates who really holds the power in a dynamic where the few who are weak are preyed upon by the dominant majority. It questions what lessons are learned and what truth is revealed by these conflicts. We follow the perspective of a fourteen-year-old boy cruelly nicknamed Eyes by the boys at his school because he has a lazy eye. They relentlessly bully him for this. As their savagery escalates he befriends his classmate Kojima, a female classmate who refuses to practice standard hygiene for a special reason and gets cruelly persecuted by the other schoolgirls. 

There's a beautiful tenderness to this story as these two find friendship amidst their alienation and suffering. They pass each other notes and have awkward meetings to discuss things which are alternately banal and meaningful. This feels very true to the experience of adolescence. Equally, it's poignant how the narrator finds solace and relief in small things like putting his hands in the cool space of his desk. It's also powerfully described how his unruly emotions often physically control him. Kawakami also portrays the suffering and after-effects of bullying so sharply where the narrator finds himself driven to the point where “I started crying all night long... I couldn't stop the tears. I asked myself if I was sad, but I had lost touch with what sadness was supposed to be.” These experiences are vividly rendered and made me really reconnect with similar feelings from my own childhood. 

The story contains a deep thoughtfulness as the narrator and Kojima formulate competing perspectives when the bullying they experience intensifies and persists. They have very different feelings about the agency they possess. Where the narrator sees himself as a helpless victim, Kojima asserts “I bet we could make them stop. But we're not just playing by their rules. This is our will. We let them do this. It's almost like we chose this.” Her reasoning verges on making her a martyr: “Everything we take, all of the abuse, we do it to rise above.” Meanwhile the narrator does his best to simply endure and survive. It's a complicated reckoning which leads to some scenes which are almost surreal in tone. There's also an odd lengthy exchange with Mamose, one of the bullies who questions how we commonly perceive the state of the world: “Listen, if there's a hell, we're in it. And if there's a heaven, we're already there. This is it.” The conclusions these different adolescents come to make the reader reevaluate the meaning of these youthful conflicts and how we can get past them. Reading this emotional novel is an unsettling and rewarding experience. 

The Other Black Girl by Zakiya Dalila Harris

I get nervous about genre fiction that makes pointed political statements because sometimes it feels like the integrity of the characters and situation is compromised for the sake of making a gripping plot. Probably the most prominent and well-publicised example of this I can think of is “American Dirt” whose social commentary often felt tacked onto a story which largely read like a conventional thriller. The issue is that certain twists and dramatic events need to occur within the story to adhere to generic conventions in a way which stretches belief and can often feel absurd. This runs the risk of undermining any political statements which are being made. However, I feel like debut novel “The Other Black Girl” by Zakiya Dalila Harris impressively manages to deliver a tense story which kept me wondering what was going to happen while also making a moving statement about the ongoing personal impact of being a minority in the workplace. Naturally, since Harris worked at a publisher herself and this tale is set in a publishing house, the bookish world has been intrigued to see how scathing the author's critique of this industry will be. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it turns out there are a lot of problematic issues at the heart of this rarefied and typically liberal-leaning work environment. 

The novel follows the story of Nella, a 26-year-old woman working at a prestigious publishing company in New York City as an editorial assistant. She's subject to microaggression from her predominantly white colleagues as she's the only black employee at her level. Schemes to diversify the publishing industry are launched with enthusiasm but quickly peter out. She receives manuscripts to give her opinion on but when she points out examples of stereotypical black characters the white authors and editors angrily deflect the critiques fearing that they are being called racist. She's made to feel like the token black employee and finds herself continuously passed over for promotion. But, when another black woman named Hazel also joins the company, Nella feels a mixture of sisterhood and competitiveness. While this charismatic new employee makes professional connections and amplifies the issues of diversity in publishing more quickly than Nella ever has, an unsettling conspiracy emerges showing just how far some people are willing to go to be accepted and what they're willing to sacrifice.

While reading the book I felt ambivalent about some dramatic reveals which occur within the story. The more bombastic and shocking the twist, the more I started to question how seriously I was meant to take Nella's frustrations. But, by the end of the novel, I felt like the outlandish turns the plot takes were necessary to say something which you can't get from a straightforwardly realistic tale. The book isn't exaggerating the genuine feelings of these characters, just their situation. The degree to which Nella is made to feel she must constantly keep her appearance and actions in check around her white coworkers can't be fully expressed through conventional fiction. Nor can it adequately show the residual effects of white employees' “good intentions” to diversify the office and the books they publish while treating their black employees like minorities rather than individuals. These are complex and layered issues whose impact and meaning the reader will viscerally feel while reading Harris' imaginative novel. This book has been frequently likened to the film 'Get Out' and it's an apt comparison because this is a mode of storytelling which bracingly conveys a deeper truth while also being wickedly entertaining. It also portrays a very touching portrait of an intelligent young woman inspired to follow in the footsteps of her pioneering literary forebearers.

The Performance by Claire Thomas

Watching the news it's difficult not to be consumed by an ever-present level of anxiety about the state of the world as it suffers from innumerable economic, political and environmental problems. Though it feels like the planet is on the brink of catastrophe, no metaphors for impending disaster are necessary when the ongoing bushfire crisis in Australia means the world is literally burning up around the people who live there. Melbourne writer Claire Thomas has brilliantly dramatised this in her novel “The Performance” where three women from different generations watch a performance of Samuel Beckett's 'Happy Days' while a bushfire increases in ferocity not far from the theatre. The narrative revolves between the perspectives of professor Margot, theatre usher Summer and philanthropist Ivy as they watch the play and contemplate the past. Though we get snippets of the performance which is occurring and their reactions to it, what's so engaging is how Thomas captures the real experience of being in the theatre. Of course, this novel takes on an added poignancy and even more meaning reading it now that the global pandemic has caused most theatres to shut over the past year. 

Most of the time the audience is focusing on everything except the play whether it be the self-consciousness which comes from coughing in a quiet theatre, the snores of a nearby audience member or the fleeting thoughts which flash through their minds. This gives a wonderful humour and relatable quality to the story as well as grounding the reader in these characters' moment to moment experiences over the course of the play. It also highlights how we ourselves perform whenever we're in public or interacting with other people whether that be following the conventions of social interaction or making sure we're projecting the correct political values. As the fretful character of Summer who is a 20-something biracial woman in a lesbian relationship reflects: “Performing in the right way each day is exhausting her.”

In the play 'Happy Days' a cheerful woman describes her daily routines and narrates her thoughts while gradually being buried in a mound and this is the perfect vehicle through which to compare these women's experiences. They are each dealing with their own personal crisis while also being aware of the larger environmental threat occurring outside the theatre, yet they are most often preoccupied by what's happening in the moment. It's observed how “The earth is deader and harsher now. We humans, all of us, are stuck on a dead planet with extremes that are more extreme. We humans, all of us, have to distract ourselves with denial and busy business.” Since these women's stories are refracted through the play they're watching the novel makes an artful and moving statement about our impending mortality and how these swirling anxieties give the sensation that we're all steadily being buried alive.

While “The Performance” poignantly expresses this existential threat, the book is also wonderfully playful and oddly comforting as I became increasingly involved in these unique women's compelling stories and their relationships to each other. I was also so impressed with how Thomas cleverly structures the novel as its story neatly takes place over the course of the play and when the intermission occurs the text switches to a dramatic script where the women mingle in the lobby. There's a pleasurable irony to how the only interaction which takes place between the characters is presented like a play at the only time they're not actually watching the play. There's also a quiet beauty to how the author shows that (though we can often get lost in apprehensive mindsets) small moments of kindness and human interaction can make a world of difference: “There have been times in Ivy's life when a single warm sentence from another person has made the difference between wanting to die and not wanting to die that day.” Following these women's affecting moments of connection and disconnection is riveting experience. I'd highly recommend this excellent novel to anyone who is a fan of “Ducks, Newburyport” or “Weather” by Jenny Offill.

When We Cease to Understand the World by Benjamín Labatut (translated by Adrian Nathan West)

It's been especially interesting following the International Booker Prize this year as the shortlisted books all take a creative approach to form, genre and narrative in telling their stories. This is certainly true in the case of Benjamín Labatut's “When We Cease to Understand the World” which inventively blends biographical nonfiction and fiction to describe discoveries made by several different male scientists and mathematicians of the 21st century such as Fritz Haber, Alexander Grothendieck, Werner Heisenberg and Erwin Schrodinger. 

Their intellectual revelations made fundamental advancements within their fields of study, altered our human perception of reality and provoked innumerable changes to our lives in ways we don't often think about. But, like any scientific advancement, this knowledge could be used for positive or negative consequences from alleviating famine to facilitating mass killing. The question of the relative “goodness” of any such discovery is tricky as well because if fertilizer is made so readily available it leads to the planet's overpopulation is that really positive advancement? On a personal level, these discoveries also led to many of these intellectuals experiencing a moral, spiritual or existential crisis. They became so overwhelmed by the consequences of what they found some turned their backs on society to become reclusive and/or actively tried to block their findings from being used. It's described how Grothendieck anxiously wonders “What new horrors would spring forth from the total comprehension that he sought?”

Labatut wonderfully dramatizes the details of these men's lives focusing on the toll such genius and knowledge takes upon the individual. By not sticking to biographical fact the author gets at the emotional truth of the dilemmas which attend such intellectual “advancement”. The narrative is so smooth and smart it's like deep secrets are being whispered to the reader by the coolest and most engaging philosophy professor at school. The prose are also so beautiful they have an enchanting and haunting effect. It makes these separate (and sometimes overlapping) tales compulsively readable. However, sometimes Labatut's embellishments can become a little too fanciful as these scientists become consumed with sexual compulsions or drug-induced hallucinations. I get that the mania which attends genius can also be felt and often might coincide with such extremes of experience, but it's also when I became overtly aware of Labatut shaping the narrative into a story whose need for a poetic arc supersedes the grainier stuff of reality. I felt a more effective scene was when an individual becomes lost in a fog on a desert island and we follow his painfully plodding efforts to find his way back to his accommodation.

Just as Stepanova's fascinating book “In Memory of Memory” seriously altered the way I think about memory, Labatut's more streamlined but equally thoughtful book has made me indelibly reconsider the real value of knowledge. Often we feel that if we can scientifically understand every aspect of the unknown we'll be able to control our lives and the world around us. But to exist involves so many chaotic factors and there are so many facets of reality which will remain permanently beyond our comprehension. Labatut shows with extreme but highly-telling examples how passing into a fuller knowledge of life can as easily lead to madness as it does to enlightenment.

Black Spartacus by Sudhir Hazareesingh

I always look forward to seeing what books have been listed for the annual Wolfson History Prize which consistently highlights quality new nonfiction. Since its publication I've had my eye on reading Sudhir Hazareesingh's “Black Spartacus” because of its strikingly beautiful cover and a curiosity about its subject of Toussaint Louverture, a man born into slavery who became a military and political leader of The Haitian Revolution which occurred in the late 18th century. So its listing on this year's prize gave me the perfect excuse to dive into this fascinating and authoritative biography of a man who Hazareesingh dubs “the first black superhero of the modern age”. Indeed, Louverture appeared to have almost superhuman powers as the author describes how this was a man who consistently subsisted on only a few hours of sleep and consumed a meagre amount of food yet led battles from the front and utilized his considerable intelligence to strategize methods to build a Haiti liberated from slavery. This book is a fascinating account about his spectacular rise to power, the enormous challenges he faced, the competing myths surrounding him and his enduring legacy as a black leader with strong libertarian values. Like Spartacus, Louverture used his strength, intelligence and cunning to rise out of his oppressed origins and galvanize his brethren to follow.

What most impressed me about Louverture's incredible story is how strongly this general held onto his values even after his rise to power. The challenge for anyone who comes to prominence is how to maintain that position without being corrupted by it. Though there were numerous politically-motivated slanderous charges against Louverture suggesting he only sought to increase his personal finances, Hazareesingh carefully unpicks these in this biography showing how they are false. The author admits how difficult it is getting to the truth about Louverture's life since much information has been destroyed and Louverture himself presented contradictory accounts of his life out of a need for self preservation. Yet, through careful research and convincing arguments about the logic of Louverture's actions, we can surmise that he primarily wanted to build an independent nation where the black and white population could exist equally while maintaining amicable diplomatic ties with the country's former colonial master.

Louverture was a devout Roman Catholic and the author describes the influence which the locally practiced Vodou had upon him as well. He was also educated in the political philosophy of libertarianism which guided his belief that individuals should be accountable for themselves. This inspired Louverture to draft a constitution and set in place regulations to maintain order and enhance the independence of Haiti. Though he seemed to continuously beat the odds and live through terrifying ordeals, it seems almost sadly inevitable that Louverture couldn't survive the forces lined up against him which led to his betrayal, arrest and imprisonment in France where he eventually died in 1803. Yet, his far-reaching influence persisted through the years not only for anti-slavery and anti-colonial movements but also in emphasizing “shared ideals of justice and a vision of citizenship based on common political values rather than ethnicity”. He's such a compelling individual so it felt somewhat frustrating at times that we can't know more about his personal life since so little solid information exists. Instead, Hazareesingh focuses more on the military history and political battles which are well documented. While this is understandable, it made this book a less emotionally involving story than I would have ideally liked. Of course, that's the nature of biographies which must necessarily be rooted in fact. It left me hungry to read some of the novels inspired by his life which Hazareesingh mentions towards the end of the book. Nevertheless, it was a pleasure to read this passionate account of Louverture's life to learn more about this incredible figure and his enduring legacy.

It'll be exciting to see if “Black Spartacus” is named the winner of this year's Wolfson History Prize which will be announced in an online ceremony on June 9th at 6PM (BST) which you can watch here for free: https://www.wolfsonhistoryprize.org.uk/2021

In Memory of Memory by Maria Stepanova (translated by Sasha Dugdale)

At some point in life we all wonder about our family history. Who were these ancestors whose coupling through succeeding generations has unwittingly resulted in us? What do any surviving photographs, stories and momentos say about them and can we ever obtain a meaningful understanding of these lives from the past? Maria Stepanova has been trying to construct an account of her family history for a long time and become its narrator like a documentary filmmaker: “I would become a stranger, a teller of tales, a selector and a sifter, the one who decides what part of the huge volume of the unsaid must fit in the spotlight's circle, and what part will remain outside it in the darkness.” When her Aunt Galya dies she sifts through the belongings Galya left and discovers that “The meek contents of her apartment, feeling themselves to be redundant, immediately began to lose their human qualities and, in doing so, ceased to remember or to mean anything.” 

Thus, Stepanova presents us with memories, anecdotes, letters, diary entries and other documents alongside her journeys to significant locations from her ancestors' lives to form a loose picture of their past. In doing so we gain access to not only her personal family history, but Russian Jewish life over the course of the 20th century. There are innumerable accounts of this period of European history, but Stepanova brings a new perspective of rigorous enquiry into how we memorialise people from the past and how their narrative has been self-consciously shaped. More than this, Stepanova rigorously questions how we interact with fragments from the past and what memory means: “This book about my family is not about my family at all, but something quite different: the way memory works, and what memory wants from me.” The result is an utterly enthralling rumination on this subject which sheds light on what the past really means to us and the responsibility tied to the act of remembering.

Some books take me longer to read than others and this was one I really needed to be patient with – not only because it's 500 pages long but because the text contains such a density of ideas I often stopped to copy passages out, look up references or documents such as the short film 'Diversions' by Helga Landauer and ruminate upon the many dilemmas the author presents. She gives so much to consider when contemplating the meaning of memory and includes numerous scholarly, literary and artistic references through which to probe how we relate to the past. At some times it does feels too cluttered and that it could have been usefully cut down to streamline the points she's making. Of course, part of the point is: how do you begin to form a story about the past with the enormous amount of material which survives, especially when so many of these things don't really mean anything anymore? She elegantly summarises how “Pointless knowledge expands at an unstoppable rate: not like a building, which grows with the slow addition of floors, more like that terrifying wartime spring thaw when the bodies were slowly exposed by the melting snow.” But it feels like there's a lot to wade through before getting to Part 3 which beautifully summarizes her own unique mission to memorialise the story of her family. Though she concedes at the beginning of the book “I need to make it very clear at this point that our family was quite ordinary” I grew to feel real affection for them through some of the fragments Stepanova includes and her own reflections on deceased family members. There is so much which remains unknowable about these array of individuals including her young male relative who died in combat as part of the “ill-fated Sinyavinsky Operation” of 1942 or a female ancestor who studied to be a doctor in Paris. However, it's not answers about their lives but the abiding mystery which is what's important.

This book does something truly revolutionary. Rather than present dry historical documents which we inflict our imaginations upon to imbue them with meaning, Stepanova demands we grant a dignified independence to people who can no longer speak for themselves and not shape them into a desired narrative. At first this message felt too unsentimental and accusatory to me, but as I continued reading I came to more dynamically understand the moral implications of fixing people from the past within a certain story. How much of our family histories is true and how much embroidered with fiction? And how do we deal with the feeling that to recite the facts is dull but to fabricate is to deviate from history? It's given me such a new perspective on memory and family history which will continue to impact how I think about the past. At times, Stepanova risks sounding curmudgeonly in her point of view when she forcefully dismisses the prevalence of selfies or damns pornography as the lowliest form of documentation. I'd certainly not make a case for the lasting importance of either of these things, but she doesn't fully consider their broader meaning. While I didn't always agree with a number of the author's points, I've learned so much from this book and it's expanded my perspective on the enormous subject of memory. It's also encouraged me to take a more active engagement in my own family history and speak with my parents about where we come from.

This One Sky Day by Leone Ross

This novel introduces readers to the archipelago of Popisho, a fictional series of islands which form a nation of people possessed with magical qualities and real world concerns. The day begins with Xavier being tasked with preparing a wedding feast for an influential man's daughter. His special ability is being able to season food just with the palms of his hands. This is a super power I never knew I needed but think about how convenient it would be! No more rooting through cluttered spice racks. But Xavier also possesses the title of macaenus, a coveted and specially appointed position in which he prepares a once in a lifetime meal for every person exactly when they most need it. He's also haunted by his wife who died in the ocean and literally stalks the islands while her body gradually disintegrates. Wild enough for you? This is only the beginning of a fantastical journey infused with the awe-inspiring pleasure of dreams and the intensity of nightmares. At one point in the novel there's a magical burst which affects all the women on the island and their affliction is so shocking I couldn't believe what I was reading! I love that Ross has the courage to not only depict such a mischievous event but carry its logic through so we see how it results in chaotic transformation. This wondrous tale confidently leads the reader though the stories and lives of its vibrant characters to inspire, enchant and provoke thoughtful reflection. 

There's a lot happening in this novel with its large cast of characters, multiple plot lines and complex politics which the reader must try to keep straight while also becoming accustomed to the magical qualities which abound through these islands. But, even though I found myself racing to keep up at some points, there's a propulsive energy to this narrative which is so excitingly fresh and delightful that I was utterly mesmerized. The humour and charisma of its characters shines through in the vernacular of their dialogue. It's a book I'll eagerly enjoy returning to in order to better understand its intricacies and indulge again in the all-consuming sensory experience of it. If assigning novels to a genre is your thing “This One Sky Day” would comfortably sit under the heading of magical realism or speculative fiction. But, while such categories are useful to indicate the type of reading experience you will get, no one box will adequately describe the bewitching flavours and electric sensations this novel contains. The magical elements it possesses aren't indulgent flourishes but allow us to consider subjects such as love, addiction, corruption, grief, the legacy of colonialism, classism, sexism, homophobia and infidelity from an entirely new angle. As much as I appreciate a good realistic novel that stays true to the laws of gravity and the bone-dry ticking of the clock, I do love a story that fully embraces a boundless imagination to reshape the world into a thing of wondrous beauty. This novel made me see life in explosive colour again and I loved reading it.

Circus of Wonders by Elizabeth Macneal

The 2017 cult hit film 'The Greatest Showman' inspired marginalized people about the solace that can be found by establishing your own community with others who don't fit in with larger society. But it also perpetuated a dangerous mythology about P.T. Barnum as a showman who wholeheartedly believed in this ethos and deeply cared about the welfare of the performers in his freak shows and circuses. Elizabeth Macneal's new novel “Circus of Wonders” presents a more complicated fictional story of such an impresario with Jasper Jupiter who in 1866 aspires to create a show that will eclipse Barnum in its success and draw Queen Victoria to attend. He does this through mercenary exchanges purchasing individuals with physical aberration from their families, tyrannically working his crew and making dangerous deals to enhance the spectacles. Though this egotist's circus is at the centre of this novel, Macneal primarily focuses instead on the points of view of two far more sympathetic characters. 

A young woman named Nell feels isolated in her community because of birthmarks which speckle her skin and, though she's kidnapped by Jupiter, she comes to embrace the circus' opportunities and the sense of importance which comes from being refashioned into a wonder known as the “Queen of the Moon and Stars”. But she soon realises that this isn't necessarily an empowering form of celebrity, her newfound freedom has limitations and the public's adulation has a sinister side. Jasper's brother Toby has always been the more awkward and less favoured of the pair. From an early age they hatched a dream of forming a circus together, but Jasper's ambition supersedes his brotherly love and there hangs between them a secret from their days being involved in the Crimean War. The complicated relationship between Nell and Toby plays out amidst the rise to fame of Jupiter's Circus of Wonders.

It's a dramatic and moving tale which delves into the moral ambiguities which arise when people who have been diminished by their families and communities seek to achieve independence through the only methods which are available to them. I have a natural affinity for tales of circus life and one of my favourite novels is Angela Carter's “Nights at the Circus” so I was instantly drawn into Macneal's story. As with her debut novel “The Doll Factory”, she has a wonderful talent for vividly creating a sense of history within her fiction and evoking how it might have felt dealing with the struggles that these individuals faced in particular periods of the past. By referencing iconic fairy tales within the novel, Macneal reminds us that these are stories of wondrous magic but they also have a dark heart and timeless lessons about the price of obtaining what you most desire.

Real Estate by Deborah Levy

It's easy to get drawn to looking at a real estate agent's window and dream of the ideal home you might inhabit. In this book Deborah Levy muses upon how she's done this too especially because her “crumbling apartment block on the hill” is far from ideal. But, rather than planning to acquire bricks and mortar, Levy more often muses upon what shape her “unreal estate” might take as well as the homes and possessions which might be included in her “portfolio”. This playfully allows her to imaginatively craft and mould a fictional space and habitation that's not anchored to reality. Moreover, it leads to more searching thoughts upon what it means to inhabit a life through a particular lens; in Levy's case as a writer, a daughter, a mother, a friend, a divorcee and a woman who is about to turn sixty. These autobiographical meditations obviously have a deep personal meaning for the author but they also speak to what it means to be human and the troubling question: how do we inhabit the present moment when we can so often be preoccupied by what we've lost and what we wish to have? 

There's a delicious exuberance to Levy's journey as she moves between temporary residences in Mumbai, New York, Paris, London, Berlin and Greece. This takes place over the course of 2018 as she's working on her novel “The Man Who Saw Everything” and it's so compelling to read about the images, themes, places and influences “David Lynch, one of the film directors who had most inspired my approach to fiction” which helped shape that book. The same was true of the previous instalment of Levy's memoirs “The Cost of Living” when she was writing her novel “Hot Milk”. The three volumes of what's been branded Levy's 'Living Autobiography' thus make up a fascinating commentary on the writing process and an invaluable exploration of the influences which fed into the creation of her unique novels. However, I have to admit, I favour reading Levy's memoirs more than the fiction itself which I admire and appreciate but don't love as much as reading about her thought process and endearing experiences. Deep issues to do with art, feminism and humanity are paired with humorous wit and flights of fancy which make the 'Living Autobiography' a delicious and richly enjoyable experience.

Somehow Levy makes the mundane and embarrassing things in life seem wonderfully glamorous. She collects an eclectic range of objects “Electric bikes, wooden horses and silkworms would be part of my property portfolio”. She makes drinks when people visit her by chilling glasses or squeezing oranges and she goes to great lengths to recreate a particular guava ice cream. She's the ultimate eccentric aunt whose party I want to crash as a shyly curious Patrick Dennis. Towards the end of the book Levy herself crashes a London literary party and has an unsavoury encounter with “a male writer of some note, but not in my own hierarchy of note”. It's delectable how she puts him in his place. Equally, she hilariously mocks the way we project images of our lives and habitations on social media: “Look! Look on Twitter: our ducks are sleeping under the willow trees!... Look! Look at you looking on Instagram! Here we are, setting off on our country walk with Molly, our sweet-natured Burmese python!” She rightly identifies the physical accumulations and projections of our lives as flimsy illusions disconnected from any true sense of security or happiness. She brilliantly describes how “If real estate is a self-portrait and a class portrait, it is also a body arranging its limbs to seduce.”

There's something deeply consoling about following Levy's non-conventional approach to living, creating art and establishing a constantly-evolving amorphous sense of home. I drank deeply from this book and savoured every drop, but I'm still wondering what filthy rhyme she invented to remember the code to get into her Paris apartment. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, she'll one day sing it for me. More seriously, although this is labelled as “the final volume” of the ‘Living Autobiography’ I don’t see any reason why it should end and we shouldn’t hope for further instalments detailing Levy’s life and valuable insights.