The Hummingbird by Sandro Veronesi (translated by Elena Pala)

Sometimes a new novel is accompanied by so much advance praise it seems like a sure winner. So it can feel disconcerting to discover that after actually reading the book it hasn't worked for me. Jhumpa Lahiri states that Sandro Veronesi (winner of multiple literary prizes in his native Italy) is “long considered one of Italy's leading writers” and that “his latest novel 'The Hummingbird'... has already been hailed as a classic.” High praise for this book also comes from Ian McEwan, Howard Jacobson, Michael Cunningham, Richard Ford, Edward Carey and Edward Docx. It's described as a “reinvention of the family saga” and generally I really fall for multigenerational stories. So all the elements were in place for me to fall in love with this book, but I didn't. This naturally makes me wonder if I'm missing something or if my expectations were set too high. But generally I've found that no amount of overarching high praise will spoil my enjoyment of a book if it's actually good and “The Hummingbird” is a novel that I keep finding faults with the more I think about it. 

It traces the story of Marco Carrera by moving backwards and forwards in time from the 1970s all the way through into the future in 2030. He's a doctor who specializes in eye and vision care. Though he's married and has a daughter, he's had to keep at arm's length the true love of his life Luisa who he maintains contact with over the years but, for complicated reasons, they can never be together. A crucial opening section recounts dialogue between Marco and Daniele Carradori, his wife Marina's psychoanalyst. Though their conversation breaks the trust a doctor should maintain with his patient they discuss Marina and continue to discuss her in the years following after Marco and Marina divorce. It made me really uncomfortable that Marina is described as suffering from severe mental health issues, yet we get little about her story beyond Daniele dismissively stating years later that he always knew she was a “lost cause”. Of course, Marina might have caused a lot of destruction and pain for those around her but the narrative doesn't grant us access to her position. It feels like the reader should only sympathise with Marco and the fact that life has trapped him in a situation where he can't be with the woman he truly loves.

Marco's life is beset by several tragedies which makes it feel like he's a victim of fate who persists despite the chaos swirling around him. The novel raises questions about the amount of free will we have to decide our own destinies. Although there is personal tragedy in his life, Marco has an unparalleled lucky streak as a frequent gambler who, against all odds, always comes out ahead. The eternal question of determination as opposed to the influence of human will is certainly a compelling one especially when looking at the course of a life over great swaths of time, but the way it's presented in this story feels too manufactured and forced. The novel is told in fragments of different forms: letters, dialogue and snapshots of particular periods that leave a number of gaps for the reader to imaginatively fill in. That's an interesting structure but it feels like it's built to arouse the maximum amount of sympathy for Marco at the expense of all the other characters. Additionally, certain dramatic scenes in the novel feel directly taken from films such as 'Force Mejeure' and 'Final Destination' as a way of further demonstrating the question of fate vs free will. This felt more hackneyed than meaningful to me.

Finally, Marco's granddaughter Miraijin is presented as a great beacon of hope for the future who he laboriously invests with attributes which will allow her to triumph over traditional sexist and racist notions. He pompously claims “this creature is my gift to the world.” These idealized notions seem very naïve and the positive note the author seems to be reaching for in the final section is subsumed by the sense this is really just an extended hymn to the “beloved” figure of Marco. Every character in the novel we've been prevented from getting to know in any meaningful sense because of the way the story is structured is paraded up to his bed during Marco's final hour to pay tribute to him. Given I didn't feel endeared to Marco, I didn't shed a tear. I'm only emphasizing my reaction to the end of this book because Edward Docx's review makes a point to “commend and celebrate The Hummingbird's last scene, in which Veronesi achieves something transcendent”. If you feel attached to Marco and Veronesi's method of storytelling which funnels all empathy exclusively towards this main character the book's conclusion will probably feel poignant, but all it made me do was sigh with relief that it was over. 

Things Are Against Us by Lucy Ellmann

Oh Lucy! The author who stirred a little controversy and broke everyone's arm with her brilliant giant quacking tome, which was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 2019, is back! And she is justifiably mad as hell because “Patriarchy has trashed the place.” But, while her anger is deadly serious, there's an immensely funny tone to these essays as Ellmann's vitriol touches upon everything from the pollution of the oceans to men's love of pizza to the current pandemic to Doris Day. The humour arises because “In times of pestilence, my fancy turns to shticks”. And that's what these essays are: a critique of the state of the world as Ellmann sees it after a year of lockdown reading the newspapers and going online. She is somewhere between a feminist comedian, a sage scholar and your drunk aunty at the family barbecue. She sometimes seems like Mrs Duszejko in “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead” come to life. She does not filter herself and she is not polite. And why should she be? As Ellmann states: “These people hate us! These people are trying to kill us. I don't know why we're all so goddam nice about it, but nothing is ever done about the way men carry on.” 

No one who has read “Ducks, Newburyport” will be surprised by the content or preoccupations expressed in these essays which focus on everything from old movies to the YouTube videos of “Morning Routine Girls” to Laura Ingalls Wilder. Although the narrator of that epic novel was a character most decidedly not Ellmann herself, much of the endlessly rolling thought process and references were clearly from Ellmann. We see a sensibility shaped by what she has consumed praising the heroes she sees as fighting the good fight and lambasting the criminals guilty of upholding corrupt systems. The title essay opening this collection sets the right furiously-comic tone because it's an absurdist take on how the physical world around us is constantly failing, falling apart and working against us. Then follows her fury about the people and governments who are similarly letting us down. Most of her anger is directed at America “The US is now the worst boy scout jamboree in history. Or jerk circle” and men who “have wrecked everything of beauty and cultivated everything putrid on the face of the earth. Not all men, of course, yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I'm generalising. But it's for a good cause: sanity.” Crucially, I think this is the point and joy of these essays. They are a cathartic release from all the tension. I certainly don't agree with all of Ellmann's opinions, but I sympathize with many of them. 

Ellmann's scattergun approach has mixed results. Her assertion that “misogyny can be lethal” can't be overstated. It should be obvious and her ability for pointing out these facts when we've been conditioned by the patriarchy not to see them is important. Her solutions are radical. She feels “The American 'experiment', now over, needs to dispose of itself in an equitable manner. Time to give the whole place back to the indigenous peoples and ex-slaves who suffered the most, and see if they can fix it.” She asserts men should gift all their wealth to women. She suggests renaming Manhattan to Womanhattan. These propositions aren't meant to be practical – although I'm sure Ellmann would seriously like to see them happen. But her alternate reality is a balm when both polite discussion and endless twitter spats fail to instigate any substantial changes in our society. But Ellmann's targets don't always need the pummelling she gives them. Her critique of the “shamanic performance' of young female YouTubers primarily shows she's spent too long hate watching these videos. As a YouTuber myself I know that there’s certainly a lot of frustratingly shallow and self-absorbed behaviour exhibited there, but there’s also some engaging conversation and charitable acts. Similarly, dear old Agatha Christie is eviscerated along with most crime novelists. Towards the end of the book Ellmann addresses some of the public criticism she faced around Booker time for her opinions on writers and mothers. Upon this book's launch an essay not included in this collection titled 'Crap' was conveyed by the publisher in 257 tweets and earned a fresh round of mockery directed at Ellmann. The point is you either enjoy this raconteur's manner or you don't. 

Personally, I ate these essays up like popping candy and let them fizz on my tongue. I especially enjoyed Ellmann's evaluation of how writers use physical description to convey character. She cites how this is successfully done by Dickens and Marilynne Robinson, but she deliciously drags EL Doctorow by contrasting his character descriptions of men and women stating “Is he even 'handsome'? We don't need to know. Men don't have to be good-looking; they do the looking.” Perhaps the most interesting and successful essay in the collection is 'Three Strikes' where Ellmann self-consciously plays upon the style of Virginia Woolf's “Three Guineas”. It's a searing critique of male oppression delivered with voluminous footnotes. I think perhaps Ellmann's writing is best when she sets herself constraints within the form that she's writing. The definite rhythm that is quickly established in “Ducks, Newburyport” is partly why it's so successful and makes its endless stream of complaints and preoccupations delectable. This collection largely succeeds in distilling the author's frustration about how we deserve better than the leaders we must live under and the systems we must live within. Ellmann wearily acknowledges towards the end of the book that “I recognize I'm fighting a losing battle – going up the down escalator” but I'm so glad she continues to march on and doesn't allow herself to be silenced. 

An Ordinary Wonder by Buki Papillon

Of the many coming-of-age novels I've read about individuals who grow up feeling intensely alienated and different from those around them, I've never encountered a story like “An Ordinary Wonder”. It follows Oto who is raised within a relatively-privileged family in Nigeria in the 1980s and 90s. Oto has a twin sister Wura who is considered “normal” but Oto is made to feel like a “monster” because although Oto feels herself to be a girl she has been raised as a boy. This is something Oto's conservative and superstitious family have been try to suppress, but as Oto becomes a teenager the disjunction between how she feels, her appearance and how she's forced to present herself can no longer be suppressed. The narrative moves backwards and forwards in time between Oto's childhood with her abusive mother and teenage years at a boarding school. Gradually Oto becomes empowered to perceive herself in a way that is very different from how the authority figures in her early life made her feel worthless and unwanted. There are some inspiring individuals who support and befriend Oto while others seek to abuse, diminish and take advantage of her because she is at such a vulnerable and confused point in her life. It's a heartrending tale and Buki Papillon artfully crafts a story which carries you through Oto's journey with many revelations and dramatic surprises along the way. 

It's was interesting reading this new novel so soon after reading the early-20th century classic “The Well of Loneliness”. Although these stories are very different in many ways they both concern gender confusion and individuals who feel extremely isolated and beleaguered until they learn a language with which to define themselves. Where Stephen found a freedom in calling herself an “invert”, Oto finds it liberating when she discovers that she was born intersex and that there are other people like her. Aside from providing an opportunity to feel part of a group and take medical and legal steps to fully embrace her identity, having this language provides a frame within which Oto can positively view herself in a way which is radically different from how her parents and local community perceived her. What's even more inspiring is how Oto gradually discovers that her family contains many secrets and hidden facets which reveal that her mistreatment isn't isolated but part of larger social structures built upon rigid notions of gender identity and patriarchal power. 

I must admit I felt wary at some points in the story when an examination of Oto's body occurs - not because I was repulsed by the physical characteristics being described but I was worried the story was becoming almost voyeuristic. Since our society so often feels uncomfortable not knowing whether an individual can be labelled female or male people can take a prurient interest in the genitals and bodies of people whose outward appearance doesn't conform to a certain gender. I don't want to participate in that kind of invasive gaze and would rather allow people to define themselves. Since Oto declares early on in the novel that she is a girl this is the only evidence I needed to see. But I think the author is careful in using descriptions of Oto examining her body as a way of demonstrating a part of her journey to understanding exactly who she is and how she can integrate into a society that she's been cast out of. This is something that needs to be handled sensitively and I think Papillon does an admirable job of relating details in a way which feels respectful to Oto herself.

“An Ordinary Wonder” is such an inspiring and valuable story. The apparent contradiction in this novel's title speaks to how every individual is special in their own way, but the unique aspects of our identities should simply be treated as normal variations within a richly diverse community of people.

100 Boyfriends by Brontez Purnell

In one story from Brontez Purnell's collection “100 Boyfriends” a character sits in an STD clinic thinking “I could say I deserve better than this – but do I? Really?” That tragic ambivalence and tottering self-esteem is common to many of the characters in these stories where casual sexual encounters are vigorously pursued without caution or care for the consequences. Some lead to more tender feelings, emotional connections or regular satisfying sex. Others are so fleeting it feels like a routine function. Some encounters are so hot it becomes a “squirting epic semen battle” and others are dissatisfying and all the more shameful because the narrator knows he will go back for more. There's an acknowledgement that the expectation is often better than the sex itself. We learn some of these men's names and others remain anonymous as we follow an enormous amount of gay hookups. Like the experiences themselves, the result is that the reader's memory becomes crowded with a plethora of indistinct vaguely-recalled male faces, bodies and details. It's brilliant how this gives a true sense of what that compulsive pursuit is like for some men who have sex with men. 

Sometimes it feels like we get just the tip of a fascinating backstory about an individual only for the narrator to move onto another hookup or the story itself ends. Of course, this is somewhat frustrating for me as a reader as I'd naturally like to know more about some of these characters but it's entirely logical as these fleeting encounters seldom lead to a sustained relationship where sexual partners gain a deeper understanding of each other. The stories are often anecdotal in a way which isn't necessarily gossipy but conveys simple truths about the messiness of casual gay sex. The writing also frequently takes a surprising tone. An encounter with a Satanist which should be horrifying as he details the violent sex which ensues is described in a way which is comic and swerves around whether there is a more ponderous meaning to this experience. What's poignant is how little the narrator values his body and himself, but also how the brutal sexual exchange isn't coded with the same importance that the larger heterosexual society would likely ascribe to it.

Something really refreshing about these stories is that men's bodies are described in a highly realistic way with bellies, scars and variously sized genitals. In so much of gay fiction men's physicality is detailed in a ludicrously idealized way, but in Purnell's stories what might normally be viewed as imperfections aren't shamefully hidden or a turn off. They are simply who we are and there is something very liberating about this. The author also gets at how there's an abiding sense of loneliness which comes with gay life where intimacy might only be fleeting. This experience is encapsulated in the story 'Ed's Name Written in Pencil' which describes the experience of a 7 year old bullied by one older boy and befriended by another, but in the end he loses them both and it's the importance of contact (positive or negative as if to stave off loneliness) that matters more than the quality of that contact. Some gay readers might bristle at how these stories could be interpreted as a negative representation of gay life, but I admire the bold honesty of how these tales describe the filthy experience of some men. There are no pristine white bedsheets in these stories; they are stained with our bodies and this should not be concealed with a blanket. We're at a point where gay fiction from authors such as Bryan Washington and Garth Greenwell can get beyond a pointed political agenda to lay out the complex nuances of homo desire and gay life. I really fell for these highly-sexed wickedly-entertaining tales which are all about fucking around, fucking up and not giving a fuck.

My Favourite Books of 2021 (so far)

I've read over 60 books so far this year and since we're at the midpoint of 2021 I'm picking out ten titles which have really stood out for me. This is exquisitely-written fiction that has surprised and delighted me as well as made me contemplate a number of issues from new angles. After over a year spent almost entirely at home I've been cautiously emerging back into the world again, but I'm so grateful for the inspiration and respite I've found in these books. I'd love to hear what you think about any of these titles and please let me know the best books you've read so far this year. 

Being such a book prize groupie, I've found some of the best new fiction through book awards. I was thrilled when David Diop's “At Night All Blood is Black” won this year's International Booker Prize because it's one of the most striking, moving and profound stories about war that I've ever read. Both “Unsettled Ground” by Claire Fuller and “Transcendent Kingdom” by Yaa Gyasi are currently shortlisted for this year's Women's Prize for Fiction. With the winner announcement being pushed back to September, I'm looking forward to even more discussion around these very different but gripping stories of family life. Two standout novels that were longlisted for this year's Women's Prize were “Luster” by Raven Leilani and “Detransition, Baby” which are stories about individuals and their sympathetically messy lives like none other I've read before. Both give such a comic and moving new perspective.

Like many of us, I can often get lost musing about what my life would have been like if I'd made different choices and in Joyce Carol Oates' collection of stories “The (Other) You” she dramatises this state of being to tremendous effect. “The High House” is a distinctly new kind of post-apocalyptic novel that looks at the issue of environmental disaster from the perspective of individuals stranded in a house as they struggle to sustain themselves and contemplate the true meaning of life. Ishiguro proves in his new novel “Klara and the Sun” why he's such a lauded and much beloved author. This story told from the perspective of an artificial friend is so moving and finds surprising new angles to ponder the eternal questions of what makes us human and where our society is going. Leone Ross' “This One Sky Day” (also known as “Popisho”) is a tremendously inventive new tale of magical realism and mischievous wonder. It's so detailed and glorious I can't wait to reread it. Finally, Australian author Claire Thomas’ “The Performance” brilliantly dramatises an impending crisis as three women watch a Beckett play while a bush fire rages outside the theatre. It's a story of our time.

The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall

It's incredible to discover that less than a hundred years ago in 1928 James Douglas, the editor of the Sunday Express, wrote an article calling for a ban of “The Well of Loneliness” stating: “In order to prevent the contamination and corruption of English fiction it is the duty of the critic to make it impossible for any other novelist to repeat this outrage.” His campaign successfully led to the book being formally banned in Britain because of its representation of homosexuality as being a natural facet of identity and it wasn't made legally available again in this country until 1949. 

This is the first time I've read this classic novel. I can only imagine what it would have meant to a gay person early in the 20th century to read it and discover a kinship of feeling – not just for the book's portrayal of female protagonist Stephen Gordon's emotional and sexual closeness to people of the same gender or Stephen's desire to dress in more masculine clothes – but the overwhelming sense it gives of being made to feel different and wrong for your very existence. The first section of the book describes Stephen's coming of age and feeling continuously frustrated “for she did not know the meaning of herself.” Nor does she have language available to describe her difference. Those that seem to understand her queerness (even her own father) refuse to name it so for many years her estrangement and isolation is felt all the more intensely. 

Of course, to me and any sensitive or queer person who read it at the time of publication, it's perfectly obvious what Stephen is. Her early passionate crush on a beautiful maid and misguided affair with a married American woman are so touchingly portrayed because they are expressions of longing which can never be fulfilled in a satisfying way – not just because Stephen's feelings can't be equally reciprocated but because there's a fundamental miscommunication of desire. What's wonderful is that over the course of the novel Stephen discovers the words with which to describe herself and this leads to her liberation. She eventually labels herself as an invert. What's more, after being exiled from the stately home of her birth and meeting a woman she falls in love with while working for an ambulance unit during WWI, she discovers a community of similarly queer individuals while living in Paris. Yet, even though there is a group of people with codes and behaviour which loosely groups them together as inverts, their venues and meetings are kept in the shadows. That their community remains furtive and largely unacknowledged means that Stephen's feelings of isolation and estrangement will persist no matter what personal and private fulfilment she achieves.

It's quite moving how the ending of the novel is a rallying call where Stephen's voice joins with “millions” to demand “Give us also the right to our existence!” It's undoubtably a novel with a political message which Sir Charles Biron, the chief magistrate overseeing the book's trial in November 1928 described as “a passionate and almost hysterical plea for the toleration and recognition of these people”. So it wasn't just a worry that the novel might “corrupt those into whose hands it should fall” but that it will motivate queer people and people sympathetic to queer expression to campaign for legislation which will protect queer rights. Though Radclyffe Hall insisted the novel should be circulated simply because of its literary merit, the Bloomsbury Group who actively campaigned for its publication and the courts which ordered “it to be destroyed” openly acknowledged the stakes involved.

That this novel should still survive as both a document of this societal divide and a richly immersive story in itself is wonderful and it should quite rightly stand as a cornerstone of queer literature. Many would argue its political importance has passed and its tragic arc gives a negative representation that true happiness can't ever be found for queer people, but as an individual's journey of self discovery and a query into the lines of gender I think it remains a worthy story. I also found it interesting how the novel's narrative focus occasionally drifts to characters other than Stephen so you can clearly see their point of view. The story even comically focuses at some points on how Stephen's dog David sees the world and view's Stephen's lover as a goddess. Like the protagonist in “Orlando”, Stephen's semi-open expression of queerness is only possible because of her wealth and privilege. I think it's important to acknowledge that it's necessarily limited in this respect as (of course) expressions of queer desire existed amongst every social class so I find it heartening we're now getting new historical novels such as “The Prophets”, “Days Without End”, “White Houses” and “A Place Called Winter” which describe expressions of same sex desire amongst many different levels of society. Despite it being a product of its time, it remains an extremely enjoyable story full of insights and pleasure as it follows Stephen's singular journey.

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.