A Passage North by Anuk Arudpragasam

On the surface it's easy to summarize what happens in “A Passage North”. Krishan, a young man who has returned to live and work in his native country of Sri Lanka after the recent Civil War, travels to the war-torn Northern Province to pay respects at the funeral of Rani, his grandmother's former care-giver who died suddenly. This journey comprises the bulk of the action in this story. Readers who prefer a novel with a lot of plot-driven physical drama won't find it in this novel. The power of this book and the complexity of its tale comes from Krishan's meditative process. He was absent from the genocide which resulted in the death of many thousands of fellow Tamils. Though his father was a casualty of one of the Tiger bombings in Colombo, he didn't directly witness or feel the effects of this calamity. However, Rani was a witness to these horrific events and experienced tragic losses which left her severely traumatized. The question for Krishan is how to reconcile what he knows with what he has not directly seen and what steps should be taken to positively contribute to his country which has been ravaged by war. While he is contending with this enormous issue he's also simply a young guy who likes to hang out with his friends and smoke. He spends long periods of time wandering while staring out at the horizon and pines for his lover Anjum who's become a committed activist. Through the course of this novel we get a poignant sense of his state of being at a significant crossroad in life.

The author is a student of philosophy and this is heavily reflected in the narrative which meaningfully considers a number of dilemmas to do with the nature of life, time and reality. This is clear from the opening page which begins with the question of inhabiting the present moment. His meditative process offers a moving and new perspective on a number of issues. For instance, the world now witnesses significant conflicts online through first-hand footage shared by individuals embroiled in the action. However Krishan is cautious about granting these images legitimacy: “his initial reluctance to acknowledge the magnitude of what had happened at the end of the war, as though he'd been hesitant to believe the evidence on his computer screen because his own poor, violated, stateless people were the ones alleging it, as though he'd been unable to take the suffering of his own people seriously till it was validated by the authority of a panel of foreign experts, legitimized by a documentary narrated by a clean-shaven white man standing in front of a camera in suit and tie.” The question of authority is now a difficult one as we're wary of being manipulated, but also want to empower the real experience of individuals and resist being swayed by subliminal racial biases. This signifies a difficult modern issue we now all face that is not just to do with the act of witnessing but about the validity of what we see, who we choose to believe and how we interpret it.

Krishan considers issues which are both universal and specific, but his point of view does feel very rooted in his youth and this is acknowledged: “thinking as he lay there, in that naïve and moving way of adolescents”. Obviously, he does not have all the answers – nor should he – but some of his diatribes are more meaningful than others. I found his insights into migration particularly striking - especially how the trauma of war means some citizens can't bear to live in their native country any longer. Equally, I appreciated his sensitivity in considering not only his own perspective as a young man in a heterosexual relationship but that of women, queer people and hijras. A scene where he makes eye contact with another man on public transport also gives a dynamic perspective on masculinity and how men respond to one another. However, I found some other meditations he indulges in less enlightening such as the meaning of sight loss as one grows older and an extended lesson in the difference between desire and yearning. His musings do occasionally stray into overly-ponderous and pedagogical Alain de Botton territory. His ruminations aren't wrong, per say, but I don't read novels to be lectured to. Similarly, some sections recount versions of mythology or folklore and, later in the novel, the stories of dissident political figures. These stories are interesting and have points which relate to the dilemmas Krishan faces, but aren't very artfully blended into the overall narrative.

Where this story comes most alive and feels three-dimensional is when it describes the characters of his grandmother Appamma and her carer Rani. Krishan's interactions with Appamma are funny and endearing so I wish we were given more of that in the story. Equally, Appamma and Rani form a unique relationship impacted by Appamma's failing health and faltering mental state as well as the serious trauma which Rani struggles to live with and the electroshock therapy she regularly receives to treat it. The descriptions of these characters and their scenes are very powerful and I'd have been glad to read a whole novel just about them. Krishan's dilemma is significant and he offers a refreshing point of view which I'm very sympathetic with, but I felt his detailed and extensive thought process often prevented me from really getting to emotionally connect with him as a character. His most endearing scenes concern the timid formation of his relationship with Anjum and the conflict they face as a couple where their motivation to make an impact in their country overshadows their ability to be together. Krishan's melancholy over this state is conveyed in a moving way, but felt secondary within a narrative that sometimes drifts into overanalysis. There are many sensitive and considered insights in this book, but I'm not sure Arudpragasam has yet found the sweet spot where his philosophical perspective blends with the art of storytelling.

In Youth is Pleasure by Denton Welch

There are some voices which reach out from the past because they feel so alive with mischievous humour and a startlingly singular point of view. Prose can strongly encapsulate such a sensibility when it's written with as much feeling and precision as Denton Welch used to embody his 15 year-old character Orvil's perspective. We follow him during his idle summer holiday spent at a hotel with his aloof father and older brothers. The slim novel “In Youth is Pleasure” was first published in 1945 and its author only lived for a few more years (dying when he was 33 years old), but this text is still breathing and giving us the side-eye. 

Orvil does a lot of looking, a lot of observing and a lot of judging in this story. He could be classified as a voyeur as he watches from behind a bush some boys and their schoolmaster out on a peculiar boat trip where “Jane Eyre” is read aloud. In another scene he spies from the shadows his eldest brother making love to a woman. From a window he looks through another window at a man dancing to music and dressing after his ablutions. There's a safety found in his solitary observations where he can silently appraise some people as “rather fat” or certain behaviour as “vulgar”. He seems to be equally harsh on himself as it is stated “He was afraid that now, at fifteen, he was beginning to lose his good looks.”

Through his gaze the world is transformed in a brutally bizarre and imaginative way. For instance, he describes a man's flabby pecs as “so gay and ridiculous; like two little animated castle-puddings” and a woman's breasts become “miniature volcanoes with holes at the top, out of which poured clouds of milky-white smoke, and sometimes long, thin, shivering tongues of fire”. Bodies morph into absurdities, but he also regards people with a kind of detached fascination so that we understand the sharp barrier between him and the world. When this barrier is removed it elicits terror and violence but also ecstatic jubilation. In doing so, Welch captures Orvil's intensely solitary state where he longs to be with other people but is also repulsed by them.

Orvil's father seldom figures in his days as there is a mutual disinterest and he's wary of spending much time with his brothers. The figure he really longs for is his mother who died a few years ago, but he maintains vivid and sometimes disturbing memories of her. Two individuals he meets appear to be kinds of parental replacements. He forms a sweet attachment to his eldest brother Charles' maternal friend Aphra. He also has a few encounters with the mysterious, nameless schoolmaster who seems to alternately fill the roles of father, teacher, persecutor and a fairy tale witch. Their interactions are so curious it makes me wonder if this is even a real person or a figure that Orvil has simply conjured as part of his imaginative games.

As Edmund White observes in his astute introduction to the new edition of this novel, Orvil is “strangely attracted to filth”. Though he has a desire for what is refined such as a trip to lunch at the Ritz he can't help but envision the flowing filth of the city accumulating beneath the civilized surface. I think the allure of what's repulsive isn't so much about revelling in being gross, but an attraction for what's transgressive as a way to question the values and morals of the society he feels detached from. He is also fascinated by and sees beauty in things which have been discarded or broken. The way he relates to and values very particular objects movingly demonstrates the distinctive way he sees the world.

Orvil has a unique aesthetic, but there's also a poignancy in this depiction of a boy at a stage in his life where he has the sensibility of an adult and the imagination of a child. A lot of his wanderings include losing himself in fantasies where he can indulge in pretensions or revel in sado-masochistic desires. In one private game he wraps himself in chains and violently flogs his own back. In such mental spaces he can also playfully explore the boundaries of gender. He steals of a tube of lipstick to secretly paint his lips and other parts of his body. At other times he strips down naked outside as an act of transgression and liberation. The way that Denton writes about these experiences makes them feel more natural than they are perverse because they are freed from a general morality and merely reflect the proclivities of an utterly unique teenage boy. I absolutely adored this book and its tender spirit of youthful curiosity which casually dances through fantasies and nightmares.

The Paper Palace by Miranda Cowley Heller

Recently I was sorely disappointed by the novel “The Hummingbird” which tells the story of a married man who has never been able to be with the true love of his life. I was reminded how much the structure of a novel can really impact how successfully it conveys its subject when reading Miranda Cowley Heller's emotionally-intelligent first novel “The Paper Palace” because the central story is the same as Veroensi's but much more effective. Elle Bishop is a happily married wife and mother staying at her family's summer camp in Cape Cod. On the evening before the book's opening chapter, she finally had sex with Jonas, a man she's been in love with since she was a teenager but who she's not been able to be with for complicated reasons. We follow the fallout of this over a 24 hour period while getting the story of her difficult family life and events leading up to this disarming experience. We also come to understand the dark secret which simultaneously binds her to Jonas and keeps them physically apart. It's an absorbing and evocative story that realistically details the foibles and frailties of its characters in a way that made me fall for them and deeply care about the testing dilemmas that they face. 

Each chapter feels perfectly measured to show how the small details happening in the present day are impacted by the past. It's compelling how we come to understand the dynamics of Elle's relationship to her mother, her husband Peter and Jonas as the novel progresses. Though the story is told in Elle's voice, I understood all the characters' points of view and felt sympathetic towards them even if I didn't necessarily agree with the choices they make. This gradually builds upon the meaning of the intense encounter which proceeds the novel's opening and creates a tension concerning what Elle will do now that she and Jonas have turned their intense feelings for each other into a physical expression. I was particularly taken with Elle's mother who is such a complex, opinionated and peevish individual. It's totally understandable that Elle would find her difficult and irritating, but she's the kind of forthright individual who is wonderfully entertaining to read about. Although I was a little skeptical about some of British dialogue from Englishman Peter, it felt realistic how he has an easy and affable relationship with his mother-in-law which Elle can never achieve.

Being from New England, I particularly appreciated the way the author beautifully writes about the natural environment of this summer camp and how the structure of this rural community changes over time. There's something endearing about Elle's deep affection for this location despite the painful memories associated with it. The novel also movingly describes the twisted structures of sexual abuse and the poisonous way these occurrences can become secretly weaved into a family's life. It feels like this story offers a new point of view about this difficult subject matter so it's a thought provoking as well as a heartfelt book. I was also completely absorbed by its humour, sensuality and well-judged narrative tension. Given that the author works on different TV Drama Series and that this debut has been snapped up as a Reese Witherspoon choice, it seems likely that this novel will get a screen adaptation. Often reviewers can be snippy about how novels can sometimes feel like they were written only for this purpose, but I think the innovative structure of this book which is perfectly suited to its story makes it an utterly compelling read.

The Great Mistake by Jonathan Lee

There's a strange irony in how a man's influence can be felt everywhere in a city, but the man himself is mostly unknown. Andrew Haswell Green was considered “the Father of Greater New York”. He was a city planner responsible for some of the city's most notable landmarks and institutions including Central Park, the New York Library and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This businessman and lawyer created a tremendous legacy, but when he was 83 years old he became the victim of a strange murder case which occurred in 1903. The mystery surrounding the inner life of this figure is the subject of Jonathan Lee's new novel “The Great Mistake” and Green comes to feel like a chimera the author is chasing in order to understand him – even when Green seems not to know himself. The story is framed around the peculiar circumstances of his death and gradually we come to discover the motive behind it, but the real enigma is Green's inexpressible desire which accompanies him throughout his life and never finds fulfilment. In this way, Lee captures a tender sense of loneliness and these grand spaces for the public good which Green created are underlined by a solemn yearning for human connection. 

Green comes from humble beginnings and we follow the story of his life as he works his way up in the world. But he comes to ruefully look back at the trajectory of his ascent when asked to recount it to people around him: “People liked all that Dickensian nonsense.” Though Dickens earnestly wanted his readers to pity his characters, Green repels such sentimental notions though we come to sympathize with how his father rejected him, the gruelling ordeal of his apprenticeship and the intimacy which always seemed to elude him. Whenever he becomes emotionally and physically close to other men in his life, the connection is severed with a warning. Wrapped in this is a desire which the narrative itself never names but is felt everywhere. Lee embeds in his prose a sensuality which is intense even if it isn't explicit: “Their shadows touched on the ground.” As such the author describes an intangible wanting which mirrors the state of Green's consciousness. His queerness is not labelled because Green wouldn't have described himself that way but it is coded in descriptions of his relationship with his mentor Samuel who is “his most beloved friend”.

What's interesting is that although being gay has come to be understood as a badge which should be defiantly worn to insist upon social acceptance, there are other dynamics which admit the nature of being a homosexual without naming it. I found it touching the way this novel portrays Green's relationship with his brother where a misunderstanding divides them but it shows how his brother accepts Green in a way he didn't expect. Though tacit forms of approval come with their own hazards, this shows how the real issue perhaps comes from Green's unwillingness to admit or accept his own desires and state of being. Trauma certainly leads to suppression, but Lee suggests early in the novel that Green is almost fated never to live the life he really desires: “At times what he felt, late at night, during these years, was a kind of helpless nostalgia, an emotion that he knew he had not yet earned. But it wasn't nostalgia for times he had already lived through. It was nostalgia for versions of himself he hadn't yet been.”

As a counterpoint to Green's character is the enigmatic figure of Bessie Davis who is haplessly linked to the murder case. She's a fascinating person who perhaps deserves a novel herself, but though her profession demands intimacy it comes with no affection. As such her fulfilment is not found with others: “She had never felt lonely when alone. It was simply not a sensation she had ever in her life experienced. But the loneliness she felt in the presence of other people? That indeed was a force.” In both these characters we get a sense of personalities who must uncomfortably navigate a society which doesn't accept them or allow them to succeed by being fully themselves. As such they must carve and build physical spaces which permit possibilities that they themselves can never entirely realise. There's a chilling moment towards the end of the novel when Green enters a subterranean space of the city and finds there a comfort which he never felt on the surface. I enjoyed how this poignant novel elegantly describes the tension between our inner and outer reality which can make us strangers even to ourselves.

You can read a preview of the novel here: https://www.jellybooks.com/cloud_reader/previews/the-great-mistake_9781783786244/L3Leb

The Women's Prize for Fiction Shortlist 2021

Today was initially scheduled to be the day when the winner of this year's Women's Prize for Fiction would be announced. But, because of restrictions due to the ongoing pandemic, it's now been moved to September 8th. That gives more time for people to read or reread the six novels that have been shortlisted and discuss them. I've certainly been enjoying hearing everyone's thoughts about the books and listening to the Women's Prize podcast where groups of readers have been engaging in fascinating conversations about this stellar fiction. 

I thought it's worth posting my brief thoughts and reflections about this year's shortlist beyond the silly live reaction video I made with Anna. Some of the best books I've read so far this year are on the shortlist including “Transcendent Kingdom” and “Unsettled Ground”. I first read “The Vanishing Half” last summer and it was certainly one of the best books I read last year. One of the great things about book prizes is that it encourages you to compare novels which are very different from each other. But, by considering them side by side, you can find surprising common themes or ideas being dramatised in different contexts.

In a sense, the narrators of both “No One is Talking About This” and “Piranesi” are trapped in a kind of labyrinth of the mind. The mothers in both “The Vanishing Half” and “Unsettled Ground” conceal essential truths from their daughters. The characters in “Transcendent Kingdom” and “How the One-Armed Sister Sweeps Her House” all must live with the consequences of ideologically and economically divided societies. Rather than viewing these novels in competition with each other I think it's more pleasurable to consider how their different points of view can help us better understand these issues and the many other matters that they raise.

Of course, I connected with some books more than others but I certainly appreciated reading all six of these shortlisted novels – as well as many others on the longlist such as “Luster” and “Detransition, Baby”. So I wouldn't be mad to see any one of the novels up for this year's prize win. If I had to pick a favourite to get behind it'd probably be “Transcendent Kingdom”. Despite it only being Gyasi's second novel I think it's tremendously accomplished and confronts a lot of issues that we normally swerve around. It's a story I found incredibly moving and that I keep reflecting upon. But, since we still won't find out the winner for another couple of months, I hope there will be more discussion and debate about these books because there's certainly a lot more to be said and enjoyed from delving into these wonderful stories.

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.