Light Perpetual by Francis Spufford

In November 1944 a German rocket exploded in a working class area of South London killing many civilians. It's haunting to wonder what would have happened if those lives hadn't been lost. Francis Spufford takes this as the basis of his novel “Light Perpetual” where he imaginatively “rescues” five children from this fate and fictionally builds the full trajectory of their lives complete with all their respective triumphs, failures, passions and disappointments. Each section leaps forward in time by fifteen years to give snapshots not only of how their lives have changed but how our culture and society has evolved over time. I immediately felt sympathetic to this structure as it's very similar to my favourite novel “The Waves” by Virginia Woolf – though Spufford's fiction uses a more straightforward prose style and focuses on a class of people Woolf didn't often represent in her fiction. Not only does this consistently compelling alternative history spotlight the varied lives and concerns of this working class area of London, but it queries the way in which our social circumstances affect or determine our choices and views in life. 

I admire the statement the author makes by nobly filling out five lives which aren't memorialised in any way other than as part of a number that perished during a WWII attack. However, a concern I had while reading was that if you took off the very beginning and very end of this book it wouldn't be any different from a straightforward historical novel following a group of people over the course of their lives. I wondered if this meant its central concept is more of a gimmick than something which is artfully woven into the texture of its story. But I think Spufford is making an interesting point in these lives which interact with historical events and other lives to subtly change the state of the world in ways we wouldn't necessarily notice. Many alternate histories such as “The Alteration” by Kingsley Amis or “The Plot Against America” by Philip Roth imaginatively construct a story based on vast political changes involving famous figures. What Spufford does is more subtle and challenging because it asks in what way unsung figures alter and influence the world.

Though I was engaged with most of these characters' stories and enjoyed following the curious paths their lives take over many years, my main issue with the novel is that I found some more interesting than others and the periods of time we follow them through sometimes pass too quickly. Some storylines which gripped me the most include one character's synaesthesia and how it influences her development as a musician, another character's struggle with mental illness which leads him into an agonizing circular thought process and another character's dangerous attraction towards a man who is a white supremacist. However, I was less engaged by stories involving a property developer con artist with a penchant for Maria Callas and a typesetter who gets involved with print union battles. I realise my preferences come down to personal taste, but it's an issue that often comes with novels which encompass storylines involving multiple characters. I also felt some transitions between sections were a little heavy handed. For instance, a scene with a horrific racist attack is immediately followed by a romantic sex scene involving a mixed race couple.

However, the overall effect of this book is quite moving especially as it describes the transition we all must make towards death and relinquishing our place in the world. It consistently offers many surprises and delights in the unexpected avenues the characters' lives take. The novel also poignantly describes how our lives are never limited to one path or another but contain multiple possibilities which sprawl out in many different directions at every instant of our lives. There's something beautifully hopeful about this.

China Room by Sunjeev Sahota

“China Room” begins with a gripping and terrifying situation. In the year 1929 three young women are married to three brothers on a farm in rural Punjab that's overseen by strict matriarch Mai. But newly married teenage Mehar (who has been given this name by her new family) doesn't even know which man is her husband. Conjugal visits take place in total darkness and she's not allowed to interact with the men during the day when she and her sisters-in-law must conceal themselves under veils and perform gruelling chores. She attempts to figure out his identity and becomes embroiled in a dangerous situation. Interspersed with her tale is the story of her great grandson who recounts a time in 1999 when he traveled to this family farm while trying to overcome his drug addiction and escape racism in England. It's so touching how details he encounters such a flecks of paint on a wall or a crumbling disused structure have such a potent meaning when we also see them in this earlier story. It builds narrative tension as well as poignancy as we gradually learn the truth about Mehar's struggle to achieve independence and what she desires. The novel beautifully builds a bridge across time connecting two family members from very different generations whose only physical connection resides in a faded photography. 

It's a coincidence that before reading this novel I read “Great Circle” which also features a dual timeline where clues are gradually revealed in alternating stories to show a more complex and nuanced account of history. It's an impactful narrative technique but I think it does make it challenging to balance the accounts so that they feel equally impactful. There were moments in both novels when I resented being drawn out of the urgency of the stories from the past. However, this form of storytelling does make me reflect in a more complicated and dynamic way about my own limited understanding of my ancestors and how little I know about the complex challenges they faced in their lifetime. Therefore I really felt how the narrator of the “China Room” has such a powerful yearning to uncover the truth and connect with a lineage lost in the murky pages of history in order to progress with his own life.

The way Sahota writes about this alienated young man's experiences does make an interesting commentary on issues to do with national identity and the limitations that women face. Though the farm feels quite isolated in 1929, the larger world intrudes when independence fighters arrive looking for recruits. A character named Suraj wryly comments “It's just another idea... That it's better to be oppressed by your own than by the British. It won't change anything for us.” This sadly rings true because although Mehar is horrifically oppressed, the narrator's aunt is also trapped in a marriage where she can't be with the man she truly loves. Equally, though the town is on the brink of the 21st century it is still ruled by gossip that perniciously tries to limit the freedom of a female doctor who the narrator befriends and falls for. This raises meaningful questions about how much progress has really occurred in society – especially when the narrator's father suffered horrific racist violence which prompts the narrator to wonder where he really belongs. 

Sahota's style of writing is beautiful and impactful. So many lines of dialogue or description have a resonant meaning. This novel feels like a personal reckoning with the past but also conveys larger universal ideas about levels of power and our connection with history.

Great Circle by Maggie Shipstead

I love getting lost in a great big epic. Maggie Shipstead's “Great Circle” has a truly grand story which contains many adventures and mysteries over a long period of time. It spans prohibition, WWII and brings us up to present day Hollywood. The novel also dynamically captures the complex, fascinating life of its fictional protagonist Marian Graves in a way that increasingly intrigues and reveals new layers. Born to a troubled privileged couple, she survives a dramatic tragedy when she's only a baby to then grow up alongside her twin brother in a humble home. We follow the rise and fall of her fortune, the many passionate and varied love affairs she has with men and women and her ambitious mission to fly around the world from pole to pole. Because through all the tumultuous events of history and the personal challenges she encounters in her life, Marian's true love is for flying and she endeavours to sail through the sky whenever she has the chance. Though this novel touches upon so many complex issues to do with gender, sexuality, abuse, different forms of marriage and alcoholism, Marian finds there's a rare liberation to be found in the air. It's so moving how this is a space and state of mind she continuously comes back to showing the true solace that accompanies a blissful kind of solitude. 

The question of Marian's identity is explored in a compelling way through a duel storyline which follows a promising Hollywood starlet named Hadley Baxter as she is playing the role of Marian in a film about the aviator's final flight where Marian disappeared without a trace. Hadley's life superficially resembles that of the actress Kristen Stewart who was launched to fame in a teen fantasy franchise. It's enjoyable how Hadley learns details about Marian's life and the script dramatises her life in certain ways we know aren't true from reading the narrative thread that follows her actual development. This raises compelling questions about the nature of history and how we choose to interpret or distort facts to suit the narratives we want to form about the past. At the same time, as Hadley discovers there is so much more to Marian than she first believed she develops an even stronger spiritual connection with her as a figure that was maligned and misunderstood – much as Hadley herself is as a celebrity who has been used by the Hollywood system and whose public identity is manipulated to suit the story the public wants to believe. We see that there's never a single story about someone's life but many. Hadley reflects how “this is already like a game of telephone. There's Marian's real life, and then there's her book, and then there's your mom's book, and then there's this movie. And so on, and so on.” From both Marian and Hadley's tales, Shipstead shows the way narratives which are formed around the lives of particular individuals (especially women) diminish and limit how complex people really are.

Of course, this novel is quite melodramatic considering the high drama and scandal of so many of its storylines. But I don't see this as a negative thing because it's also so cleverly written and wonderfully indulgent I got completely swept up in its magnificent sweeping tale and enjoyed following the clues to learn the intricacies of its many hidden truths. It reminded me of luxuriously long novels such as “The Queen of the Night” and “The Eighth Life” where I got lost in the sheer pleasure of storytelling which is staged across significant events from history. It also structurally resembles the novel “Plain Bad Heroines” in its dual time lines which gradually reveal the true story behind a manufactured account of the past. I admire how novels such as these construct such enjoyably dramatic stories that also contain more meaningful and thoughtful elements. “Great Circle” is commendable for being an artfully constructed tale that is also utterly joyous.

The Liquid Land by Raphaela Edelbauer (translated by Jen Calleja)

In recent years I've developed more of a curiosity about my family history and this naturally leads me to wonder how my ancestors were affected by larger global events. In trying to map out the story of my lineage I'm aware of how easy it is to construct fiction and fantasy out of traces of the past. This is an issue Maria Stepanova dynamically wrestles with in her poignant and meditative book “In Memory of Memory”. Austrian author Raphaela Edelbauer constructs a fascinating and richly imaginative story concerning this dilemma in her novel “The Liquid Land”. Ruth Schwarz is a physicist working towards completing her thesis for her PhD when she's informed that both her parents died in a car crash. Stunned and grieved by this news, she impulsively decides to travel to her parents’ homeland of Greater Einland – only this is an area that doesn't appear on any map. Her search leads her to a place that is bizarrely antiquated in its customs and governance, that's owned and ruled by an imperious Countess and whose lands and buildings are rapidly sinking into a mysterious hole. It's a surreal and curious journey that creatively explores the collective trauma of a community, grief and the bizarre workings of physics. 

There's something so moving about how Ruth constructs a loose map to this strange town. After she's informed by officials that there is no record of a Greater Einland, she hunkers down trying to recall any stories her parents once told her which might give clues as to landmarks or the geography that will lead her to this elusive place. In doing so, it also feels like she's desperately trying to piece together a past which she's now permanently severed from since losing her mother and father. The murkiness of memory means that she can't be certain of any facts. She's also heavily reliant on strong pain relieving drugs which seem to distort her perspective. Added to this is her knowledge of the bizarre nature of subatomic particles whose laws don't correlate with our normal understanding of time or space. Through Ruth's delightfully peculiar perspective, we frequently see objects without a fixed solidity and the clock moves at a different pace: “everything had proceeded so marvellously gooeyly.” All this leads her to follow a random guide on an “Alice in Wonderland” style trip where she arrives in Greater Einland. This is a place which seems to adhere to its own nature of reality. Not only does it have its own sense of time and space, but the town retains its own economic and political system that is more feudal.

The location she arrives at initially has a beautiful charm, but gradually it becomes more sinister as the local population stubbornly avoid certain topics and Ruth is drawn into the Countess von Weidenheim's elite circle. Though it becomes a much more perplexing and ominous place, Ruth also feels a natural kinship to it knowing that her parents came from here and had a close, mysterious relationship to it. “I began to melt into the nature around the town. After just a few days I found my way around intuitively; later, after weeks, the forest had become an extension of my own body. In short, this was a long sought-after sense of belonging, an identification that connected me to the landscape. I would almost say; I'd found a home.” Yet, though she feels a tender sense of belonging inhabiting the house her grandparents once lived in, she becomes frighteningly disorientated at points as well. Ruth also grows obsessed by the mystery of what happened to this town during WWII and lists of the dead whose bodies have vanished. The townspeople seem to want to live in a constant present, literally disposing of their inconvenient pasts in the widening hole beneath their feet, but this refusal to face history means that cracks show everywhere and the entire town might sink into an underground cavern.

Interspersed with the primary narrative of this novel are occasional documents about the nature of physics or the history of certain events or people. I enjoyed how these add a background to the story and enhance the sense that there are deeper and more sinister things occurring in the background. It's refreshing to read a novel that's absurdist in character but also has something unique to say about our collective history and subjective interpretations of it. However this manner of storytelling comes with its own pitfalls which might make it troublesome for some readers. Logical questions about the size of this town's population and how much interaction it has with the larger world mostly go unanswered. The townspeople seem to be largely insulated but occasionally reference popular culture such as a master-builder who wants to finance a musical about Larry Fortensky, Elizabeth Taylor's seventh husband. Though the town isn't on any map, foreign labourers are still brought in to work on reconstructing buildings that are subsiding. Many practical questions abound and these not only slightly impeded my enjoyment of the story, but made it difficult for me to fully imagine this place. I understand it's not a realistic portrayal and we're so entwined with Ruth's skewed perspective that a logical comprehension of the place isn't the point, but it does niggle and gets messy. But overall the many pleasures this unique novel gives supersede these reservations.

I found Ruth's journey to be moving in many ways and I'm haunted by the numerous issues concerning memory and history that the story raises. The consequences of facing the complete truth of our collective past would probably cripple us, but, at the same time, in order to progress as a society it's necessary to acknowledge and learn from previous events. We constantly negotiate different approaches in how to manage this and much of this balance probably occurs on an unconscious level. I admire how Edelbauer's fiction engages with these dilemmas and uses an inventive strategy to get the reader thinking about them. It elevates this book above classifications like fantasy, mystery or psychological horror and puts it into a laudable category of its own.

The Child by Kjersti A Skomsvold (translated by Martin Aitken)

Since the experience of pregnancy and motherhood is one I can never have it makes me all the more interested in reading about it. I've never even felt inclined to be a father but I want to understand the process and emotional repercussions of parenthood. Kjersti A Skomsvold is a Norwegian author who has published an utterly captivating, beautifully-written and poignant account of a woman in the first several months following the birth of her second child. What's so compelling about her point of view is the way her identity transforms amidst this new responsibility but retains a consistency. It's like the tectonic plates of her personality shift to lay bare the core of her being with all her passion, strengths and insecurities. She's an author who endeavours to keep writing amidst the responsibilities and emotional strain of her life. At the same time it's fascinating how her experience is paired against others such as her great aunt who is experiencing dementia, a writer friend who committed suicide and her partner Bo with whom she's had a complicated relationship. Through her interactions we glean an awareness of all the stages of life experienced at once as the roles she plays constantly switch and are paired against the lives of others. 

The narrative is composed of short impressionistic accounts of her daily experiences, memories and reflections. They are also directed at the child so it's written in the second person making it feel like both a confidential letter to her progeny and a hymn expressing her innermost soul. It gives an immediacy to this book which is emotional and moving. This style also creates a narrative tension as we only gradually come to understand her past and the circumstances of her life. I found it poignant how when comparing herself to her contemporaries she feels that she's come late to things like having a stable relationship and giving birth to children: “Becoming adult is so very much harder when you haven't the strength.” Gradually we come to understand her abiding feeling of loneliness and depression which have also hindered her ability to fully connect with others: “it's because of loneliness I can hear if my heart's beating. Even with a child inside me I was filled with loneliness, and after the child had come out I felt empty. Loneliness lingered like a phantom pain.” I appreciate how she honestly divulges the mystery of these emotions and allows us to connect with them without feeling the need to try to explain them. Though the obsessions and minute sentiments which attend a volatile relationship grew trying to read about at some later sections of the book I did find many observations very powerful such as “I thought love meant discovering a new person, but it's more discovering yourself, and that's painful.”

It's interesting to compare this novel with Jessie Greengrass' “Sight” which also describes a very close-to-the-core account of motherhood with all its trials and uncertainties. While these bravely honest and confessional testimonies yield a lot of insights they also present a consciously limited, subjective view of these characters which left me longing to understand some of the more practical circumstances of their lives. For instance, I wondered how Skomsvold's unnamed protagonist managed economically amidst the responsibilities of having children but we never get details about this. I'd have appreciated it if the author would have dropped in a line or two about whether she had savings or whether her writing enables her to fully subsist. As a point of comparison “Ghost in the Throat” by Doireann Ni Ghriofa gives a very intimate account of motherhood while also making the reader aware of the challenging financial strain of having a growing family. However, this was only a slight reservation I had about “The Child” because overall it's a very thoughtful, moving and poetic account full of candour and insights.

An Island by Karen Jennings

Although John Donne famously wrote “No man is an island”, Karen Jennings makes a convincing case for why the particular man at the centre of her novel can no longer be connected with the nation of his birth. For decades Samuel has lived a solitary existence on an island where he tends a lighthouse, keeps a meagre garden and occasionally buries the refugees who wash ashore. But, when Samuel is in his seventies, one day an unconscious young man that is barely alive appears on the beach. They don't speak the same language and become uneasy companions. His presence stirs thoughts of the past for Samuel who finds: “Memories were there too, coming fast that morning – things best forgotten now approaching as steadily as waves approach the shore.” In fragmented scenes we come to understand Samuel's impoverished beginnings in an African nation that underwent a violent revolution but whose utopian dream quickly faltered after the rise of a dictator that imprisoned many dissidents and protestors - including Samuel. Now that his fragile, circumscribed existence has been disturbed he struggles to accept the presence of another individual.

At first I found the way the narrative introduces slivers from Samuel's past to be too jarring as it's sometimes a struggle to understand what's happening. But I quickly came to understand that this was a result of Samuel's brittle state of mind as he's experienced a lot of trauma and devastating disappointment in his life. Gradually I came to see he's not so much a man that is driven by any definite convictions but, like many of us, he's jostled through life according to the dominant politics and ideologies of his society. In one period he might be progressive, in another he might reinforce prejudiced attitudes and when he's trapped in a prison he's willing to do whatever it takes to avoid torture. It's sympathetically shown how he simply wants a better life for himself: “Who didn't want to be more than they were, who didn't want to rise up out of the dirt and be something?” But, because of his circumstances, he finds it impossible to establish any secure existence. He's unable to commit physical violence and it's interesting to consider whether this is because of his own meekness or a determination not to harm other living beings.

Though it's easy to romantically daydream about a solitary life on an island, Jennings' vivid descriptions of Samuel's hard existence and deteriorating health bring to life the challenging reality of this situation. There's also a disturbing encounter described early in the novel when Samuel first found the bodies of refugees on his shore and the official he speaks to asks to know the colour of their skin. This brief reference evokes an enormous dilemma concerning nationhood and racism. Though the author is South African, I think it's clever how she avoids using any specific names of countries, leaders or political movements to show that this is really a universal situation and, given certain circumstances, these things can happen anywhere. Though new leadership is often invested with a lot of hope for change, Samuel sadly finds that “Power made men hateful. Power made men forget everyone but themselves.” The depths of his disillusionment and pain which has disconnected him from his family, loved ones and country make his solitary state feel not only reasonable but necessary. A late encounter he has with a woman that he once had an intense relationship with feels all the more tragic because rather than being a sentimental reunion it lays bare the desperate circumstances they've been reduced to. The ending of the novel is especially disturbing and haunting because after everything Samuel has gone through there’s a devastating logic to it. I desperately wanted the story to end another way and I still optimistically believe that no one has to be an island… but I haven’t experienced the gruelling torture that Samuel lived through.

I found it really powerful how Jennings writes an engaging specific story that gradually unfolds to ask much larger and universal questions about identity, nationhood and the meaning of our relationships. It also suggests that there are perhaps more interesting, less well known stories to be told. I’d like to read a companion novel to this book which gives the perspective of the other man that arrives on Samuel’s island, but this isn’t Jennings’ story to tell and, as much as I wanted to know more about his life, she was probably wise to avoid delving into his perspective. Instead we get a surface understanding of his state of mind through his gestures and reactions to Samuel’s erratic behaviour which allowed me to feel sympathy for him having to live alongside this deeply unstable older man. It’s interesting how “The Promise”, the other South African novel on the Booker Prize longlist, raises a similar dilemma in consciously not giving us many details about Salome’s life. As accomplished and moving as both these novels are, I can’t help feeling somewhat frustrated that as a reader I’m only getting white perspectives on a deeply racially divided nation that I’ve never personally visited. That’s not the fault of these writers or the book prize, but I think it raises larger issues concerning publishing, privilege and whose voices are given a public platform.

The Fortune Men by Nadifa Mohamed

How do we deal with the knowledge that an innocent man was executed by the state because of the colour of his skin? The response from many people in Britain would most likely be that this was a form of institutionalised racism which isn't found here today. Or you might find this fact sadly unsurprising given the way non-white men are still profiled and marginalized in this society – as depicted in “Open Water” by Caleb Azumah Nelson. In her novel “The Fortune Men” Nadifa Mohamed fictionalizes the case of Mahmood Mattan, a Somali-born merchant seaman who was arrested and executed for the murder of a shopkeeper in 1952 despite overwhelming evidence proving his innocence. With emotive detail she depicts the diverse community of Cardiff's Tiger Bay with its West Indian sailors, Maltese businessmen and Jewish families. Mahmood is a petty thief and a gambler who is far from saintly, but he's not a murderer. The question which drives this story isn't so much whether or not Mahmood can get a fair trial, but why was he persecuted and how are immigrants and non-white individuals still persecuted today? 

What's so powerful about Mohamed's style of writing is the intense way she depicts how Mahmood's perspective and state of being is shaped by the social attitudes around him. He has learned to physically shrink himself in different ways such as making himself invisible to avoid racist abuse or how his stomach has shrunk so that he won't feel hunger so acutely. At any moment he's aware that he might be the victim of vicious malice by a passing stranger because of his appearance and that there will be no recourse for the abuse which is inflicted upon him. He consciously avoids witnessing certain things because he knows “It doesn't pay to see something you're not meant to.” Mohamed also gives considerable space in this story to the perspective of a Jewish family who experience a tragic and violent loss which occurs while they're at home. The agonizing pain of their situation and the hard-won freedom they've found in this Welsh community after emigrating from Eastern Europe is sympathetically shown. The author evokes how these different factions of Tiger Bay live and work within the constrained limits of a larger power structure.

I think it's important how Mohamed chose to highlight and write a novel about this case from history rather than create a fictional character who is purely virtuous. Mahmood gambles with money he gets from benefits. He shoplifts items to give to the people he loves. He's capable of invoking the same racial slurs which are inflicted upon him. His marriage deteriorated and he doesn't always support his children as much as he should. The challenges and tribulations of his childhood and young adulthood are dynamically recreated in the middle of this novel so we get an understanding of how this is a man that's learned to ride the wave of chance and do what he has to in order to survive. He is not perfect, but, like all of us, he strives to be a better person and likes to imagine he's a more upright citizen than he is. Since he intrinsically knows this Mahmood believes the justice system of this country will see it too and doesn't see the need to defend himself against charges which are patently false. But the police need a culprit, the courts have found a scapegoat and the community is willing to lie in order to get a reward. This is the tragedy which leads to his execution and no one would accept such an injustice if it happened to their own son, husband or father. So why do we accept that it happened to Mahmood?

Bewilderment by Richard Powers

I was awed by the majesty of Richard Powers' enormous, thought-provoking and imaginative novel “The Overstory”. Even though I felt some of the interlinking stories worked better than others, I was so compelled and impressed with how that book engaged with environmental activism in such a dynamic way. His new novel “Bewilderment” also addresses climate change and animal extinction but in a more concentrated story. It concerns Theo, an astrobiologist who seeks to demonstrate a complex method of searching for life on other planets, and his nine-year-old son Robin, a lively and unpredictable boy who cares passionately about the environment. As we follow their lives over the course of a troubled year, Theo struggles to care for his emotionally erratic son and allows him to be used in an experimental trial to stabilize the boy's behaviour. It's a method of behavioural training which inspires a surprising connection to his deceased mother Alyssa, an environmental lobbyist who tragically died a couple of years prior to the events in this novel. The combination of these elements forms an astoundingly moving and urgent story. 

One of the most strikingly effective aspects of this novel is the dialogue between father and son which is heartfelt and convincingly realistic. Robin's passionate earnestness and straightforward idealistic logic constantly threatens to overwhelm Theo who is all too aware of the complex workings of their society which is tragically regressing under a populist leader. Robin's dialogue is italicised while other characters' speech is in quotes and this typographical distinction allows his words to chime with a moving innocence. It reminded me of the intimate way the father and son converse in Cormac McCarthy's tremendous novel “The Road” as their exchanges convey a patient exchange of ideas and touching emotional bond. Part of Theo's job is to speculate what sort of life might develop on other planets given the specific environmental conditions of these distant worlds. His method of stabilizing his son's erratic moods is to imaginatively transport them to the potential living planets he's devised. These sections convey a wonderful intimacy between parent and child.

This story is set in a near future which already feels alarmingly close to our present reality. Funding for science is being reduced, extreme weather causes havoc in communities, new forms of disease are rapidly spreading, the democratic process of voting is undermined by presidential skepticism, journalists are suppressed and the solution for dealing with emotionally unstable children is to drug them with pharmaceuticals en masse. Given these overwhelming threats, it's no wonder that Theo's son feels extremely anxious: “The question wasn't why Robin was sliding down again. The question was why the rest of us were staying so insanely sanguine.” Inspired by a Greta Thunberg-type character named Inga Alder, Robin is determined to take practical efforts to inspire change or contribute to the benefit of the world in any small way he can. Though the novel presents a grim-mirror to our rapidly devolving present times, there's hope and optimism amongst a new generation determined to reject the self-centred logic of our society and preserve the environment.

It's interesting how Powers has created a novel which is so strikingly realistic in many ways, but can also be read as science fiction because of the way it creatively speculates about alien species and societies. It also feels at times like a ghost story because of the lingering presence of Alyssa. But the real heart of this book is the bond between father and son amidst the chaos of the world. They discover a beautiful tranquility by camping in the mountains where nature comes magically alive, but these precious moments are sadly cut short by pressures from the larger world. The real tragedy of this story is not that the world is falling apart but that people have become so complacent about its destruction while passively looking at their phones: “In this place, with such a species, trapped in such technologies, even a simple head count grew impossible. Only pure bewilderment kept us from civil war.” This is such a tender, expertly-written and emotionally gripping tale which has the power of an alarm bell signalling that our planet is in crisis.

Breathe by Joyce Carol Oates

How do we maintain self-worth when we lose those we value the most? This is one of the arresting questions at the centre of Joyce Carol Oates' heart-wrenching novel “Breathe”. Gerard and Michaela are academics who have temporarily moved from their home in Massachusetts to New Mexico in order to work at a distinguished institute. They consider this trip to be like the honeymoon they never had time to experience when they first married twelve years ago. However, when Gerard becomes terminally ill, Michaela's life spirals into chaos and she's left alone struggling to continue. Oates' novels often concern the question of survival for those in challenging situations where the individual faces vast obstacles of oppression, violence and prejudice. They chronicle the irrepressible will of the human spirit to overcome challenging circumstances. This novel describes the journey of a woman confronted with the insurmountable reality of death and the solemn fact that we will eventually lose those we love. Unable to face the fact of Gerard's death, she becomes lost in a fever dream where time is looped and she's plagued by wrathful gods eager to consume her. It's a tense, sobering and artfully-composed tale full of insight and tender feeling. 

The landscape and atmosphere of this south-west location is vividly described: “Skies of sharp-chiseled clouds wounding to the eye, such beauty unknown in the East where the cityscape devours three-quarters of the sky and the air is porous with haze.” This desert and open environment takes on great symbolic value amidst Michaela's existential crisis. It also physically constrains her being at an altitude she's not accustomed to where breathing is more difficult. It's fairly unusual for Oates to set her stories somewhere other than New England or New Jersey so this alien location adds to the character's sense of being alarmingly out of place. It's touching how she stubbornly remains here in self-imposed exile out of a sense of duty and because departing would mean admitting that she's really lost her beloved husband. 

Being in this region of America, Michaela also encounters a Native American influence where this culture has been reduced down into rather inauthentic and tawdry decorative pieces for the institute-owned home which the couple inhabit. However, in Michaela's destabilized state of being the god-figures depicted in these “art” pieces become the spectres which haunt her – particularly the figure of Ishtikini who is a trickster that not only antagonizes her but might shape shift to appear as an apparently helpful figure intent upon deceiving her. These nightmare manifestations are a mark of her paranoia and her desire to sacrifice herself if it means she might be reunited with her husband. She has the opposite of an empowering religious experience. Rather than finding comfort and structure to help her persist through adversity, the fervour of these visions plague her. Equally, she seems damned to play out a scenario of fateful love as described in the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

The narrative often slides between second and third person as Michaela becomes increasingly disorientated. She is unable to find solace in religion or science: “you have lost faith not only in the cutting-edge research but in faith itself. Yet, you register hope in your smiling face. You reflect hope, as in a reflective surface.” This is such a poignant way of describing how we often persist through adversity even when it feels like we've lost our foundation and purpose in being. We bravely face the world simply because life continues on around us. The very notion of hope is begrudgingly worn and Emily Dickinson's famous line is transmogrified in this story to “Hope is the poisoned bait. Men eat of it and die.” 

Because Michaela loses her belief in life's purpose she is thrown out of time: “In her entranced state time moves unpredictably: with glacial-slowness, then in quick leaps and pleats, as if someone is leafing impatiently through the pages of a book.” Time also becomes for her like a mobius strip “NO END. NO BEGINNING. Except of course there is: an end.” As such the narrative gradually diverges in two directions simultaneously. On one side Michaela experiences an increasing diminution of being where she is subjected to persistent humiliations and the threat of evisceration. On the other side she carries out the laboriously hollow duties of a widow seeing to her husband's cremation, editing his unfinished manuscript sardonically titled “The Human Brain and Its Discontents” and completing her duties teaching a course in memoir writing. Interestingly, the fates of other characters such as a student who is a victim of rape and a student with a chronic medical condition are also subject to two possible fates. These mutually exclusive dual timelines appear illogical but they accurately reflect the limits of Michaela's state of mind: “How to give meaning to a narrative. When the nature of what has happened isn't clear even to the person to whom it has happened.” Therefore the conclusion is ambiguous with elements that are concurrently inspiring and tragic. It's a truly innovative approach to writing about the painful dilemma of an individual who has been pushed to the limits of endurance and experiences insurmountable grief. Following Michaela's journey is a mesmerising and haunting experience. 

You can watch me discuss “Babysitter” with Joyce Carol Oates here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NElkoUXn2Nc

The 2021 Booker Prize Longlist

I can never help getting swept up in the excitement of a new Booker Prize list and the longlist for this year's main award has just been announced. It's an interesting group with many well established writers and previously Booker-nominated authors. There are only two debuts which is a big change from last year's prize list which included a lot of new voices. There's a fairly even gender balance and a range of nationalities are represented although, as always in recent years, most of the authors are British or American. I didn't do so well with my predictions for what would be listed but two really strong contenders I was certain we'd see are here - “Klara and the Sun” by Kazuo Ishiguro and “The Promise” by Damon Galgut. They're both utterly absorbing and thoughtful novels which also tell a gripping story and have left a lasting impression on me. I've also read “A Passage North” by Anuk Arudpragasam which is an extremely compelling book in its deliberations about human nature and the specific concerns of post-civil war Sri Lanka. However, it did feel too ponderous in some sections. I also felt “No One is Talking About This” by Patricia Lockwood gives a very humorous and, later in the book, an emotional account of the dilemma of living a life that's mediated through the internet, but it didn't move me as much as it has some other readers. 

Out of the remaining novels on the list I'm most looking forward to reading “The Fortune Men” by Nadifa Mohamed and “Bewilderment” by Richard Powers. With Powers I felt “The Overstory” was mostly compelling and made a striking statement overall but was a tad too bloated so the fact that his new novel is slimmer feels like a good sign. I'm also highly anticipating “An Island” by Karen Jennings as it sounds like it gives another interesting slant on South African politics by telling the story of a man's interrupted solitude. The stories of “China Room” by Sunjeev Sahota and “Great Circle” by Maggie Shipstead sound so absorbing I'm looking forward to getting stuck into them. I first heard about “The Sweetness of Water” by Nathan Harris because it's on Obama's Summer reading list so it'll be interesting to see if this novel will become better known in the UK because of this award. I'm very partial to Anne Tyler's fiction and “A Town Called Solace” by Mary Lawson has been likened to her books so I'm sure I'll enjoy this novel. After reading “Outline” by Rachel Cusk I didn't feel motivated to carry on with reading that trilogy but I would be keen to give her writing another try by reading “Second Place” though it has received some rather critical reviews. Finally, I've been wanting to read historian Francis Spufford's writing since his debut novel made such a splash and I do enjoy alternate histories in fiction so I'm looking forward to “Light Perpetual” as well. 

That gives me quite a reading list for the next few months! I'll see how much I can get to before the shortlist is announced on September 14th. What books on the list are you keen to read? What novels are you disappointed didn't make the list? Will you take on the challenge of reading all 13 or pick and choose? 

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.