The Sisters Mao by Gavin McCrea

I was enthralled by debut novel “Mrs Engels” which shone a light on the experiences and insights of Lizzie Burns. She was a historical figure known primarily as the long-term partner of Friedrich Engels but she vibrantly came to life and into her own in McCrea's fictional account. It dramatically gave a personal slant on Marxism which can't be found in any history or philosophy book while telling a beautiful story. “The Sisters Mao” is not related to that first book in its characters or events, but it is a natural follow up in that it traces the effects of Marxism through the mid-20th century and describes personalities at the beating heart of this ideology. In many ways it's a much more ambitious and lengthy novel that spans multiple decades and countries while slipping backwards and forwards in time. The delicious secrets of its story are also deeply encoded in its structure which theatrically opens and closes. Its narrative also includes an “interruption” rather than an intermission. Performance is at the centre of this novel with all its bewitching flair and ability to convey truths that are dramatically revealed. The experience left me reeling in wonder and pondering its deeper meanings. 

The story primarily focuses on the separate stories of sisters Iris and Eva who are central members of a radical performance collective in London. In 1968 their theatre is on the brink of closure since the cat-riddled building which many drifters use as a squat will be condemned and the owner (who is also their mother) wants to take back control of the property. Iris ekes out a living and helps support the collective by selling drugs while drifting through counterculture parties. Meanwhile, Eva leads members of their group to Paris to join in the notorious demonstrations which occurred that year in protest against capitalism and consumerism. When reunited the sisters hatch a shockingly disruptive plan to make a statement and confront their mother Alissa whose once-progressive values have been abandoned as she's become a mainstream West End actress. The narrative also switches for long sections to simultaneously follow the story of Jiang Qing (also known as Madame Mao) in 1974 when she takes control of a directing a ballet which is being presented for a stately visit from Imelda Marcos and which Jiang Qing wants to slyly use to suppress her enemies within the Party. Though the threads of this plot are somewhat complicated to explain the story gives generous space to each of them making it enjoyable and highly intriguing to follow. Together they also present compelling points of view to consider against each other and the ways in which embracing certain political beliefs warp these fascinating women's sense of justice.

While “Mrs Engels” focused on how a loving relationship is intimately transformed by closely-held ideals, this new novel presents multiple mother-daughter relationships which have been deeply complicated by living out longstanding ideological beliefs. The intense bitterness Eva and Iris feel towards their mother revolves around an alarming incident which occurred in 1956 when the girls were still adolescents and the theatre collective run by their parents viewed Maoism as a great red beacon of light since Stalinism had proved itself to be an epic catastrophe. It's ominously stated how “This pain was the kind caused by a mother's hand, and the honey of revenge was the only medicine for it.” Jiang Qing and Chairman Mao's daughter Li Na is tightly controlled by her mother who draws Li Na into her scheme by using her as a translator when Jiang Qing has a tantalizing private meeting with Imelda Marcos. Natural sentiments become skewed by a belief in a larger system of thought: “Family feelings were not always correct. Sometimes they were a cloak for selfishness and counterrevolutionary urgings.” The parental bonds in this novel have been twisted amidst steely power plays and nurturing has been subsumed by hardened expectations of duty. It's both tense and moving how these interactions unfold. 

Subtle points of deep consideration are worked into this sweeping historical narrative and it raises many relevant contemporary questions about the way we live in larger communities. How do our ideals play out in reality? What visible and invisible power structures are at work behind larger events and figureheads? How does capitalism steer our motives? Also, these compelling and richly drawn characters made me wonder: how do we live honestly? To live honestly within society and with those who we are intimate with sometimes conflicts with the truth of who we are. And what happens when we struggle to be truly honest with ourselves about what we desire and want? An intriguing body artist named Doris within the story plainly states “Truth is always the best option, because it's the radical option, because it's true.” So many of the dramatic acts within this novel are gestures which aim to reveal a deeper truth which people can't see. Though they may be desperate and forgotten theatrical performances, it's a meaningful testament to the triumph of art over history. It doesn't matter that the acts or the performers are imperfect because, as Alissa opines, “society doesn't need perfect art. It just needs people who try to make art. Of any kind. Good or bad. People who are willing to fail, that's what helps societies grow and what, in the end, brings about change”. 

This tremendous and thrilling story reveals the hidden drama at the centre of our lives and our society. McCrea has previously stated that these novels will form part of a trilogy about revolutionary wives. If he continues with this project (as I hope he does) it'll be a monumental achievement. I remember in 2017 seeing a picture of the spouses of several NATO leaders at a conference that included a group of wives as well as Gautheir Destenay, husband of Luxembourg's first openly gay Prime Minister. I never want to be a politician or married to a politician, but if I was I'd much rather be Destenay sitting at a table with wives rather than presidents and prime ministers. Surely they have greater insight into what's really happening in their respective countries and the world than the men in power. Similarly, McCrea has cannily chosen to focus on feminine perspectives from these specific historical periods which is far more interesting and gives an entirely unique point of view about a political philosophy which shook our previous century to its core.

Beautiful World Where Are You by Sally Rooney

When multiple friends I know in real life start talking to me about a certain author I realise that this is someone who has broken through to the mainstream. My friends are very intelligent and literate, but they don't generally follow the latest publications with as much geeky rigour as I do along with other readers wrapped up in the online bookish community. Yet, over the past few years multiple people IRL have asked me for recommendations of a book that is exactly like “Normal People”. Few authors have experienced such a meteoric rise to fame as Sally Rooney. Since the publication of her first two novels and the TV adaptation of her second novel, her books have been alternately hailed as representing the voice of a generation and pigeonholed as overhyped naval-gazing millennial fiction. Personally, I feel a bit bemused by any such strident claims as her books strike me as simply well-written, engaging, funny and smart fiction which is well-aligned with our present times. But Rooney's popularity feels more like a chance occurrence which could have happened to any of her contemporaries such as Belinda McKeon, Jade Sharma or Naoise Dolan. Nevertheless, the simmering anticipation for Rooney's new novel “Beautiful World Where Are You” has made it one of the publishing events of the year. I can assure you it's an extremely enjoyable novel and Rooney enthusiasts won't be disappointed. 

When commenting on this new novel most Sally Rooney fans and critics will probably remark on how one of its central characters, Alice, superficially resembles the author. She's published two extremely successful novels and feels ambivalent about the newfound fame she's achieved as an author. And Alice isn't shy about her opinions concerning readers' prying interest in the author's personal life, the vanity of fellow writers and the precarious position books have as a commodity in our current culture. She's also prone to complaining about her privileged position: “They never tire of giving me awards, do they? It's a shame I've tired so quickly of receiving them, or my life would be endless fun.” But she also vividly describes the deleterious effect such fame has upon her: “I feel like I've been locked in a smoke-filled room with thousands of people shouting at me incomprehensibly day and night for the last several years.” We're made aware of how Alice previously suffered a breakdown from stress. Alice's celebrity doesn't change the initial awkwardness of going on a date with someone she meets on a dating app. In fact, it makes it worse when her date, Felix, discovers that she's well known and this squeamish situation is realistically described. Though it's easy to draw parallels between this character and the author and assume Rooney is using this opportunity to vent her own frustrations, it's important to emphasize how the novel contains a carefully calibrated balance of points of view.

Another primary character is Eileen, Alice's best friend since university. Much of this novel's text is composed of messages between these women who now live in separate places since Alice moved to a more rural town in Ireland and Eileen remained in Dublin. They ruminate on a wide range of subjects including religion, history, capitalism, gender, art and concepts of beauty. It's fitting that Rooney's first novel was titled “Conversations with Friends” because this is what all three of her novels concern. It's interesting giving this novel the Bechdel test because Alice and Eileen's messages also include lengthly ruminations about love and their respective love interests. However, it seems only natural that they discuss men at length as I do the same with friends whom I exchange lengthy emails. While Alice begins a tentative relationship with Felix, Eileen experiences a hot and cold relationship with Simon, someone she's known since childhood. Like with “Normal People”, this new novel contains a traditional romantic storyline where the reader is left wondering: will they or won't they get together? And I was drawn into the suspense of this plot as I grew to care and form opinions about the characters as if they were friends of my own.

While readers will quickly identify Rooney's closeness to Alice, I think it's equally easy to see the fidelity she feels towards Eileen. Eileen works as a poorly-paid editor of a small literary review and struggles to pay the expensive rent of her Dublin flat-share. At the launch party and reading for an issue, we see what a meagre life she has selling only two copies of the publication and spending most of her time directing people to the toilets. It's easy to imagine that if Rooney hadn't achieved the fame that she has this could easily have been her life. I also felt a strong affinity towards Eileen who struggles to embrace opportunities which come her way. The narrative takes care to fill out Eileen's backstory more than any other character in the book. We also come to intimately understand the positions of bisexual Felix who works in a gruelling warehouse job and Simon who is a devout Catholic that has a burgeoning career in politics. Each of these characters' positions are dramatically played out in their interactions with each other to show the strengths and weaknesses of each. Rooney thoughtfully tests their points of view when faced with real world challenges and the way in which other people react to them.

At points it feels as if the characters are like Sims figures from that video game where we read how they go throughout their days perfunctorily fulfilling certain duties and actions. I feel like this style of narrative reflects a kind modern self consciousness which has arisen due to social media and the sense that we're living out a simulated existence. A character might get lost for hours on their phone or regularly check dating apps without any intention of arranging actual dates. It's a way in which Rooney so skilfully portrays the feeling of a certain generation within a certain demographic. All her characters are struggling with the way in which to be an adult and feel (as most generations do) that their generation might be the last. Eileen writes to Alice: “I know we agree that civilisation is presently in its decadent declining phase, and that lurid ugliness is the predominant visual feature of modern life.” One of the biggest questions in the book is how will these characters find the motivation to continue and have fulfilling lives when the prospect of a future filled with environmental and societal collapse looms before them. As well as giving a nuanced depiction of friendship and romance, this novel also meaningfully addresses this issue and provides a surprisingly hopeful message. Rooney certainly isn't the only author people should be reading, but her writing is excellent and this new novel is extremely intelligent, moving and I'm sure many readers will strongly connect with it.

Second Place by Rachel Cusk

It's been quite a while since the publication of “Outline” which is the only other book by Rachel Cusk that I've read. I was enthusiastic to try her fiction again by reading “Second Place” since it has been listed for this year's Booker Prize, but now I remember why I've avoided her books. I'm not necessarily put off by the ponderous nature of her narratives or the rarified environments her fiction is set in. It's more the manner in which she writes about her characters which is entirely centred on the self, but avoids getting to the heart of their being. Her narrators seem so intent on intellectualizing their position in life and relationships with other people that I struggle to emotionally connect with their experiences or point of view. I understand this is a conscious choice and sometimes what is left unsaid says more than forthright confessions. But this stance is more troublesome than preventing me from connecting with her characters. It means I actually struggle to engage with the ideas and issues raised in the story because I don't understand the narrator's position.

This most recent novel is told from the point of view of a woman speaking to someone named Jeffers. Who Jeffers is or why she's giving him a detailed account of a particular time in her life is never specified, but it means she controls the entire narrative and the only information we have is through her subjective point of view. Can we trust her perspective? Even though she states “I am determined not to falsify anything, even for the sake of a narrative” we're often left wondering how much she's shaping this story based on what she chooses to recount and what is left out. We never even learn her name as she's just referred to as M. Her story concerns a period when she invited a famous artist (only referred to as L) to her coastal English home to temporarily reside in a small guest cottage on her property that she refers to as the second place. Given that the letter M comes after L we can already see the layered meaning of this novel's title.

At the beginning of the story she describes a disturbing experience where she was hounded by the devil while travelling in Paris, yet the circumstances surrounding this bizarre, haunting encounter remain vague. Though she welcomes the artist L to her home with the hope that their interactions will enhance her life they soon develop an antagonistic relationship and this leads her to characterise him as the devil as well. To believe oneself hounded by such a figure feels to me like an extreme case of paranoia. I started to wonder if L is someone that M has just invented to torment her. Every time they converse she becomes so defensive it's as if there's no way for him to interact with her where she won't take the stance of someone being persecuted: “he emanated a kind of physical neutrality that I took personally and interpreted as a sign that he did not consider me to be truly a woman.” L also brings with him a beautiful and wealthy younger woman named Brett who makes M feel inadequate. It's (probably intentionally) somewhat comical the way Brett so confidently inhabits being a woman and the fact that L is inspired to paint portraits of everyone except for M when really she's the one wanting to be immortalized in art. But this humour didn't have the sympathetic effect which self deprecation or insecurity usually inspire.

It seemed to me that the narrator must have been severely traumatized or wronged, but I could never clearly see in what way. She refers to a difficult first marriage, her struggle to know how to be a woman and feelings of self disgust, but these things are only lightly touched upon without showing their fully complexity. Her identity remains elusive as do other aspects of the story such as a crisis in society which complicates L travelling to their home (the financial crash? the pandemic?) and her career as a writer (are we meant to assume this is Cusk herself?) All this intentional vagueness meant the narrator's various dilemmas regarding her identity and the existential crisis of her existence didn't feel anchored to anything concrete so I found it difficult to empathise with her. She comes across as so self-centred and navel-gazing amidst her idleness “I often found myself with nothing to do. Nothing to do!” that it mostly felt like she was inventing drama in her life simply to distract herself from her boredom.

I was continuously frustrated by the way the narrator failed to consider any inner life other than her own: “Everybody else, it seemed to me, lived perfectly happily in themselves. Only I drifted around like a vagrant spirit, cast out of the home of myself to be buffeted by every word and mood and whim of other people.” It takes a real failure of imagination and lack of sympathy to imagine that everyone else is perfectly content inhabiting themselves. I'm not averse to a story about introspection by someone writing from a place of privilege or pondering the way abstract theories can hone our understanding of identity. In fact, the premise of an unnamed narrator speaking in detail about herself to a mysterious man strongly reminded me of the novel “The Appointment” by Katharina Volckmer. But, where Volckmer's novel succeeded in teasing out tantalizing ideas and complicated issues through such extended contemplation, Cusk's book feels like it's simply posturing and grasping for profundity.

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.