Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence

I've never felt that keen on reading “Lady Chatterley's Lover” because I always assumed it was a bonkbuster dressed up as literary fiction. This notion probably comes from my vague awareness it was banned for obscenity reasons in both the UK and US. But given that I'm eager to read Alison Macleod's lengthy new novel “Tenderness” which is about Lawrence's life and the fate of “Lady Chatterley's Lover” after his death I thought it'd be interesting to read the original novel first. So I was delighted by what a thoughtful and engaging book it is. The story revolves around Constance who is married to Sir Clifford, a Baronet and author of middling writing that nonetheless gets him press attention. He sustained a war injury which has left him paralysed from the waist down so their lives become purely intellectual rather than physical and consist of evenings of thoughtful debate with members of the upper classes. Gradually, Connie becomes very depressed and in her wanderings over the estate happens upon reclusive gamekeeper Mellors. Their guarded acquaintance gradually builds to a passionate affair complete with frolicking naked in the rain and giving pet names to each other's genitals. But this only comes two thirds of the way through the novel and the story is more about class division and different kinds of self realisation that can be found through love. 

Sir Clifford firmly believes that natural hierarchies are formed through class division, but Connie is naturally wary of this position and is more sympathetic to Mellors' more anarchic attitude which rebels against the traditional English social system. I appreciated the way Lawrence shows the competing positions of different characters in regards to romance and love. This includes a number of peripheral characters in addition to the central figures of Sir Clifford who develops a strong attachment to his nurse Mrs Bolton and Connie's passionate affair with Mellors. Of course, their intellectual reasoning about the dynamics of sex don't always align with how they feel when confronted with the reality and it's engaging how this plays out over the course of the story.

Though Mellors is more in the background at first he comes to dominate the text in the later part of the book when vociferously giving his opinions about women and the class system. Since the narrative cedes to his position it's natural to assume that this is the point of view Lawrence himself is most sympathetic with and the character he probably identified with the most. Some criticism I've read such as Joyce Carol Oates' essay “At Least I Have Made a Woman of Her: Images of Women in Yeats, Lawrence and Faulkner” seems to take this as a given. Certainly, Mellors' views are alarming given his grievance over his broken marriage as well as his hatred towards lesbians and Jewish people. Moreover he expresses murderous rage. But I don't like to naturally assume that Mellors is a mere cipher for Lawrence's own views. He is a character and there are certainly figures in the novel such as Connie's sister who criticise Mellors and offer alternative points of view. I assumed that his influence is felt so strongly because Connie herself has been romantically captivated by him.

The sexually explicit parts of the novel weren't nearly as cringe-worthy as I expected them to be. They did make me chuckle a bit and it's still somewhat shocking to read certain words being used knowing when this was written, but I think these sections work well because the characters also take them in good humour. They seem to revel in how filthy and explicit they're being in the way that lovers can do when totally indulging in each other's bodies. What made me more uncomfortable was an early section of the novel where Connie strips in front of a mirror and critically evaluates her body using disparaging terms such as “greyish”, “sapless” and “meaningless”. In contrast, when she glimpses Mellors washing his body outside the male form is presented in an idealized way. It makes sense to use such descriptions as the novel is about how Connie comes to fully inhabit her physical body as she engages with sensual as well as intellectual aspects of reality. Nevertheless, it feels dicey when a male author writes about women's bodies in such a derogatory way while men's bodies aren't subject to the same critical gaze in the novel.

Having recently read Sally Rooney's new novel “Beautiful World, Where Are You” I couldn't help thinking that her books are in some ways modern versions of a Lawrence novel. The way she focuses on class politics and the sometimes uneasy relationship between mind and body complement a lot of the issues Lawrence raised. Looking into it more, I was glad to see I'm not the only one who has made this parallel since it's something Claire Jarvis remarked upon in her article 'Contemporary Clothing' and James Marriott states “Lawrence's seriousness about sex should appeal to fans of Sally Rooney” in his article 'Why millennials should read Lawrence'. I feel somewhat ashamed I hesitated reading Lawrence for so long because I assumed his writing is out of date and his books are more concerned with indulging in sensuality rather than describing the complicated dynamics of sex. Though this novel certainly isn't above criticism, it's much more compelling and surprising than I expected. The pernicious effect of a novel being subjected to a famous censorship trial is that the criticisms lobbed at it seep into people's impression of a book they have not actually read and though I reject censorship it still influenced my assumptions about this novel. I look forward to reading more of Lawrence's work to discover what other curiosities his books contain.

The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak

This is the third novel I've read by Elif Shafak and I love the sheer heart and humanity of her fiction. Her work does what the best writing should which is to give a voice to the voiceless and start a conversation about divisive social issues which affect us all while telling an engaging story about characters I grew to really care about. “The Island of Missing Trees” is part love story and part history of recent deadly conflicts in Cyprus. Greek Cypriot Kostas and Turkish Cypriot Defne are teenagers who form a strong romantic relationship in a taverna. When war breaks out their world is torn apart. Many years later in England their teenage daughter Ada struggles to come to terms with her parents' past and she's also dealing with the fact that a video of her experiencing an emotional outburst/breakdown has gone viral. This may sound like an obvious device for exploring the personal ramification of national discord, but like Ada who claims she understand the division which ravaged her parents' lives there is much more to the story and intricacies which require deeper consideration. Gradually we get the full tale of Kostas and Defne's past which is especially heartrending because it also involves another tragic love story about the gay proprietors of the taverna they meet in. It's a vibrant and sweeping saga that I got fully wrapped up in with all its moments of humour and sorrow. 

One of the most surprising and delightful aspects of this novel is that it's partly narrated from the point of view of a fig tree. And she has lots of opinions! It's very playful the way the tree comes to comment upon the story of these characters' lives as a silent witness while also giving a wholly new view on the situation. Since her conception of time and the interrelationship between all living creatures and the natural world is very different from humans she is able to stand somewhat outside the emotional and political drama of these characters (although she has her own love interest). At the same time she's been physically at this story's centre since she grew in the middle of the taverna and a cutting from her branches was taken to England to flourish in a new form. In this way Shafak meaningfully weaves in commentary about environmental issues which have affected Cyprus over the years on top of the human casualties sustained because of the war. Another point of view given by the narrative I really appreciated was that of Ada's aunt Meryem who comes to stay with the family in England and becomes involved in her niece's life (despite the teen's resistance). She maintains her superstitious belief despite Ada's judgemental attitude and the two come to establish a touching bond. It enforces the fact that Shafak's stories are at heart a celebration of family, love and individuality in all its beautifully varied forms.

The Wrong End of the Telescope by Rabih Alameddine

Given that Rabih Alameddine's novel “The Wrong End of the Telescope” is about an Arab American trans woman's trip to provide medical support to Syrian refugees you might think this is a novel which is only about the big social issues of our age. It definitely is about those issues, but it's more importantly about the individuals involved with all their unique personalities and points of view. The author movingly humanizes a world that many of us only see mediated through the news showing the strengths and foibles of a wide array of fascinating people that she encounters. It's written in a style which is extremely enjoyable to read without exploiting the circumstances or people involved merely for the sake of entertainment. The plot is also effective and engaging without overwhelming the narrative. In other words, its primary motivation isn't to make a political point in the way of “American Dirt” but to present people who are neither virtuous or villainous. They are full of complexities and our fleeting encounters with them emphasize their uniqueness. Even if this makes it at times more of a meandering novel than Cummins' book which is like a conventional thriller, it means Alameddine's story is much more meaningful and successful. 

Mina is a Lebanese doctor who answers a friend's appeal to help in her organization's efforts to assist refugees that are arriving on the island of Lesbos amidst their transit to other European locations. She's also dealing with her own personal issues especially to do with the family that rejected her and she uses this trip as an opportunity to reconnect with her brother. Mina is aware that this journey isn't just a philanthropic one, but also has to do with her own ego – although, perhaps less so than some of her fellow volunteers whose primary objective is to take selfies at the refugee camps and beached dinghies. This novel is also about the author because many chapters are written in the second person where Mina is speaking to Alameddine himself who has also travelled to the island and is dealing with his own life issues. It's a fascinating and successful way for the author to circumvent the dilemma of writing a timely novel about certain political issues, acknowledging his limited personal involvement and avoiding only making it a story about himself. While the intimate concerns of Mina and the author are completely valid to consider they aren't caught in an emergency predicament like the refugees they are sincerely trying to help.

The character who is facing a dire crisis in this novel is Sumaiya, a matriarch who has been forced to flee Syria with her family and who is suffering from a terminal illness. She's a vibrant and opinionated individual who desperately wants to help her family move onto a better life even when her own existence is coming to an end. It's extremely moving how we learn about her past, the atrocious predicament she's in and the way Mina gets involved with assisting her. In this way she becomes much more than just a statistic we'd read about in the news. The same goes for many of the refugees we meet through this story including a teenage boy who aspires to become a pop star and a mother who painstakingly decorates the interior of a tent she lives in with sequins “with results Liberace would have envied.” Alameddine writes about these individuals in a way where they are not simply victims but dynamic personalities who rise above their circumstances. It makes this novel a truly inspiring and poignant book.

LonesomeReader is Eight Years Old Today!

I know it's self-indulgent to celebrate a book blog's birthday, but I take a little pride in saying that something I started more or less on a whim eight years ago is still going today and that it's opened up so many opportunities for me. If I were more organized and ambitious I'd probably have started a literary review or became a book reviewer for other publications, but I like the fact that I can just do my own thing here casually writing about whatever books take my fancy and engaging with so many great readers across the world. Some book bloggers I know who have gone on to work in publishing or mainstream media have found when reading becomes a job it loses a bit of its magic. So I figure it's probably best if I keep all the booky stuff I do online as a passionate hobby. 

The thing I enjoy most about it is the opportunity for personal reflection and literary analysis it gives me as well as the ability to connect with other readers. It really enhances my reading experience seeing a variety of responses to new books that are coming out or engaging in discussions about book prizes. And it's still the best feeling when I get a response to a passionate blog post I wrote years ago because that reader has just experienced the book I discussed and loved it just as much and wants to share that feeling with someone. It affirms my understanding that reading is a solitary activity, but it connects us to other readers across time in quite a profound way.

For most of the year I've kept up the habit of writing about a couple of different books per week, but this month I've been a bit slack about blog posts because I had a bad cold for a while and currently I'm on holiday in Lanzarote. Of course, I always bring a big pile of books with me on holiday but inevitably I end up doing fun activities with my partner which means I have less reading time than I do in a normal week. There are a number of books I've read recently including new fiction by Rabih Alameddine and Elif Shafak and some books that were listed for this year's Wainwright Prize which I haven't had time to blog about yet.

Since we're on a Spanish island I've also been enjoying reading some stories from The Penguin Book of Spanish Short Stories edited by Margaret Jull Costa. My partner and I have been reading a number of these aloud to each other which is such an excellent way to make reading a joint activity. Naturally, there's a real variety of styles and subject matter in these stories which span the past century but it's tipped me off to some writers whose work I'd like to explore more including Pío Baroja, Mercè Rodoreda and Elvira Navarro. The volcanic earth of this region makes it such a curious landscape but a lovely spot for some quiet reading time.

As always, thank you for following my blog and discussing books with me. I'd love to know about what you've been reading recently or what you're looking forward to reading.

The 2021 Booker Prize Shortlist

It's always interesting to see how the Booker judges will cut their list of novels down by more than half to arrive at only six titles for a shortlist. While last year there was surprise at the absence of Hilary Mantel, this year some will be taken aback that former Booker Prize winner and Nobel laureate Kazuo Ishiguro isn't included. I was hoping to see his book on the list – not because of his reputation – but because “Klara and the Sun” is a novel that's really stuck with me and that I've continued to think about many months after finishing it. However, this year's shortlistees are far from unknown. Richard Powers and Damon Galgut have been nominated for the Booker Prize before and Patricia Lockwood's debut novel “No One is Talking About This” was also shortlisted for this year's Women's Prize for Fiction. It's brilliant that this year's prize will raise the profile of critically acclaimed authors Anuk Arudpragasam, Nadifa Mohamed and Maggie Shipstead. Although this is another year where the old school Booker followers can roll their eyes at half the shortlistees being American, the novels in this group really address a wide range of topics and utilize a compelling mixture of writing styles to tell a unique story. 

Though I preferred some of the other longlisted novels over “A Passage North” and “No One is Talking About This” I certainly appreciate many things about these books and agree they are worth a second look. I loved the way that “The Fortune Men” immerses the reader in the point of view of a sympathetically flawed figure from history who was a victim of the United Kingdom's racist injustice. “The Promise” provides an utterly unique narrative which shows the other side of racism in South Africa by locking the reader into the prejudiced perspective of a white family in the years before and after Apartheid. “Great Circle” presents a dual storyline in two different time periods which asks pressing questions about the way history is interpreted while dramatizing an arresting and adventure tale. “Bewilderment” creatively shows a beautifully tender father and son relationship while addressing some of the most pressing issues we face today especially concerning climate change and the extinction of species. It's going to be very difficult trying to determine which novel the judges might pick as their winner. You can watch me discuss more of my thoughts in a reaction video I made about the announcement: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZ5Cq-CTdnk

What do you think about this group of books? Are you interested in reading some or all of them? If you've read them all which is your favourite?

The Sweetness of Water by Nathan Harris

It's difficult to visualize how a monumental shift in society such as the end of the American Civil War changed the ways in which people related to one another in their communities, but Nathan Harris has imagined one such story in his debut novel “The Sweetness of Water”. Brothers Landry and Prentiss were born into slavery at a Georgia plantation. Though they have left as free men they don't yet have the foundation to build independent lives for themselves and dwell in the forest of a nearby farm owned by a kindly rotund white man named George. While on the plantation Landry suffered immeasurable daily abuse which left him with injuries so severe he can barely speak. Both he and Prentiss also still suffer from the loss of their mother. Since George and his wife Isabelle are also dealing with their own grief and planning how to manage their property for the future, they invite these men to work with them so that they may all prosper. But the brothers' former owner still thinks of them as his property, the locals are wary that the newly freed slaves will take their work from them and a secret love affair threatens to disrupt the social order of this community. The novel follows a series of heartrending events which result from these conflicts and how individuals struggle to insist upon their rightful place in this newly reformed society. 

Though the central characters are sensitively drawn with many quiet, contemplative moments and evocative dialogue, there's something about this story which failed to fully capture my imagination. I think it's to do with how the high drama of the plot felt so tightly controlled in a way that seemed more manufactured than logical. I felt very sympathetic with the story which describes the lives and struggles of people not often portrayed in fiction. The lag between emancipation and the freedom to live as truly equal citizens is a struggle which carries on to this day so although it's a historical novel it feels extremely relevant. It's necessary to consider why this transition is so slow to occur and to realise that there are so many individuals throughout history who've suffered and continue to suffer as a result of the established caste system as described in Isabel Wilkerson's influential book. “Conjure Women”, another debut novel published last year, also imagined the uneasy transition in the years immediately following the Civil War or “FreedomTime” as she labels it in her novel. Nathan Harris presents another compelling point of view but the reach of its story feels too restrained by author's need to tidily bring about a conclusion for the compelling main characters.

I'm always interested in fiction set in the distant past which imagines how queer people would have negotiated intimacy within a social environment which condemned such relationships. Harris presents an example of such an interesting situation, but the gay couple didn't feel entirely believable to me as their interactions often seemed staged for the story. Sections of the novel I absolutely loved were scenes where Landry is able to find rare moments of respite in nature. Harris vividly describes the liberation Landry experiences in a space removed from the expectations and judgements of the community. Unfortunately, we're jolted out of this and other such moments in the novel a little too abruptly. This jostling pace combined with some unnecessarily simplified minor characters detracted from the subtly of emotion found in the author's otherwise excellent writing. Though it always sounds condescending, I think this is a very promising first novel. It's brilliant the author has achieved such success with the attention it's received from Oprah, Obama and being listed for this year's Booker Prize. I hope there's more to come.

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.